by Sophie Davis
“The food looks delicious,” I remarked, knowing Alice had made it all herself. Her culinary expertise was a particular point of pride.
“Oldfields is a fine institution,” Toklas said, without acknowledging the compliment. “It’s a shame that such a wonderful education is often wasted on young girls with no greater ambition in life than to flit about before becoming a wealthy man’s wife.”
“Many of my classmates have gone on to attend Barnard, Bryn Mawr, Mount Holyoke, Vassar, and the like,” I said, feeling oddly defensive about her judgment of the life that wasn’t really mine. “And I did learn typing—that’s a useful skill, wouldn’t you agree?”
“It can be,” Toklas replied with a wave of her hand. “Surely you do not plan to assist your brother with his hobby all of your life. What is it you intend to do with your education, Ms. Prince? After you conclude your holiday in Paris, of course.”
First, I’ll travel several centuries into the future. Hopefully, I’ll have a couple of days off to regroup. Maybe lounge on the beach with Molly, work on my tan. Supposing, of course, that she has recovered from her time sickness and the burns she sustained when witch hunters tried to make her a human torch. Then, it’s off to another time period to steal—procure—another artifact for a client with enough gold to be called Midas. Oh, I almost forgot. This plan all hinges on Cyrus finding the rogue runner and putting a stop to his murder spree before time is irreparably altered and the world as we know ceases to exist.
“I’m not certain what the future holds for me, Ms. Toklas,” I said instead, speaking warmly in the hopes of thawing her frigid tone. “My father has offered me a position in the philanthropic department of my grandfather’s company, though I’ve always dreamt of owning an art gallery. I was accepted to Pembroke College after graduation from Oldfields, but decided to delay my admission until next year. My brother and I wanted to travel, and our father thought visiting Europe would be a good way to expand our horizons.”
Toklas looked at me strangely, as if I’d spoken in a language she didn’t quite understand. She’d obviously taken me for a flighty girl with no ambition. It was petty, but I enjoyed watching the smug smile disappear from her face.
For the next twenty minutes, Toklas fired off questions at me as if this were a job interview. I answered in as pleasant a tone as I could muster, making a game of remaining unruffled in the face of her biting remarks. It was good practice, since Gertrude Stein’s wife would not be the last hostile asset I’d encounter as a runner.
The conversation with Toklas did nothing to further my knowledge about Rosenthal and where he might be hiding sections of Blue’s Canyon. But that wasn’t my objective in that moment. Alice Toklas was known to be the gatekeeper of the group we were infiltrating—her judgment of a person was the deciding factor in acceptance, superseding even Stein’s opinion. I needed her to tolerate me, if not actually like me, so that she would deem me fit to breathe the same air as her wife and their friends.
As Toklas reached into the depth of our cover story, I realized I’d soon to need to change the subject to avoid landmines. I looked to my partner for help. Stein had returned during my odd exchange with her wife. She and Gaige were conversing about Picasso’s art—a subject Stein was always eager to discuss. Ines had migrated towards a group of women several feet away. There was no one paying a scrap of attention to Toklas and me, no one to bail me out.
Toklas narrowed her gaze and launched her next attack.
“Our little group here is very close, and yet many have already taken a particular shine to you and your brother. My wife, for instance, seems quite taken with you both. You have managed to integrate yourselves rather quickly, even by our standards. Why do you think that is?” Toklas challenged, studying my face for a reaction as she spoke. Without waiting for an answer, she pressed on. “Perhaps I can make sense of your brother’s interest in this crowd, overlooking of course the forceful way he is elbowing in. However, one would think that a young woman such as yourself, with exceedingly limited life experience, might find herself more comfortable with a set that is perhaps less…wise.”
I was floored—and, admittedly, a little impressed—by Toklas’s ability to cram rudeness into sentences like sardines into cans. It was hard to decide which insult to address first. Toklas was a palpably jealous woman, and I had no desire to spar with her green-eyed monster. Still, I wasn’t a doormat.
“I have only just met your wife this evening,” I said sweetly. “I do believe it’s my brother that Ms. Stein is taken with. As for why I am here, I am a patron of creative minds in all forms—art, literature, theater. To be among the company of so many inspired individuals is an honor I am greatly enjoying. As you say, I have limited life experience, but I am hoping my travels will remedy that.”
My self-deprecating admission elicited a satisfied smile from Toklas. Just as I’d expected it would.
“That is not to say I am not well-versed in the works of many here tonight,” I continued, causing her smile to falter. “I am quite knowledgeable on a vast number of subjects, if you care for a more intellectual conversation.”
I thought I heard Gaige chuckle behind me, but wasn’t positive. I just hoped if my partner had overhead my conversation, he would still find it funny when Toklas had me blackballed from future parties.
Yeah, I totally should have heeded the old adage to “quit while you’re ahead”. If the daggers flying at my head from Toklas’s eyes were any indication, my last statement crossed the line from antagonistic and entered the territory of fighting words. Thankfully, Stein loudly announced for her guests to find seats, sparing me Toklas’s next attempt at a conversational ace.
Without waiting for me, Gaige strode over to sit beside Rosenthal on a divan situated next to Stein’s own throne-like chair. Others filled in around them, all seemingly eager to be as close to Stein as possible. When I moved to join them, Toklas cleared her throat loudly to draw my attention.
“Miss Prince? Would you care to join us in the kitchen?”
It wasn’t a question as much as a command.
The segregation of the sexes was expected. Still, I found myself irritated by the exclusion and tried to finagle my way into remaining in the salon. “Thank you, Ms. Toklas, but I think I’ll stay with my brother,” I told her, matching her frosty smile with one that was sugary sweet and innocent.
“It was not a suggestion,” Alice Toklas replied, confirming my earlier suspicions.
Ines appeared at my side.
“Gertrude prefers to discuss writing with the serious novelists and literary connoisseurs,” she said cheerily, inserting herself into the conversation. “Alice here is kind enough to keep the rest of us entertained. Their discussions tend to be a bit droll, dear. You will be much happier with us.”
Somehow, I doubted that. But before I could formulate an excuse to stay in the salon, Ines placed a hand on my back and steered me away.
Gaige is the primary on this run, I reminded myself as the alchemist herded me away like livestock. Admittedly, he was succeeding quite well in bonding with our target and his friends. Even Gertrude Stein seemed to like Gaige, and she wasn’t usually susceptible to a man’s charms.
As soon as I stepped into the kitchen, a pretty red-haired woman sidled up next to me. She looked vaguely familiar, though I felt like everyone in attendance did after Eisenhower’s exceedingly detailed slideshow.
“Nasty business, what happened last night at the Exotique show,” she said by way of greeting.
Though I’d been expecting questions about the murders since we arrived, the woman’s bluntness surprised me almost as much as Toklas’s rudeness. The woman held out her hand.
“Hadley Richardson.”
“Stassi Prince,” I replied, shaking her hand. A quick flip through my mental archives placed her within the innermost circle—she was Ernest Hemingway’s wife.
“Oh, don’t be silly dear. Of course I know who you are. You’re Gaige Prince’s sister.”
Evidently, I’d need to get used to this moniker.
“I am,” I said warmly. “It is so lovely to meet you. My brother just adored meeting your husband. He had a great time today at the boxing ring. It was very kind of them to include Gaige.”
“Ernest had only wonderful things to say about your brother after their boxing lesson. You were with him at the show, I hear.” Hadley placed a hand over her heart. “You poor dear, it must have been horrible.”
Though Hadley’s mouth said “horrible”, her bright green eyes shone with interest. Ines was right, I realized. This set evidently found the macabre perversely fascinating.
“It was,” I agreed, hoping that my failure to elaborate would serve as a clue to Hadley that I didn’t want to discuss the murders.
Lady Luck wasn’t smiling down on me.
“You were right there, weren’t you? In the front row? You must have been so scared. If I were—”
“Now Hadley, I know you are not bothering my dear Anastasia with morbid questions on such a delightful evening,” Ines trilled, swooping in for the save. “It was positively horrid, and I don’t wish to talk about it. Neither does Anastasia, I assume.”
For the first time since meeting the customs agent, I was actually glad to see her. Ines’s timely interruption saved me from further questioning from Hadley.
Unfortunately, it had no effect on everyone else in the kitchen.
Much to the dismay of Alice Toklas, the women at the party were eager for every gory detail I’d witnessed. I got the distinct impression that Toklas wasn’t bothered by the subject matter, as much as my being the center of attention. Luckily, the hostess’s rancor was no longer reserved strictly for me—she seemed to dislike most of her female guests equally.
“I was at the first performance where the Night Gentleman struck,” a woman with a blonde bob and thick British accent said, between bites of a finger cake. She washed down the dessert with a long swallow of champagne. “Bertie and I were near the back, though. He bought the tickets last minute, and all the good seats were sold out.”
“I so hate when that happens,” another woman added. Though she spoke with the air of the upper classes, the faint hint of a cockney accent made it obvious she wasn’t born among them.
“Have you all tried the lemon crèmes?” Toklas asked loudly.
She was obviously trying to reroute the conversation, and I was more than happy to be her copilot.
“I’d love one, Ms. Toklas. Thank you,” I said, stepping forward to accept the tiny pastry. I quickly took a bite. “Oh my heavens, this is absolutely divine.”
Her scowl deepened when I was the only one who expressed interest. Evidently, sucking up to Toklas wasn’t going to make her like me.
“I believe I saw the bloke,” the British woman said. She lowered her voice as if worried about being overhead, even though an audience was exactly what she wanted. “He is not nearly so tall as your brother, Ms. Prince. And much slimmer, too. Rubbish what the police are doing to poor Gaige.”
“We could not agree more,” Ines said. “But Gaige was able to clear up that nonsense today. He took his travel documents to the station and gave them to that awful inspector. We expect a formal letter of apology any day now. I have already spoken with my family’s legal counsel, and he believes….”
With everyone’s attention focused on Ines, I was able to slide out of the spotlight without too much notice. Not only was the topic making me uneasy, it was also doing nothing to advance the search for Rosenthal’s manuscript or ingratiate me to Alice Toklas.
On the plus side, the lemon crème was delicious, and I finished the rest in one bite. I considered moving in next to Toklas to further compliment her baking skills, but decided against it. I could just hear her nasally voice intoning a myriad of thinly veiled insults:
Why thank you, Ms. Prince, it is so nice to hear that from a young woman with rudimentary culinary skills.
That is so kind of you, Ms. Prince. If you like, I will give you the recipe and you can make it for the husband you came to Paris to nab.
As the other women tried to one-up each other with not-quite-close-encounters with the Night Gentleman, I migrated into the hallway just beyond the kitchen. My chances of peeling any of the women away from their gossip circle were slimmer than a runway model in the 1990s, so it was on to plan B: snooping.
Did I actually believe Rosenthal hid his manuscript at Stein’s? Nope, not at all.
Nonetheless, she was his mentor and he did frequent these Saturday parties, so it was worth a cursory check of the common areas. Anything further would require a late-night visit, several yards of rope, a lock picking set, and more sensible shoes than the heels currently on my feet.
I was pretending to study a framed Picasso in the hallway, when I sensed someone standing behind me. Careful to keep my expression neutral, I slowly turned and found Hadley Richardson watching me.
“I’m sorry,” she began. “It was crass of me to broach that subject. I didn’t mean to get them all started and make you feel uncomfortable.”
Hadley gestured behind her, to where the other female guests had expanded their boasts from potential glimpses of the Night Gentleman to include sightings of noteworthy individuals around the city. Somehow, comparing a serial killer to a Russian princess in exile just didn’t seem right.
“It wasn’t my intention to cause such a stir,” Hadley continued. “Please forgive me.”
“It’s okay, truly. He is a curiosity, I understand the interest in what happened,” I said politely.
“Yes, but that does not give us the right to be rude. You witnessed something horrible. We are being exceptionally insensitive by asking you to relive it.”
This time, she sounded genuinely sorry.
“Thank you for the apology, Miss Richardson, though it really isn’t necessary.”
“Don’t be silly dear, call me Hadley.”
She smiled and took a tentative step into the hallway, as if testing the water to determine whether the temperature was to her liking.
“Please, join me,” I said, encouraging her along. “I was just admiring this work. There is so much to see within one painting, it is quite remarkable.”
“Ah, yes, Pablo is very talented,” Hadley said brightly. “And a favorite of Miss Stein’s. Her patronage of his work is one of the reasons Gertrude began holding these salon parties—she had to discourage people from constantly stopping by to see them. She said she could never get any of her own work done with the stream of visitors every day.”
“It is gracious of her to open her home to so many people each week,” I said, finding that I truly meant it. “My brother has been positively giddy since she invited us.”
Now that we’d moved past the topic of the Night Gentleman, I was eager to speak with Hadley. According to our intel, her husband was one of Rosenthal’s few close friends.
“It was very kind of Ms. Stein to include us,” I continued. “You have all been so welcoming, particularly your husband.”
“The boys enjoyed his company today. They are accustomed to one another’s styles, so a newcomer was probably a nice change for them. Ernest feels simply horrible about your brother’s eye, though.” Hadley wrinkled her nose in sympathy for Gaige’s pain.
I laughed. “Gaige needs a good punch every now and then to keep him in line. Besides, now he can tell people that the great Ernest Hemingway gave him a black eye; he will drink for free on that story for the rest of his life.”
Too late, I realized my mistake. Ernest Hemingway wasn’t yet the renowned author he would soon be. A Moveable Feast, the novel that made him a household name, was still years away from publication.
My first instinct in these situations was to panic. And on my early runs, I did exactly that. Every time I messed up my cover story, accidentally made reference to something that hadn’t happened yet, or used a word not yet in Merriam-Webster’s dictionary, my heart would start to hammer against my ribs. Expe
rience had taught me to take a beat and wait for a reaction.
Thankfully, Hadley simply laughed it off.
“Your brother must have a lot of faith in my husband’s writing, Ms. Prince.”
I blushed, feigning the reaction as best I could.
“Gaige will kill me for sharing this, but he has been following your husband since our uncle gave him Three Stories and Ten Poems. He believes that Mr. Hemingway is a great talent, and will inevitably be recognized as such.”
Hadley waved a hand in the air. “No need for such formalities,” she said. “He is Ernest.”
“Well, my brother is doing his best to play it cool,” I continued, “but he was simply thrilled that Ernest has been so friendly. Mr. Rosenthal, as well.”
Behind Hadley, I thought I saw movement in the shadows.
Curious to see where my attention had gone, Hadley turned and followed my line of sight. “Is everything okay, Stassi?”
“Huh? Oh, yes, I apologize. I thought I saw something back there, but I must have been mistaken.” I smiled at Hadley to disguise my unease. “I’m just a little jumpy today.”
Hadley placed a small hand on my arm and squeezed. “I can imagine you are, after your experience last night. Who wouldn’t be?”
And just like that, we were somehow back to the murders.
Though I didn’t want the conversation to steer away from topics that were pertinent to the mission, a thought occurred to me. Much as I didn’t want to launch back into a useless discussion of the previous night, it was the perfect segue to learn more about Carmen D’Angelo and her relationship with Rosenthal. It was always possible that he’d hidden part of the manuscript at her home.
“Yes, I’m sure the others who were there feel just as ill at ease. Especially those in our section, so close to the stage. Ms. D’Angelo was quite shaken. Mr. Rosenthal took her directly home after the police finished questioning her. I’m curious to know how she’s doing today. I don’t suppose you’re friends with Ms. D’Angelo, are you?” I asked Hadley in my best concerned tone.
Her brows drew together as she mulled over the question, then a flicker of recognition flashed in her eyes.