The War Against Miss Winter (23 page)

Agnes moaned again. “A man came over and demanded I turn over the files.”

“What man?”

“A big man in a naval uniform. He didn’t give a name.”

He didn’t have to. The only way Edgar could’ve made his presence more obvious is if he’d left a calling card. “And you just let him take the files?”

Her voice reached a Wagnerian pitch. “They weren’t mine to keep.” She was right, of course, but that did nothing to squash my frustration.

“Did he hurt you?”

Her voice lowered. “He had a gun. And a mean disposition.”

“Don’t take it personally. He’s like that with everyone.”

“He asked me to give you a message.”

I pictured amputated fingers floating in a jar filled with murky fluid.

“He said to tell you thanks.”

“That son of a bitch.” I clicked on the lights so Jayne would have no choice but to sit up and talk to me.

“What’s the matter? Who was on the phone?”

“Agnes.” I sank onto my bed. “Edgar showed up at her place tonight and took the files.”

“How did he know they were there?”

“He must’ve tailed me.” I punched a pillow. Feathers took flight and sank to the bed.

Jayne shielded her eyes from the light. “So now’s he got…what exactly?”

“I don’t know, but whatever it is, it was enough to get Jim killed. The play’s as good as his.”

Jayne sighed and pulled her blanket up to her chin. “Is that the worst thing? This proves once and for all that Eloise and Edgar are behind all this. If they have enough evidence to find the play, doesn’t that mean the killing is done?”

I wrapped myself in my quilt and pondered her words. While Edgar stealing the files was a long way from Jim getting justice, if the files led him to the script, no one else would die. And while I wanted to see the darn thing to satisfy my curiosity, if he found the play and destroyed it, it would be a whole lot better than attending another funeral.

“You’re right,” I told Jayne. “Assuming Edgar finds what he’s looking for, this is good news.” And if he didn’t…well, I didn’t want to think about that.

R
UBY DESCENDED ON REHEARSAL THE
next morning and I went from director’s pet to persona non grata. Not only was my role at rehearsal greatly reduced, but Peter began to limit his contact with me, as though I’d been a stand-in for Ruby both onstage and behind the scenes. For the next week and a half I spent much of rehearsal sulking in the audience, alternating between telling myself that Peter had to devote his attention to Ruby in order to get her up to speed with the rest of the cast and convincing myself that Peter’s ignoring me was all part of his effort to make me feel as alienated and bitter as everyone else.

To make matters worse, Ruby continued to avoid suffering the same indignations as the rest of us. Peter scheduled a rehearsal for an unheard-of Friday night but told half of the group one call time, and the other half another. Naturally, I was part of the first group and wasted an hour of my time pacing the lobby. When the second group finally showed up—initially apologetic, then self-righteous—the rehearsal was canceled since so much time and energy had been wasted arguing over who was right to begin with. Conveniently, neither Peter nor Ruby showed.

When Hilda declared rehearsal a wash, everyone silently took the gate in search of something to do to redeem their evening. I was the only one who didn’t have plans, so rather than dwelling on what I could’ve done that night, I was overtaken by resentment that I now had an entire evening spread before me with nothing to do. I hoofed it out of the theater and onto the street. It was going on 8:00 and I wasn’t tired or hungry or any of the other things one could rely on to fill their time, so I decided to walk home.

January was giving way to February, but what should have been the deepest part of winter had momentarily surrendered to springlike tem
peratures. I still had to wear a coat, but once I got my pace going, I was able to shed my hat and gloves and enjoy nature’s reprieve. I wasn’t the only one taking advantage of the good weather. All around me people had their apartment windows open, hoping to air out a winter of fear and sacrifice. The breeze carried their evening radio programs down to the street, weaving
This Is War
with
The Lone Ranger
and the glorious voice of Lily Pons performing
Lucia di Lammermoor
at the Met.

I let my irritation at Peter propel me forward, but after four blocks and careful analysis of how wise to human nature he really was, my anger subsided. I decided I would stop off at the Shaw House, find out where Jayne was, and meet up with her in time for a drink.

As my mood changed, my anxiety at walking home alone grew. One by one the lights around me disappeared as people pulled their blackout blinds into place. A bedraggled woman on a defense poster warned me,
THERE’S DANGER WHEN PEOPLE TIRE TOO EASILY, WHEN MINDS ARE SLOW TO THINK, WHEN BODIES CAN’T FIGHT DISEASE.
She had that right. But then there was also danger when pausing too long to read signs. There weren’t many cars on the road, but I still kept my ear trained to every tire humming against wet pavement in case Edgar, disappointed with the files, should decide to host another impromptu meeting. Each time a vehicle came my way, I receded into the shadows of awnings long since extinguished of their shop light. I was feeling pretty self-congratulatory about my attempts at safety when a hand locked on my shoulder.

“Ruby Priest?” asked a male voice.

I shrugged the hand off and prepared to bash my purse into the head of whoever was behind me. “You’re got the wrong dame, pal.”

His footsteps ended, along with his pursuit. “I’m terribly sorry. Please don’t be afraid. You look like someone I know.”

I took a few steps back and turned to meet my companion. Henry Nussbaum, Fake Fielding’s first suspect and the head of the New York Office of War Information, stood with his palms extended to assure me he wasn’t a threat.

He shook his head. “I must tell you, the likeness is uncanny.”

That’s right—I’d told him I was Ruby the day I visited him at his
office. “It should be because I’m her. I mean me. I’m me.” If I could’ve subtly smacked myself, I would’ve. “I’m sorry, Mr. Nussbaum, you scared the skin off me and a girl can’t be too careful.”

“Of course. I understand.” He removed a pair of leather gloves the mild weather had declared unnecessary. “I must say this is serendipitous. I was just thinking I should give you a call. Of course, then I realized I didn’t have a way of contacting you.”

“Sorry about that.” Was he following me? I hadn’t told him where I lived, or, rather, where Ruby Priest lived. Perhaps the name alone had been enough information to track me down. “Why were you thinking about calling me?”

“After you left my office, I became intrigued by our conversation. Did this imposter ever find what he was looking for?”

I took care not to pause, bouldering forward before he’d put the period on his sentence. “I’m not sure. After I saw you I decided it was probably best I stay out of his business.”

“That was wise.”

I struggled to recall what else I’d told him, but the rush of things I’d queered over the past few weeks became tangled, making it impossible for me to remember what I’d told whom. If this continued, I’d have to start writing things down.

“It was nice to see you,” I said, “but I should probably go.”

He tucked his gloves into the crook of his arm. “May I walk with you?”

He seemed safe enough, but as Jayne’s experience proved, one couldn’t be too careful. I’d make sure we kept to Seventh Avenue, close to the road, and at the first sign of funny business, I’d sing until my lungs popped.

“Sure,” I said.

We took the first block in silence while Nussbaum batted about whatever question had led him to me in the first place. Despite the temperate evening, I began to shiver. I buried my hands in my pockets and still my body shook.

We came to a traffic signal and stood waiting until the light changed.
As though this were the permission he’d been waiting for, Nussbaum cleared his throat and came to his point. “After you left, I did a little research on Raymond Fielding. I’m embarrassed the name hadn’t rung a bell when you first brought it to my attention.”

“Did you know him?” I asked.

He continued forward, his stride so long I had to jog to catch up to him. “I knew of him.” Nussbaum pursed his lips in imitation of someone mulling something over. “Given Mr. Fielding’s background, I’m wondering if the missing item in question might be a play?”

I almost snorted at this belated revelation but decided it would be more appropriate to nod seriously. “Could be. So why do you think this imposter claimed you were the one person who would know where this missing item was?”

He removed his hat and studied the brim. “Perhaps he believed that the play or whatever it contained is something dangerous. If something controversial is being circulated, ours is one of the first organizations contacted.”

“But he didn’t say the Office of War Information; he said your name.”

He returned his hat to his head. “I’m the New York regional director of the OWI. It’s only natural that my name has become synonymous with the organization.”

We came to another four-way intersection and paused until the pedestrian light beckoned us forward. Nussbaum plowed ahead, in the direction of the Shaw House. I darted in front of him to block his path. “You know what—this is my stop. Thanks for the company and the conversation. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” I spun around and headed toward the House.

“How’s the acting career going, Miss Priest?”

I froze. Had I told him I was an actress? Even if I hadn’t, it wouldn’t take a master spy to turn up the career of the real Ruby Priest. “Better than detecting, that’s for sure.”

“You know, the OWI creates its own projects from time to time for radio and film. If you’re interested, I might be able to send some work your way.”

Was he trying to bribe me? Why? “Thanks, but I’m doing pretty good on my own.”

“Are you in anything right now?”

If he knew what Ruby did for a living, he probably also knew if she was cast in something. I turned back to him and feigned a stumble to buy myself time. What if he had more than a passing interest in Fielding? Could he be connected to Edgar and Eloise, sent in their stead to find out what the files couldn’t tell them?

“As a matter of fact, I’m doing a show at People’s Theatre. I’ve just come from a rehearsal there.” He didn’t respond in any way to the news, which meant he probably already knew this but didn’t know the particulars of the show being produced.

“What’s the name of the play?”

I fluttered my lashes and played the coquette. “I’m not allowed to say, and truth be told, you probably wouldn’t have heard of it. It’s never been produced before.”

He nodded, then turned in the direction we’d come from. “I might have to come see it. I’ve always enjoyed obscure theater.”

I went inside and skulked up to my room. The encounter with Nussbaum left a bad taste in my mouth that I didn’t think a martini could wash away. There was something rotten about him, but he’d managed to pull off our conversation without tipping his hand. In fact, the only thing that didn’t add up was how he’d managed to find me.

I abandoned my plan to meet up with Jayne and instead climbed into bed and nursed my irritation with Cab Calloway and back issues of
Variety
. Churchill joined me, risking closeness in exchange for warmth. As he lay long against my side, I found myself resisting the urge to stroke him. I had been much too long without human companionship if I found myself fighting friendly impulses toward a feline.

As I read about auditions that had already happened and productions that had opened and closed, my eyes grew heavy and I began to nod off.
Just before my face met the pillow, a knock sounded at the door.

I snapped up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Churchill sprang from my body as though I were the ugliest girl at school and he feared his friends were about to catch us together. “Come in,” I said to my visitor.

Ruby slinked through the door and closed it behind her. “Are you alone?”

Very, very alone. “Just me and the cat.” Churchill shot me a look that made it clear he’d rather not be associated with my company. “What do you want?”

“How was rehearsal?” she asked.

“Canceled. Which you would have known if you’d attended.”

“I had a personal matter to attend to. Why was it canceled?”

Since she showed no sign of leaving, I gave her the rundown on Peter’s latest game.

“That was a mean trick,” she said.

Were we just having a normal conversation? I wasn’t sure. “It may have been mean, but it was ingenious.”

“I hate having my time wasted. He knows that.” I expected her to flounce out of the room, having spent time with me only to find out what she’d missed, but instead of doing so, she curled up on my bed and patted the coverlet to lure Churchill over to her.

“That was the point of the exercise, Rube. And the nice thing is, Peter never does the same thing twice, so we can rest comfortably, knowing this is the last time we’ll be wasting a Friday night for this show, public performances aside.”

Ruby rolled Churchill onto his back. “Did you miss out on anything tonight?”

I hated to admit I had no social life, so I invented plans. “A picture. A drink. The usual.”

Churchill batted at her hair and received a stern reminder that one does not touch Ruby Priest without invitation. “Did your friend catch up with you?”

“What friend?”

“An older gentleman, very handsome. He was lurking outside the building when I got home and asked me if you were around. I told him you were probably still at rehearsal.”

All of my muscles simultaneously stopped functioning. “And he asked for me?”

Ruby fluttered her lashes. “He called you
Rosalind
. In his mouth it was pure poetry.”

My mind zipped about trying to determine how Henry Nussbaum knew I wasn’t Ruby. “Did he ask you anything else about me?”

She kneaded Churchill’s belly until his leg shook with satisfaction. “Just which theater you were at. I gave him directions and he left.”

The photos! He must have called around and found out Ruby lived at the Shaw House, entered the building, and seen the headshots on the wall. Mine identified me by my full name. All he had to do was realize the moniker didn’t match the puss and
poof
—my trick was revealed.

“I have something else I need to tell you,” said Ruby. “Edgar Fielding is dead.”

I shot up so fast Churchill hit the wall. “What?”

“They found his body in Eloise’s apartment this morning. That’s why I wasn’t at rehearsal tonight. The police say it was a single gunshot to the temple.”

For a brief moment I felt glee at Edgar getting his what-for. Almost as quickly as it arrived, it vanished. Edgar may have been a louse, but I didn’t think he had this coming to him. More important, what did this mean? Was Edgar’s murder a random killing, or did we have to assume that while he may have wanted the play, he wasn’t the only one after it?

“Did anything get delivered to their apartment in the last week or so? Say a bunch of crates?”

Ruby shook her head. “Not that I know of, but I wasn’t allowed in his room. The whole apartment was ransacked. Eloise brought me in to help her clean up.”

Eloise wouldn’t have killed her own son for the play; that wouldn’t make sense, especially if the files were missing again. But Nussbaum
might have, or Lawrence Bentley, or—

“Are you all right?” Ruby asked.

“I think I’m getting a cold,” I said.

Her hands flew up to her face to create an impromptu mask. “A cold? Maybe I should go. I would hate to jeopardize the production.”

“Understood,” I said.

Once Ruby was gone, I coaxed Churchill back to my side and burrowed beneath my covers. So the killer was still loose. And the files and the play were still missing. And Fake Fielding was—

“You two make a nice picture.” Jayne entered the room and slung her evening bag onto the dresser. Churchill rose and stretched reverentially. “I thought you had rehearsal tonight?”