He sat up straighter. “How do you know?”
“I’m John Thomas Wilson.”
Charles stared at her, confused. “You’re the one who wrote to me?”
“I’m sorry for the deception. I didn’t want there to be any expectations, you see. But I needed to speak with you.” Bess took a long sip of her drink, trying to keep her nerves at bay. “My husband and I used to come here. Many years ago, before he died.”
“But—how do you know who I am? We’ve never met—have we?”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. But that’s what I came here to find out.”
He laughed. “Are you really Bess Houdini? Is this some kind of a joke?”
“It’s not, I promise you. I have something very important to discuss with you. I’m here because . . . I believe you may have some kind of information for me. About my husband.”
“About Harry Houdini?” Charles looked at her with disbelief. “I don’t know what kind of information I could have. The closest I ever got to him was seeing his jump at Young’s Pier, when I was a kid.”
Her heart sunk. “So—you don’t have anything for me? You never knew him?”
He shook his head. “Sorry, no.” He looked at her pityingly. “I read about what happened to you,” he said gently. “For what it’s worth, I believe you were duped.”
“Thank you.” The speed of the music was picking up. She felt she had to find out more about him; surely, there was something of importance there. “Is there somewhere else we could talk that’s quieter?”
He shrugged. “We could go over to Doc’s Oyster House. They have a good seafood menu.”
“What about your woman in blue?”
Charles looked around the room, locating her on one of the leather sofas between two men, flirtatiously fingering the tiny white buttons at her neckline. His face turned red. “Oh, that was nothing. And it’s not every day I get to have dinner with Bess Houdini.”
“It’s probably just as well.”
“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows.
“She’s too pretty to be respectable. That’s advice coming from a woman who was never very pretty.”
Charles laughed. “Pretty? What do you need pretty for? You’re Mrs. Harry Houdini!” He caught himself. “What I mean is, you’ve got glamour.”
Bess shook her head. “Everyone with money is glamorous to those who don’t have it.”
He frowned. “I was the one who photographed Evelyn Nesbit in a nightclub the night before her husband murdered her lover. It brought me quite a bit of glamour of my own, for a few weeks.”
“You see, being a photographer is far more interesting than being a banker. You should use the truth to impress the ladies instead.”
Charles laughed. “This coming from a woman who met me under false pretenses?”
She turned to see Stella coming through the door. “Oh no.” She stood up. “I have to go. Could you meet me tomorrow? It’s imperative that I speak with you about this.” She put on her gloves. “I’ll pay for the drinks. I’m sorry I was presumptuous.”
Charles shook his head. He took a paper bill out of his wallet and placed it on the bar, then handed her his card. “You can meet me at the press offices tomorrow, if you’d like. I’m there all day on Saturdays.”
Stella saw her and waved, making her way over to the bar. Bess intercepted her before she could reach Charles. “Hello! I was just on my way out.”
“Is that the estate man? He’s very handsome.”
“Yes, yes, he is.” Bess took her elbow. “Shall we go to dinner?”
Outside, the sun had gone down, but the boardwalk blazed with light. It reminded Bess so much of Coney Island, only livelier. She had to keep herself from searching for Harry in the crowd. The boardwalk had changed quite a bit since the first time she had been there with him. Back then, women rarely walked alone; now, there seemed to be more single women out than single men. And the names on the billboards had changed entirely; instead of Old Dutch Cleanser and Bixby’s Shu-Wite, Coca-Cola and Lucky Strike advertised on every block.
Stella said, “I heard from a lady in the hotel that we shouldn’t expect to see any celebrities while we’re here. They never come when it’s this hot. They mostly travel to Europe in the summer. All the well-dressed women are the gamblers’ mistresses, apparently, and the prostitutes.”
Bess laughed. “I don’t care very much for celebrities.”
“Funny, given you are one.”
“You know what?” She turned to Stella. “Let’s take dinner in our room tonight.”
“This, from Bess Houdini? You’ve never been home on a Friday night before midnight!” Stella teased. “Is there something the matter? You haven’t been yourself lately. Since the Arthur Ford episode.” She hesitated. “You weren’t really in love with him, were you?”
“God, no.”
“Then what is it?”