Velvalee pointed dramatically toward the door. “Be gone with you. Both of you.” How she managed to order the officer to leave without her voice trembling, she didn’t know. Danvers murmured something under his breath as he left.
Her hand shook as she locked the door after them and flipped the sign to CLOSED. Danvers had lined up the dolls he’d brought with him on top of the display case. Velvalee stared at them, and their eyes stared back, mocking her. If the European markets were still open, she could have sold the entire lot for tens of thousands of dollars. Instead, it might be months before she recouped the money she’d given to Danvers. But she didn’t have months, especially not after writing that check.
What choice did she have? Danvers had already caused one scene when he accused her of stealing his clients. Such a stupid allegation to make. Didn’t his customers have the right to purchase dolls from anyone they chose? All she’d done was arrange for a copy of his clientele list to find its way to her door. Several collectors wrote to express their gratitude for the brochure she had sent listing her current stock. Danvers was simply jealous of her successful marketing methods.
She might have forgiven him the accusation if not for another one he’d made against her. His claim that she sold fake dolls as authentic antiques made her blood boil. All she had done was create new costumes out of old fabrics a few times. The customers who bought those dolls were pleased with their purchases. Was it her fault they couldn’t tell the difference between an old porcelain doll fitted with a “new” costume and a genuine heirloom? The buyers were pleased with their purchases, and she was pleased with the profits. No harm, no foul. Unless Danvers kept opening his big yap.
She returned to the counter near the register where she’d left the two Irish dolls and Charles Jopp’s fashionable lady. Miss Piperton seemed to take an immediate dislike to Danvers, which proved she was a good judge of character. She’d requested to see six dolls at their four thirty appointment and promised to buy at least three.
The money would be welcome, but the prospect of the sale didn’t relieve the anxiety created by Danvers’s unexpected appearance with the police officer. When he’d walked through the door, Velvalee expected to be placed under arrest. The thought had terrified her. It still did.
She made her way up the stairs to her apartment and heated water for tea. After pouring herself a cup, she added a splash of whiskey—a little something to calm her nerves and help her think.
During the past few sleepless nights, a plan had slowly coalesced. Now, spurred on by Danvers’s nastiness and the presence of a policeman inside her shop, the plan took on a life of its own. Since her handler still hadn’t responded to her Perla Negra signal, she needed to reach out to other contacts. The last time she’d been in Washington State, a former Japanese navy officer had shared his escape plan. He wanted to stay in Seattle, even if it meant hiding from those who’d send him to an internment camp. But if he ever felt threatened, he knew of an escape route to Mexico. From there, he’d return to Japan via submarine.
Velvalee had to find out if her paranoia was justified, and the only way to do that was to travel to Seattle and find her friend. If he was still in hiding, then perhaps she could persuade him to aid her escape. Perhaps her dream of a home in Japan was closer than she realized.
She refused to consider the impracticality or discomfort of traveling across the Pacific Ocean by submarine. For now, she needed to focus on the impracticality and discomfort of traveling across the continent to Seattle. And for that she needed a plan.
The ringing of the phone startled her already fragile nerves. She decided not to answer it, but the jangling didn’t end. Finally, she snatched it up. “Yes. May I help you?”
“Did I catch you at a bad time?”
Velvalee’s blood ran cold as she recognized the woman’s sultry voice.
“Who are you?”
The woman’s throaty laugh crackled through the phone line. “That’s not the question you should be asking.”
“Why not?”
“Because my identity isn’t important. However, I can tell you the names of a young couple who are asking questions about you. Even better, I can give you a photograph.”
“Why would you do that?”
“My reasons are my own. Are you interested?”
“Yes. Of course I am.”
“Good. The information is within the pages of Bleak House at the bookstore next to your shop. Go find it, Vee.” The call ended.
Velvalee clutched the handset against her chest then slammed it onto the cradle. Whoever called her was dangling the photo in front of her like a carrot in front of a donkey. What if this was all an elaborate plot by the government to trap her? She supposed that was possible, but if the government wanted to question her, wouldn’t they simply do so? Why all the cloak and dagger? A question she’d asked herself before and still one without an answer.
There was nothing to do but retrieve the photo. She smoothed her skirt and returned to her shop then wound her way into the bookstore. The owner was nowhere to be seen, but Velvalee could hear her humming from the front stacks. Bleak House should be in the classic literature section located near the rear of the store.
Velvalee took off her shoes and padded toward the section. Within a few moments, she’d found three copies of the Dickens novel. She pulled out the first and flipped through the pages. Nothing. She pulled out the second and repeated the process. A high-quality ivory envelope fluttered to the floor. She hurriedly grabbed it, listened to be sure the store’s owner was still busy at the front, and scurried back to her apartment.
Once inside, she tossed the envelope onto her writing desk and took a moment to catch her breath. She stared at the offensive envelope, knowing she had no choice but to open it; however, she was inexplicably afraid of doing so.
It’s only a photo. It can’t hurt me.
She slit open the flap with an Oriental letter opener and tilted the envelope so the photo fell out, facedown, on the desktop. A feminine hand had written two names on the back:
Phillip Clayton
Eloise Marshall
Not names she recognized. As if fearful the photo would burn her fingertips, she gingerly lifted it by a corner and flipped it over.
She stared at the two people standing next to each other at a train station, unable to believe her eyes. The young couple smiled at one another, seemingly oblivious to the crowd milling around them, as they waited their turn to board.
Anger mingled with fear and bubbled up in Velvalee’s throat as she picked up the photo for a closer look. “If it isn’t my dear Miss Piperton.”
Velvalee leaned back in her chair and tapped her chin with the photo. She carefully replayed Miss Piperton’s visit to the shop, like a movie theater’s newsreel, reliving their conversation. Nothing in her words or behavior set off any alarm bells at the time, but what had the woman hoped to gain from her little visit?
“Why don’t you join me for tea this afternoon?” The eager invitation echoed once again in Velvalee’s mind. “I’m staying at the Waldorf.”
So that was the reason. Eloise Marshall and Phillip Clayton—whoever he was, she didn’t recognize him—wanted Velvalee out of her store, away from her home, at a time of their choosing. If they were working for the government, then a noose was gathering around her neck, one so quiet she’d had no idea how close it was to choking her.
She no longer had time to plan an itinerary. Without a moment’s hesitation, she stuffed the photo back into the envelope. Her first priority was to leave Manhattan without being followed. Her second was to travel west without getting caught. For that she needed more money than she had in her cash register. That meant a stop at the bank to raid her safety deposit box.
Just as important, she needed to send a message to her friend in Seattle. Taking a seat at her desk, she thought for a few moments then rolled a sheet of paper into her trusty portable Underwood. Though the note would seem innocent to anyone who didn’t u
nderstand the code, she planned to take no chances of it being seen by the post office censors. She tucked the completed note into a doll costume created especially for hidden messages, packaged the doll in a box wrapped with brown paper, and wrote out the mailing address.
A few minutes later, while tossing clothes, shoes, and other items in her suitcase, she muttered a thank-you to her mysterious benefactress. At least someone still cared about her safety. Someday she hoped to learn the woman’s name and the reason for her help. If she made it to someday.
Every woman needed a knight in shining armor to slay her dragons in the romantic traditions of the medieval courts. The trick was finding a man willing to do one’s bidding in exchange for favors to come without ever bestowing such favors. Thankfully, Lorraine Mitchell had such a knight.
Years ago, during a brief period of adolescent rebellion and long before she became a wife and mother, they dreamed of eloping. But even then, the dream was more his than hers. She liked him, even cared for him, but marriage to someone with such few prospects was out of the question. Even if her parents had given their permission—which never would have happened—he was too much of a dreamer to give her the status she deemed to be her birthright.
After all these years, he still believed she loved him, that they would be together if not for her parents’ antiquated notions. He pitied her for being tied to a man more than ten years her senior and had raged against the engagement when it was announced. She indulged his emotional outburst, crying crocodile tears while privately understanding what he did not. When the time came, she happily married the man whose wealth allowed her family to avoid financial scandal.
But her new husband had deceived her. And her father, who knew all about Leonard’s first family, had deceived her too. Only her knight stayed loyal. Without asking why—he never asked why when she asked him to snoop around—he’d done everything she requested and more.
As a longtime journalist for the Seattle Times, he’d developed contacts at other newspapers throughout the country. A colleague at the St. Louis Post-Dispatch put him in touch with a freelance photojournalist who took the photo of Leonard’s despicable daughter with her own trusty knight. A former police detective nosed around and learned that the man who introduced himself as Phillip Carter was actually named Phillip Clayton and had used his FBI credentials to rent two rooms at the hotel located next to Union Station.
Finally, Lorraine’s knight invited his confidential contact at the FBI, Agent Bernard “Red” Eckers, out for drinks. Plied with liquor and a monetary inducement, Red told all he knew about Phillip and Eloise’s investigation into a New York City doll collector named Velvalee Dickinson, who was suspected of passing treasonous information to the country’s enemies. Red even showed him a copy of a postcard that “Vee” had mailed from Seattle, and he complained that he’d been given the mundane task of finding the hotel where she’d stayed. The photograph of Eloise and Phillip was soon on its way to a friend in New York who visited the bookstore next to the infamous doll shop.
Lorraine’s phone calls had frightened the doll collector, and the photograph identified the adversary. What would happen next was anyone’s guess, but at least Eloise and her knight were compromised, their quarry warned to beware of them.
A satisfied smile played on Lorraine’s lips as she contemplated the potential outcomes of the game she’d set in motion. Neither her father nor her husband 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. She’d learned those lessons well.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Eloise checked her watch for the third time in less than five minutes. Velvalee Dickinson, much to Eloise’s surprise, was more than ten minutes late. She’d have thought the promise of a large sale would have motivated the Doll Woman to be prompt if not early. The inclination to glance at Richard, who read the latest edition of the New York Times at a nearby table, was strong. But she managed to resist the temptation by people-watching.
At least the delay gave her an opportunity to play one of Phillip’s favorite travel games. What could she deduce about the three matronly women in the corner booth? Or the couple with two young children sitting by the window?
The elderly waiter, who wore a black apron over black pants, a starched white shirt, and black bow tie, stopped by her table. He’d brought her a pot of tea shortly after she was seated by the maître d’, but she’d told him that she would wait for her guest to arrive to place their order.
“Excuse me, miss. Are you Elena Piperton?”
The question sounded odd, especially coming from a stranger. Only a handful of people knew of that name, and he wasn’t one of them. “I am,” she said, perhaps with too much enthusiasm for a snooty socialite.
“The front desk requested I give you this message.” He handed her a folded slip of paper then took a step back.
“Thank you.”
The message read:
Mrs. Velvalee Dickinson expresses her regret that she is unable to join you. A family emergency has called her to Florida.
Eloise read the message twice then stared at her teacup to avoid looking toward Richard. She couldn’t recall anything in the Doll Woman’s dossier about family in Florida. It had to be an excuse. A lie. Did that mean she had seen through their cover stories? Had they scared her off?
The waiter stepped closer. “Would you like to order now, miss?”
“Thank you, no.” She needed to leave the dining room. To tell Richard about Velvalee’s strange note. To warn Phillip in case she was still at the doll shop. “My friend isn’t coming, so I’ll be leaving now.”
“Very good, miss.”
She left enough money on the table to cover the check and a generous tip then strolled into the lobby as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Fortunately, Richard joined her a moment later. “What happened?”
Eloise gave him the note. “What do you think it means?”
“Anything I say would be mere speculation.”
“We have to warn Phillip.”
“He won’t enter the store without ensuring it’s safe to do so. You mustn’t worry about him.”
“This is my fault.”
“How so?”
“It must be. Something I did, something I said made her suspicious. And now she’s gone to Florida of all places.”
“I’m positive it’s safe to say that the one place she hasn’t gone is Florida.”
“But the note says—” Eloise stopped as the realization hit her. “She wouldn’t have mentioned Florida if that’s where she was going.”
“Most people’s instincts when they’re in trouble is to seek the familiar. My hunch is she’ll head west again. She has friends there, even acquaintances such as Dr. and Mrs. Lankford, who may provide accommodations.”
“Without even realizing what they’re allowing under their own roofs.” Frustration tugged at Eloise’s spirit. “What do we do now?”
“Return to our rooms and wait for Phillip.” Richard peered at his pocket watch. “At least, that’s what you should do. I have another engagement. However, we can share a taxi.”
The doorman flagged a cab for them, and Eloise settled in for a quiet ride to their accommodations. She’d observed that, except for the niceties of etiquette, Richard rarely spoke in the presence of strangers. Though what was there to say?
Between the visit to the doll shop and the tea appointment, she and Phillip had reviewed every moment of her encounter with Velvalee. During the debriefing, Richard asked several questions about the man, Danvers, who had interrupted their conversation. Eloise answered each one to the best of her ability. When the debriefing ended, Richard complimented her on achieving her objective to get Velvalee out of the store. Then he excused himself to make a phone call. Phillip had been astute enough—experienced enough—to note both Danvers’s license plate number and the policeman’s badge number. He believed Richard mea
nt to find out more about Danvers.
The compliment now rang hollow. She had failed in her task, but she didn’t know how. Velvalee had seemed eager to meet with her at the hotel. She also had seemed grateful for Eloise’s haughty attitude toward Danvers. What had changed?
Unless it was Danvers who had scared her away. Or maybe the police had returned and arrested her after all. Undoubtedly, that was a possibility Richard had also considered. Eloise wouldn’t be surprised to learn that his sudden engagement included a visit to the local police precinct.
Her thoughts shifted from her own possible culpability in Velvalee’s sudden departure to Phillip. Was he still waiting to enter the doll shop? Or had he seen Velvalee leave and followed her? Or maybe he was searching the shop and apartment for more evidence. Any of those scenarios was plausible, but she’d have to wait for his return to learn any more.
Or she could return to the shop herself.
The thought seemed daring. And exciting.
Would it be all that implausible that Elena Piperton, whose heart was set on purchasing a doll for her friend, decided to return to the shop? Elena didn’t know that Velvalee might be forging letters in an effort to give information about naval ships to the enemy. She didn’t know Velvalee was lying about having family in Florida.
Elena could do this.
When they arrived at their destination, Richard asked the cabbie to wait while he escorted Eloise to the door. She waited inside, peeking through the window, until he’d returned to the cab and was out of sight.
Pressing the pearl necklace against her skin, she breathed a quick prayer then hailed a cab of her own.
“The Velvalee Dickinson Doll Shop,” she said to the cabbie. “The address is 718 Madison Avenue.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Before returning to the doll shop, Phillip changed from his chauffeur’s uniform into dungarees and a T-shirt. Two other agents had been observing the shop since before Elena Piperton and her chauffeur had arrived. They’d seen Phillip drive off in the luxury Cadillac and were still there when he returned in his casual disguise. Both assured him that Velvalee had closed the shop, but she hadn’t left the building.
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