“We’re partners,” he said. “That’s what partners do.”
“Do they also eat? Because I am suddenly very hungry.”
“Good. Because I’m starving.” As if to give credence to his words, his stomach emitted a low growl. “Told you.”
They hailed a cabbie, who recommended an eatery popular with the locals. As they pulled away from the hotel, Eloise allowed herself to be mesmerized by the city lights. Few of the cities in the country’s interior followed the blackout regulations, and she was grateful the Civilian Defense wardens weren’t practicing a blackout drill tonight. For a moment she could shut her eyes and pretend that all was right with the world. That there was no war. No need to break codes and analyze letters and interview ordinary women about their ordinary hobbies.
The ordeal she’d been dreading for days was over, and her heart felt lighter than it had in years. She truly could believe that God meant for her to see the Seattle paper for a reason. That He arranged circumstances so that she was in St. Louis the same time as her father. The confrontation had occurred, and she was stronger for it. She still had questions, lots of questions, but none of them truly mattered anymore. The long shadow cast by a disappearing father was gone. She prayed it would never haunt her again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
At the close of another long and worrisome day, Velvalee Dickinson locked the front doors of her shop and climbed the stairs to her apartment located two floors above. She and Lee had been delighted when the vacancy opened that allowed them to live over their business. But with her husband gone, the apartment lacked the sense of home it once had.
She’d found it difficult to identify that lack. When she finally did, she expected her restlessness would ease. That her familiar belongings would once again bring her comfort. Instead, it seemed that identifying what Lee had taken with him to the grave, all the warm and tender associations of that short and simple word—home—increased her inner angst.
Once inside her apartment, she changed from her prim dress into one of her favorite kimonos. The lovely peacock blue and gold silk garment was a gift from a Japanese naval commander and his wife whom she entertained a few times before his emperor called for his return. That call came a few months before the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.
Though Lee no longer sat across from her, Velvalee still dined at the table in front of the window overlooking Madison Avenue. While her simple meal of leftover pot roast and thinly sliced potatoes warmed in the oven, she set the table with fine porcelain china, the silverware she’d inherited from her grandmother, and a linen napkin. These refinements were as necessary to her as breathing and connected her to a lifestyle that was slowly slipping from her grasp.
All the tension she felt, all the worry, was Lee’s fault. If only he had held on to life for a little longer, she wouldn’t be such a nervous wreck.
She tried reading a novel, Mildred Pierce by James Cain, to pass the time while she ate. Though she sympathized with the main character’s determination against tough odds—a talented businesswoman not unlike herself—she found it impossible for once to get lost in the story’s drama.
Perla Negra, the Mexican gypsy rag doll, had been returned to the bookstore window wearing her colorful shawl over her head. But Velvalee’s handler had not appeared. Why not?
After supper, she went over the day’s receipts and made the appropriate entries in the ledger. Though she’d once worked as a bookkeeper, she loathed the strictures of mathematics. Lee had always taken care of the doll shop’s dreary accounting tasks. Now everything to do with the business was her responsibility. Simply everything.
She totaled a column of numbers, rechecked them, and got a different result. Frustrated, she tried again and broke the lead from her pencil. While muttering an unladylike word, she threw the pencil on the desk. It bounced onto the floor then rolled beneath a bookshelf. As she knelt on the floor to retrieve it, the phone rang.
The unexpected sound startled her, and at first she eyed it with suspicion. Could it finally be him? He’d never called before, but neither had he ignored her signal before. She tried to squash the hope rising within her as she answered. “Dickinson residence.”
Static came across the line.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
“Is that you, Vee?”
The sultry voice belonged to a woman but wasn’t one she recognized. And though she sometimes signed a note as Vee, no one dared to call her by that name.
“This is Velvalee Dickinson.” Her tone was sharp and unyielding. “Who’s calling, please?”
The person on the other end chuckled. “Be careful, Vee. They’re watching you. And they know your secret.”
“Who’s watching?” she demanded even as her stomach turned to mush. “What secret?”
But the caller didn’t say. A second later, the phone line was dead.
A satisfied smile played on the woman’s lips as she hung up the phone. None of the men in her life believed her to be clever. But she’d spent her lifetime observing the schemes they concocted to destroy their enemies, both real and imagined, in their thirst for power. The lessons she learned came in handy when navigating her own position in their social circles.
After a few well-timed whispers of salacious gossip and the appropriate backstabs, she was poised to take her rightful place as Queen Bee of her set. The current monarch, a crotchety hag, stubbornly refused to step aside. But soon she wouldn’t have a choice, not once the coup de grâce, the innocent dropping of a rumor in the appropriate ear, had been executed.
The most brilliant part? No one suspected her capable of such machinations, a fact that proved her ingenuity. One lesson she’d learned especially well was to destroy her enemies by pitting them against each other. Not that the silly woman she’d telephoned was her enemy. Only the pawn in her current game.
The toppling of the Queen Bee would have to wait. A more formidable enemy demanded her attention.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Eloise grinned at Phillip when he purposely slowed his steps as they walked toward Barbara Clark’s front stoop. “Do I have to go in?” he whined. “You know she doesn’t like me.”
“Don’t mention her husband or moonshine and you should be fine.” Eloise playfully grabbed his hand and pulled him along the paved path. “She’s expecting both of us.”
“That doesn’t mean she’ll be glad to see me.”
“Stop being a baby.” Eloise let go of his hand to ring the bell. While they waited, she smoothed her skirt and patted her hair. Beside her, Phillip straightened his shoulders, transforming before her eyes from a sluggish crybaby to the consummate professional agent. His wink awakened the butterflies deep within her. Since the St. Louis stop, they fluttered at the slightest whim. She wished she knew how to make them stop. She prayed they never did.
Mrs. Clark opened the door and ushered them into her spotless kitchen. A chocolate cake perched on a pedestal in the center of the table next to a pitcher of tea.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us again,” Eloise said as she removed her gloves.
“I must say I was surprised to get your phone call.” Mrs. Clark gestured for them to take their seats. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear from you again, and I did wonder what became of my letters.”
“We’ve been visiting other doll collectors,” Eloise explained, “who also had their signatures forged on letters addressed to Señora Ines de Molinali.”
“There are others?”
“A few,” Phillip said.
“Who would do such a thing?” she asked as she served them generous slices of the cake. “I just don’t understand why anyone would go to such trouble. Surely no one I know.”
“We’re still investigating,” Eloise said, “but your letters provided an important lead. One of them was written on the same typewriter that was used for the forged letter.”
“The same typewriter?” Mrs. Clark came close to overfilling a tea glass but caught herself in time. �
��How could you possibly know that?”
“Typewriters may look the same,” Phillip explained, “but that doesn’t mean the keys strike the same or leave the same impressions. We have experts who compared the Buenos Aires letter to the letters you gave us. One of them matched.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense, young man. Which one?”
“A letter you received from a Mrs. Velvalee Dickinson,” Eloise said. “Do you remember it?”
Mrs. Clark clutched at her chest. “You cannot be serious. Velvalee Dickinson?”
“We’re very serious,” Phillip said.
“You must understand.” Mrs. Clark leaned forward as if to give weight to her words. “Velvalee is one of the foremost experts on antique dolls in the entire country. She knows practically everything there is to know. Meeting her was such a tremendous honor. I refuse to believe she forged my signature or anyone else’s.”
“When did you meet her?” Eloise asked, purposely keeping her tone casual and light, as if they were simply having a conversation instead of a subtle interrogation.
“At one of our Springfield Art Circle meetings. She was the guest speaker.” Mrs. Clark’s hands fluttered as if she didn’t know what to do with them. “All our members were thrilled to have someone of her expertise here in our little town. And all the way from New York City too.”
“When was this?” Eloise asked.
“A year ago this past June. I remember because she talked about wedding dolls, and June is the traditional month for weddings. It was a lovely presentation.” Mrs. Clark cut into her cake with her fork but didn’t take the bite. “I still can’t believe it. I won’t.”
Eloise felt sorry for the woman, but their questions still needed answers. “When we were here before, you mentioned a trip to New York. Did you happen to visit the shop?”
Mrs. Clark nodded. “I went with a friend from the Art Circle. It was such a delight seeing all those dolls and their fancy costumes.”
“When was this?” Phillip asked.
“November. A couple of weeks before Thanksgiving.” She placed her fork on the side of the plate, the cake still uneaten. “When we arrived at the shop, we learned her husband had recently died. And yet, she didn’t want us to leave. We stayed well over an hour.”
“The forged letter mentioned your nephew,” Eloise reminded her. “Did you tell Mrs. Dickinson about his brain tumor?”
“I did.” Mrs. Clark seemed to deflate with the admission. “Why would she do such a thing? Pretend to be me to some strange woman in Buenos Aires?” She pronounced it buenas airs, which Eloise would have found amusing in other circumstances. Not this one, though.
“All we know right now,” Phillip said, “is that the same typewriter was used for both letters. That doesn’t mean Mrs. Dickinson wrote the forged letter.”
“But if she didn’t, who did?” Mrs. Clark shook her head, and Eloise feared she might be on the verge of tears. She’d obviously placed the Doll Woman on a pedestal that they had come along and toppled. She exchanged a glance with Phillip.
“Our investigation is ongoing,” she said. “And you’ve been a tremendous help. Is there anything else you can tell us about Mrs. Dickinson?”
“Only that I won’t be buying any more dolls from her. Or writing her any more letters.”
“I wouldn’t either,” Eloise replied, “if I were in your shoes.”
“In fact, I have half a mind to send back all the dolls I already bought from her. Every single one.”
Eloise laid a comforting hand on Mrs. Clark’s arm. “Please don’t do that. We don’t want to raise any unnecessary alarms.”
Mrs. Clark eyed her then nodded. “You’re right, of course. I just don’t appreciate her using my name. Or my nephew. That’s unforgivable, that is.”
“I agree,” Eloise said. “I hope you can find comfort in knowing you did the right thing by turning in your letter and allowing us to read your correspondence.”
“Glad to do my part, naturally.” Mrs. Clark cleared her throat and lifted her chin, once again the indomitable lady they’d first met. “Someday I’d like to know what this was all about. Especially since those other two agents have been nosing around, asking my friends and families all kinds of questions about me. You would think I was the one under suspicion.”
“Other agents?” Eloise shifted her gaze to Phillip.
“No need to worry,” he soothed. “They’re only doing their job. In fact, the only suspicion we have about you is how you manage to bake such a delicious chocolate cake. What’s your secret?” He took a huge bite as if to prove his point.
She made a locking motion over her lips then smiled when he laughed. Eloise stifled a giggle. How about that? Phillip had charmed his way into Mrs. Clark’s good graces.
“I can’t say I minded the attention all that much,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “In fact, it made me a bit of a celebrity around here. Not everyone can say they’re helping the FBI with an important investigation. Isn’t that so?”
“That’s so,” Phillip agreed. “Miss Marshall and I appreciate both your cooperation and your hospitality.”
“I always was a great one in the kitchen,” she said. “Even Mr. Clark said so, and he was never a man to hand out a compliment when it wasn’t necessary. Why, there was one time—”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Clark.” Eloise had listened to enough stories during their first visit, after Phillip had left the two women alone, to know their hostess’s propensity to follow one rabbit trail after another. “It might be helpful for us to hear more about the Springfield Art Circle.”
While they finished their cake, Mrs. Clark talked about the group’s speakers and events.
As the two women gabbed, Eloise sensed Phillip’s restlessness grow. When Mrs. Clark paused to take a break during a lengthy discourse on the horrors of impressionism, Eloise jumped in. “We’ve taken up too much of your time, I’m afraid.” She smiled as she rose and gathered their dishes.
Mrs. Clark protested as Eloise knew she would. “Don’t bother with those. I’ll take care of them.” But Eloise was experienced enough to know that in the world of kitchen visits one sure way to make a speedy departure was to take one’s dishes to the sink.
They left soon after with a promise to return the letters after the FBI finished their analysis. Their next stop was Cincinnati, both to return the car they’d borrowed from the field office and then to begin the long train trip to Washington, DC, to meet with Richard. Their round-trip excursion to the West Coast and back in search of the forger of the letters was almost at an end. At least they had a name and perhaps even an itinerary—that is, if Velvalee Dickinson had forged the letters and if she had done so on her West Coast tour.
Eloise understood Phillip’s reluctance to accept Mrs. Dickinson as the traitor without more information. Her instructors at the academy had also been adamant about jumping to conclusions and relying too heavily on circumstantial evidence. But deep inside, she believed that they had accomplished what they set out to do. More proof may be needed, sure, and yet she couldn’t help feeling proud that she’d played a small part in the operation.
As she contemplated their return to the capital, though, her emotions weren’t all that neat and tidy but a mass of contradictions. She looked forward to returning to her little room at the back of the Francis Scott Key Bookstore, to no longer living out of a suitcase, to getting a good night’s sleep in her own tiny bed.
But she would miss the adventure of being on the road. She doubted she’d ever get the chance to travel again as she had these past few weeks. When she eventually returned to her hometown, would she even be able to tell her mother or her friends about standing on the rocky coast and looking out at the surging waves of the Pacific or about Seattle’s incessant rainfall and emerald landscape or the mighty grandeur of the Rockies? Or would she have to pretend she’d never been outside of DC?
Even more important, how would she explain to her mother how she happened to be in St.
Louis at the same time as her father? Or how she’d known where to find him?
The coincidence of seeing the Seattle newspaper that carried his photograph still seemed strange. She didn’t want to wrongly attribute events to God, but if she believed, truly believed, that He guided her steps, then wasn’t it just as wrong to deny that He was the one who’d orchestrated those events?
She had to say yes. Though that led to another question.
Why?
“Why what?” Phillip asked.
Eloise startled. “I said why out loud?”
“You did.”
Eloise stared out the window, where fluffy white clouds gently floated past the afternoon sun. “Sometimes I wish God would write a message in the sky so I could understand…so I could know why.”
“Is it okay if I once again ask ‘why what’?”
She didn’t answer for a moment because she didn’t know how to answer. He was another reason her emotions were a mass of contradiction. Even if they still worked together on this case after they reached the capital, everything would be different. When the day’s work was done, they’d go their separate ways. No more overnight stays in cheap motel lodgings or sharing a sleeper car on a train. No more drives through the countryside or plane rides among the clouds.
They’d separate. Physically. Emotionally.
Like longtime friends who promise to stay in touch but eventually only send a card at Christmas. She and Phillip probably wouldn’t even do that.
When this mission ended, Phillip intended to go overseas—a place she didn’t want to follow, not even in spirit. But as much as she tried to close her heart to him, she couldn’t do it. She didn’t want to lose him. Neither did she want to love him.
Somewhere along their journey, though, that’s exactly what had happened. She loved him. And that admission alone was enough to bruise her heart.
“Do you want me to stop somewhere?” he offered. Perhaps he was mistaking her silence for moodiness. “I think I can scrounge up a couple nickels for two bottles of icy cold Coke.”
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