“Miss O’Shea?” I moved to the end of the row, sidestepped the man from the lobby, and proceeded down the aisle. “Is there a Miss O’Shea among you? That’s whom I’d like to speak with. If you please.”
A woman came forward from the crush of her fellow actors and went to the edge of the stage. “I’m Clarice O’Shea.” She peered at me with those striking eyes I had noticed at Wakehurst—large and heavily lashed—but I saw now that her hair was not the silvery blond of that night, but an ordinary light chestnut, rather like my own. “Burt told me you’d be looking for me.” She smirked. “I suppose talking to you is the only way to be rid of you. Mr. Comstock?”
The director again clapped his hands. “Twenty minutes, everyone. But not a moment more.”
Chapter 14
Miss O’Shea led me backstage to a private dressing room, which I assumed at first to be hers. When she caught me examining the shelves of wigs and cosmetics, she chuckled. “If you’re thinking this is my dressing room, you’re wrong. I’m just a chorus girl, for the most part. I only brought us here so we’d have some privacy. Since we’re not in costume today, it won’t be needed.” She gestured at a spindly wooden chair in the corner. “Sit. Talk.”
She chose the seat at the dressing table, but sat facing me, rather than the mirror. She was indeed beautiful, and I saw now that her eyes were a remarkable color, neither green nor blue, nor hazel like mine, but a rare combination. Her features, while even and feminine, were nonetheless strong, traits that could cast an expression to a theater’s back row, even the last row of a balcony. I found myself slightly mesmerized by her, and thought if she wasn’t a leading lady yet, she would be before long.
“Now,” she said, sounding businesslike and impatient, “what is this about? Or need I ask?”
I shook my head, puzzled.
“Wakehurst. I remember you there that night. Oh yes, like you newspaper reporters, I have keen powers of observation, Miss . . . ?”
“Cross. I’m Emma Cross.”
“I noticed you when you intervened between those two men who appeared close to blows.”
I nodded. “That’s right. You wouldn’t happen to know what they were arguing about, would you?”
“Me? Hardly. I just wanted them to stop or go away. They were distracting from the performance.” She studied me a moment. “I hope you don’t believe I murdered that man?”
“Goodness, no. Why would you have?” Not that it would have been impossible. For all I knew, Miss O’Shea had performed in Philadelphia, encountered Judge Schuyler, and, for one reason or another, vowed to kill him. Or, as I’d theorized earlier, she might have believed killing the judge would prevent Jerome Harrington’s marriage to Imogene Schuyler. For whatever reason, however, my instincts didn’t lead me in that direction. “I am here about a matter that could be related to the judge’s death. Do you know his daughter, Imogene?”
The actress’s hesitation was palpable; so much so, I already had my answer. To her credit, she didn’t attempt to deceive me. “I have not had the pleasure of Miss Schuyler’s acquaintance, but I know of her. Rather well.”
“Through Jerome Harrington? I assume you’ve made his acquaintance?”
Another hesitation, this time accompanied by a flush of color, there one instant and gone the next, but unmistakable. “Yes.”
I waited for her to elaborate. When I realized she wasn’t going to, I pressed on. “Are you and he . . .” I compressed my lips and began again. “How close acquaintances are you?”
“Do you mean, are we lovers?”
I replied with a quirk of my eyebrow.
She laughed softly. “The answer is no, we are not. Not that it’s any of your business.” She appeared to consider a moment, then continued. “But I suppose a reporter can dig up such information easily enough if she wishes. So I’ll save you the time and simply tell you. Jerome and I were lovers. Almost two years ago now. It was the late fall of ’97, during the New York theater season. He saw a burlesque I had a prominent role in, and he wished to meet me afterward. Oh, he was so young, barely a man, but I assure you, Miss Cross, he was not without his charms. But when the season ended, so ended our liaison. Jerome went to Europe for the spring, while I traveled up and down the East Coast performing.”
“And you’ve had no contact since?”
“Not until the other night at Wakehurst.” She leaned her head to one side. “It’s funny, but he recognized me immediately, even in my wig and makeup. We talked for a few minutes, and he told me of his engagement.”
“Was he unhappy about it? Did he express dissatisfaction with the arrangement?”
Her brows drew inward as she appeared to weigh her words. “He was matter-of-fact about it. As those people often are.”
By “those people,” I understood she meant the Four Hundred. But the briskness with which she made that pronouncement gave me pause. I felt certain she had left something out. “What else did you discuss?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but what else could there be? We spent a few minutes catching up. He asked about my career. That’s all.”
A member of the Four Hundred “catching up” with a minor actress with whom he had had a brief affair? It surprised me that he had bothered to acknowledge her at all. Then again, considering Jerome Harrington’s age, it was likely Miss O’Shea had been his first paramour. And she was a striking beauty. She must have made quite an impression on him. “You say you spoke for a few minutes. Long enough for his fiancée to grow suspicious?”
Miss O’Shea shrugged and made an elegant flourish with her hand. “If Imogene Schuyler is the suspicious sort, then, yes, I suppose so. Was she jealous?”
“I’m not sure jealousy is the right word for it.” I almost added that Imogene Schuyler had other reasons for opposing the match, but I would have been gossiping and I had no right to do so.
“Well, she had no reason to be, truly. And she’s a fool if she doesn’t marry him.” Miss O’Shea compressed her lips as if realizing too late that she shouldn’t have made that last comment.
“Then you think highly of him,” I said.
“Didn’t I already say that?”
I shrugged, not quite sure if she had or not. “Did he express doubt that the marriage would take place?”
“Perhaps.”
“He did,” I concluded out loud. Which meant that, even before their argument, and before Imogene saw Jerome speaking with his former lover, the match had been on shaky ground. I decided to take a chance. “Do you know anything about his prospects? His inheritance? Did he ever confide in you?”
Her cheeks pinked again—subtly and briefly. “Not really. He . . . made clear to me that he’d prefer to make his own way in life, rather than live off an inheritance.”
“Did he have any plans for doing so?”
“Oh, you know how the young men of his class are. Full of plans and bravado. I only know he wished to make a name for himself and not live off his family’s legacy. Perhaps it was a matter of not wishing to remain under his father’s thumb. And he told me he found banking a colossal bore. Who could blame him?”
“What does he have against his father?”
“I didn’t say he had anything against his father.” Her lips twitched with irritation. “Can’t a young man wish to strike out on his own?”
“In my experience with the Four Hundred, there’s usually a reason. A good one.” I was thinking of Neily. “Have he and his father argued? Perhaps over business?”
“I couldn’t say.” She stood up, a signal that our time had reached its conclusion. “I think if you have any other questions about Jerome, Miss Cross, you’ll have to ask him. I’ve said more than enough.”
Chapter 15
Clarice O’Shea stood up to end our conversation, but I wasn’t yet ready to go. She glared down at me in consternation. Was she considering pulling me out of the chair?
“I only wish to know if you saw anything unusual that night,” I said quick
ly, to placate her and assure her I would ask no more questions about Jerome Harrington. She sank back down onto the dressing table bench.
“I saw many unusual things. Those people don’t do anything by half, do they?”
“No, they don’t.” I chuckled. “What I mean is, arguments, or anyone stealing off alone to a part of the garden where they shouldn’t have been. Or hurrying up to the veranda while everyone else assembled for the joust,” I added, hoping to spur her memory.
She gave a shrug. “By then, our part in the evening had ended and we were packing up our stage props. I hadn’t time to be watching anyone. Besides, we were under the glare of Mr. Van Alen’s electric garden lights by then. It was difficult to see anything beyond them from the stage.”
“I see.” I pondered that a moment, remembering Burt Covey telling me he saw Wakehurst’s mystery guest, the man in the ill-fitting suit, running up the veranda steps. Was Miss O’Shea protecting that man? Had Burt Covey been lying? With no ready answer, I rose voluntarily this time, and Miss O’Shea followed suit. “If you do think of anything, please contact me. You can find me at the Messenger.”
After my talk with Clarice O’Shea, I went directly back to the Messenger’s offices—and met with trouble. I realized as soon as I stepped into the front office that I should have heeded Mr. Sheppard’s frantic hand signals through the window and kept going.
“That’s her. Arrest her at once.”
I halted just inside the door, staring mutely back at two faces aiming unmistakable hostility in my direction. “Mrs. Andrews . . . what are you doing here?”
“Seeing justice done,” Derrick’s mother snapped in return. “What are you waiting for, Detective Myers? She broke into the Schuylers’ Bellevue cottage. She deserves to go to jail.”
The detective took a step closer to me, inciting me to back up until the closed door came up against me. “Miss Cross, where were you two mornings ago?”
“She was skulking around the Schuylers’ home is where she was.” Lavinia Andrews managed to look both menacing and gleeful at the same time. “That’s right, Miss Cross. It took me a little while, but I finally realized who that nervous little maid was upstairs at the Schuylers’ house. What were you doing? Stealing?”
The door bumped against my back as someone from outside attempted to enter the office. I stepped away and turned, and felt buckets of relief wash over me when Derrick walked in.
“Mother? What are you doing here?” He took in Detective Myers’s presence and glanced over at Mr. Sheppard, who had come to his feet. “What’s going on here?”
“What’s going on, darling, is your little doxy is being arrested for breaking and entering.”
“Mother, you will not—”
Before Derrick could continue, I broke through my astonishment and found my voice. “I did no such thing. I accompanied a friend to the Schuylers’ home to bring gifts from Ochre Court.”
“Dressed as a maid?” Mrs. Andrews challenged. “As if that wasn’t meant to deceive anyone.”
“There was someone there I wished to speak with, and dressing as a maid ensured I’d be admitted.”
“Then what were you doing upstairs?” Derrick’s mother compressed her mouth into a bold line of triumph. She obviously thought she had me.
“I stayed for a time to help out, while the servants were getting ready to leave for the memorial service. When you saw me, I had just gone upstairs to bring Miss Schuyler’s personal maid a cup of tea.”
“Aren’t you considerate?” the woman said with a scoff. “I very much doubt Imogene Schuyler’s maid has a room on the second floor. At least, not the part of the second floor where I caught you.”
“I’d lost my way.” Somehow I managed to answer calmly, though my insides quivered.
“Lost your way, indeed. The only reason I didn’t inform Mrs. Schuyler about this and bring her along to see you incarcerated is that I don’t wish to add to her burdens and upset her further. She has enough to endure at present.” Mrs. Andrews turned her attention to her son. “Do you see now, Derrick? This woman is a criminal. She cannot be trusted. Detective Myers has no choice but to arrest her.”
“Mrs. Andrews—” I began, but Derrick cut me off.
“You’re not only being ridiculous, Mother, but you’re also slandering one of the most decent and selfless people I’ve ever known.” When she started to respond, he turned the whole of his attention to the detective. “As you can probably see for yourself, my mother has no liking for Miss Cross and never has, despite Miss Cross having once done her a very good turn. I can’t fully explain it, but there it is. I’m afraid you’ve been brought here for no good reason, Detective.”
I was surprised to see that the past few minutes had left Detective Myers befuddled and ill at ease. “Perhaps,” he said, “but I’ve no choice but to bring Miss Cross to the station for questioning. The Schuylers will have to be contacted to see if they’ve discovered anything missing. If so—”
“They won’t,” I said firmly, at the same time hoping neither Imogene nor her mother had noticed anything moved among their belongings. Had I left something amiss?
The door opened again, this time hitting Derrick on the backs of his legs. He stepped out of the way and opened the door wider. We gaped to discover Jesse standing on the threshold. He removed his hat and stepped inside. “I understand there’s been a complaint against someone here?”
Detective Myers waved a hand at him. “I’m handling it, Whyte.”
Jesse frowned in what appeared to be genuine puzzlement. “You’re our new homicide detective, aren’t you? Petty theft and such are my line now. I’ll take it from here.” He smiled amiably at his fellow policeman.
“This seems highly irregular to me.” Mrs. Andrews fingered the embroidered edge of her silk glove. “If I’d wanted Detective Whyte to handle the matter, I would have asked for him. I believe I shall have to file a complaint.”
Detective Myers surprised me again. “Detective Whyte does have a point, ma’am.” He set his hat on his head. “I’ll leave this matter in your capable hands, then, Whyte. I’ve more important matters to attend to. Good day.”
Mrs. Andrews rounded on him. “You cannot simply leave. Detective Whyte isn’t about to do a thing about this.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but if I don’t want him interfering in my business, I can’t be interfering in his.” He turned a warning glare on me. “But if I find out you, Miss Cross, were attempting to worm your way into my investigation of Judge Schuyler’s death, you will be very sorry. I’ll have my eye on you. Now, if you’ll all excuse me.” He hurried out the door before Mrs. Andrews could stop him.
Having lost one champion, she appealed to her son by grasping his arm. “Derrick, you’re making a dreadful mistake. Why will you not listen to reason?”
“When I hear reason, I listen.” He extricated his arm from her hold. For an instant, his jaw hardened, a sign of his effort to rein in his anger. “Please, Mother, let’s not end up saying things we’ll regret. You must have somewhere more pleasant to be right now. And while it would please me no end to give you a tour of our offices, I honestly don’t think it would interest you much. Or perhaps it would?” He held out his arm to her, an obvious offer to escort her through the building, as well as a peace offering.
“Another time, thank you,” she replied stiffly. With a tug on each of her gloves, she stalked to the door. Derrick moved to open it for her.
“Good-bye, Mother,” he murmured as he watched her set off along Spring Street. Then he shut the door. I realized how much it pained him that he would not be showing his mother the business he had built from a foundering broadsheet to a growing and respectable newspaper.
That he and I had built, for although I had finally admitted that being editor-in-chief was not the ideal position for me, while I had occupied that chair, I had put my full efforts into making the Messenger successful.
The four of us let out a collective breath of relief. M
r. Sheppard sank back into his chair. Despite our audience, Derrick put his arms around me.
“Are you all right?”
“A bit shaken, to tell the truth. But I’m fine.” I eased away as I offered him and the others a rueful smile. “She wasn’t wrong, you know. Oh, about stealing she was absolutely wrong. And about the breaking part, if we’re being precise, because the housekeeper herself admitted me. But I did enter the Schuylers’ house under false pretenses and I did go snooping through Mrs. and Miss Schuyler’s things.”
“All in the name of justice,” Derrick teased.
“Indeed.” Jesse chuckled. “I don’t think I’ll be hauling you over to the station.”
My legs feeling suddenly shaky, I went to sit in the unoccupied desk chair across the office from Mr. Sheppard’s. “Jesse, how on earth did you know to come here?”
“Ethan,” he replied with a grin. “Apparently, he came in just after Myers and Mrs. Andrews, heard what they were saying, and telephoned me from the newsroom. He’s come a long way from shy young man to your willing partner in crime, Emma. I’m not entirely sure it’s a good thing.”
As if he’d been listening, and perhaps he had been, the inner door opened and Ethan joined us in the front office. “Is everything all right? Miss Cross, I see you haven’t been dragged down to Marlborough Street.”
“Thanks to you.” I went to him and gave his hands a grateful squeeze. The gesture made him blush, but he also looked genuinely pleased. I turned back to the others. “Now, then . . .”
I spent the next several minutes relating what I learned at the Opera House from Clarice O’Shea, and what she had told me about Jerome Harrington. “She spoke so highly of him, it’s difficult to believe their affair has been over for nearly two years,” I said. “And yet she insisted it was.”
“Do you think she was lying?” Derrick asked.
I shook my head and sighed. “No, but I have nothing to back up that opinion besides instinct. She seemed entirely sincere.”
“She is an actress,” Jesse pointed out.
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