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© 2022 Emily Queen

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Half Seas Over

A Red Door Speakeasy & Mrs. Lillywhite Investigates Mystery

Emily Queen

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This short story features characters from both the Mrs. Lillywhite Investigates Mysteries and the Red Door Speakeasy Mysteries.

Although the prologue takes place immediately following “Evil on the High Seas”, the events within occur the previous autumn, after “A Body Among the Roses”.

It does not, however, have to be read in any particular order and does not contain spoilers.

PROLOGUE

The morning sun glinting off the surface of the sea lit New York City in a romantic golden glow that elicited twin sighs from Rosemary Lillywhite and Vera Woolridge—sighs which then, in turn, stoked the fires of their traveling companions’ curiosity.

“Quite a sight, isn’t it?” Frederick Woolridge wrapped his arms around his wife and murmured into her ear, “Though not nearly as beautiful as you.”

The comment brought a smile to Vera’s face and one to Rosemary’s as well—one that only widened when the fourth party member, Desmond Cooper, let out a rather unbecoming snort.

“Don’t let the pristine skyline fool you. When the sun goes down, there’s an underbelly just as seedy as anything we’ve got back home in London,” he warned in a jolly voice incongruous with the warning.

Rosemary sent a sharp elbow to Desmond’s ribs. “We’ve just solved a murder while sailing across the sea. We all know a thing or two about seedy underbellies—particularly that they can be found nearly anywhere.”

“Yes, our high-seas adventure was rife with intrigue,” Desmond capitulated. “But you still haven’t seen anything yet, Rosie.” The warning was given with the same mysterious vagueness Desmond had been peddling since his return from the States a few weeks prior. He’d dangled the carrot in front of his friends and then yanked it away too many times to count. When finally, to Desmond’s chagrin, they refused to continue begging, his game turned into something of a stalemate.

“Are you saying you’ve waited all this time, and now, when we’ve nearly docked and are ready to disembark, you’re willing to tell your story?” Rosemary demanded. Her hands tightened around the ship’s railing, and she tossed him an exasperated glare.

Desmond grinned his devilish grin and nodded. “Don’t worry, it’ll take ages to dock. We’ve plenty of time for my tale of intrigue.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Frederick, who had been Desmond’s best friend since they were children, rolled his eyes in his friend’s direction. “Let’s hear it before we all decide to revolt and chuck you over the edge of the promenade deck.”

Unconcerned with Frederick’s threat, Desmond sat back in his seat and pulled a cigarette from his pocket. “It was a dark and stormy night,” he began, receiving a trio of groans and being forced to duck out of the way of Frederick’s hastily crumpled drinks menu.

“All right, all right. I digress. I’ll tell it to you straight. The truth is, none of the mystery and intrigue would have happened at all if I’d thought to buy myself a map of the city . . .”

CHAPTER 1

NOBODY WITH A lick of sense would be out wandering the streets of New York so late in the evening, particularly with no clue as to which areas of the city he ought to avoid. Unfortunately, Desmond had been so full of self-pity and misplaced resentment, he didn’t realize he’d overshot his destination by at least a couple of stops until he’d exited the train and watched it pull away from the platform.

Desmond figured his aunt’s hotel shouldn’t be too difficult to find, especially since he’d been under the impression all of Manhattan was aligned to a grid—except, there went Broadway, zigging past Seventh Avenue at an odd angle to bisect the streets in a most untidy fashion.

Instead of the clean white buildings he’d been expecting, dingy tenement housing sagged on either side of the narrow street, illuminated only by the full moon and the dim tendrils of light snaking from the occasional electric lamp. The acrid stench of refuse assaulted his nose, and Desmond realized he’d most definitely wound up in the wrong part of town.

For all of it, he blamed Amelia, the object of his distraction.

Theirs had been a whirlwind romance. Desmond, convinced she was the one, had jumped in with a gusto only matched by hers for him. It had felt like a wonderful dream, and he’d swept her away on his next adventure without a worry in his heart.

They’d spent the trip across the Atlantic as in love as any other couple on board the ship. Plied with sumptuous food, attentive service, and luxurious accommodations, Desmond perused the jewelry shop for diamond engagement rings with his trigger finger close to his billfold. The infatuation only grew during their Caribbean layover, though now he thought perhaps a surplus of potent rum might have prolonged his naivete on that count—rum and a string of sultry nights set to the beat of calypso music.

No, it was the train ride across what felt to Desmond like a barren wasteland between Savannah, Georgia, and the Hollywood hills that dampened his desire for the girl. Perhaps the intolerable weather—first stiflingly humid, then later, a heat so dry he felt like a hollowed-out husk—had played a role. Regardless, discomfort turned to irritation, and both parties abandoned all efforts at geniality. The passion that had felt as though it might last a lifetime fizzled like a wet match.

Not even the cool Delta Breeze of southern California was enough to revive the romance, and when Desmond’s aunt declared in no uncertain terms that Amelia was not a good fit for the family, he took the opportunity to disentangle himself. The feeling of relief lasted all the way up until Amelia expressed a similar emotion rather than the disappointment he’d expected.

However, that bit of information wasn’t something he was prepared to share with his friends—Frederick would never let him live it down! Rather, he would play off the breakup as a mutual relief, but the truth was rejection in any form stung, particularly for a man such as Desmond, who rarely felt its prick.

All the way back across the country—the northern route, thank heavens, he’d never been happier to see snow in all his life—Desmond had sulked. He felt used up and thrown over (never mind he’d been the one to initiate the split) and worse, humiliated. His pride had taken a beating, and since he was traveling alone, there was nobody around to tell him to either buck up or shut up.

“How did I end up all the way down here?” he asked out loud to nobody in particular. Had he been in a nicer part of town where the conventions of polite society were more strictly followed, Desmond’s outburst might have been ignored by passersby—but he wasn’t in a better part of town, and he was starting to think he might never make it to the hotel at all.

“Kept going too far south, by the sounds of it.” Desmond heard the sarcastic answer to his obviously rhetorical question, dropped the heavy suitcase he’d been lugging, and whirled around to find its source. A nondescript man of medium height wearing a khaki trench coat peered at him from beneath the brim of a coordinating bowler hat.

“Thanks,” Desmond replied curtly, “that’s bloody helpful.”

The stranger’s eyebrow quirked. “Not from around here, are ya?” he asked.

“What was your first clue?” Desmond snapped. It felt good to verbally blow off some steam, and he considered that he might have been wrong about polite society after all. Perhaps it was highly overrated, as many popular notions tended to be.

“I can tell you where you need to go, for a price,” the man said, adopting a wheedling tone and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “I know every street in this city.”

The scrappy boy inside Desmond wanted to make a snide comment and storm off, but the lamps had become fewer and further between, and the road was now so narrow the light of the moon barely reached the ground between the buildings on either side. Shadows pooled, inky enough to provide adequate cover should one wish to conceal oneself.

At that moment, standing there wondering who else might be lurking nearby, Desmond thought he’d hit rock bottom. In fact, he would have felt it quite impossible to sink any lower, but unfortunately, he was just then poised to discover there were further depths to plumb.

“I’m trying to find,” Desmond pulled his billfold from his pocket and fished out a slip of paper, “The Plaza Hotel, on 59th Street and Fifth Avenue.”

It didn’t occur to him that mentioning an expensive hotel while flashing around any amount of cash in a bad neighborhood probably wasn’t the best idea he’d ever had until it was too late.

“Like I said, for a price,” the man repeated, his words much harder now than they had been before. He lifted his hand, still inside his jacket pocket, and Desmond could make out the shape of a gun.

“Hand it over. All of it.”

CHAPTER 2

FOR A MOMENT, Desmond simply stared at his assailant. Was the man bluffing or was he serious? When the mugger gestured impatiently, Desmond decided a handful of bills certainly wasn’t worth taking a bullet over, and he would be wise to err on the side of caution. By now, he vehemently wished he’d listened to his manners and continued on his way before it had come down to this.

“Take it,” he replied breathlessly, thrusting the money towards his would-be attacker.

The man smiled serenely, took the cash with his free hand, stuffed it in his other pocket, and picked up Desmond’s suitcase. “You want to go that way.” He pointed down a street so dark Desmond could only see a few feet ahead and stalked off in the other direction, cackling all the way.

When he recounted the tale to his friends, Desmond decided he would also leave out the part where his ears buzzed and he thought he might soil his drawers. Better to skip ahead to when, after two endless blocks, he finally gathered the nerve to check his back. Blessedly, the mugger had gone, so Desmond took the opportunity to duck down a side street, stop, and attempt to locate his bearings.

More lost now than ever, Desmond’s breath came out of his mouth in billowing plumes, the chill of the mid-November air and the fog-like mist rising out of the sewer grates reminding him of home. What he wouldn’t give to be back in foggy old London, tucked up in his cozy bed, safe and sound!

Up ahead, he noticed a flickering light—a curious red one, he determined upon squinting—and set off, attempting to leave the harrowing mugging incident behind him. Whatever was in front of him simply must be an improvement, Desmond told himself optimistically.

He had to turn right to reach the source of the glow, which emanated from the mouth of an alleyway a few paces ahead on the opposite side of the street. Curious, he hurried in that direction, the light growing brighter as he approached. When he rounded the corner, Desmond realized the glow came from a neon sign mounted between two buildings. Despite most of the letters being unlit, Desmond could make out the words Red Door Antiquities & More.

His heart sank. Surely such a shop wouldn’t be open at this time of night. But then, why was the sign still on if the place was closed? It seemed to matter little, as he didn’t see an entrance, or even a door at all, red or otherwise—just a wrought-iron gate and a swath of vines that looked to be growing out of the bricks of the building on the right-hand side.

It wasn’t until he approached, tentatively, that he realized the opening to the antiquities shop was set into the building’s facade, almost completely hidden by the foliage. The door was indeed, as promised, a cheery cherry color that no more brightened his mood than did the dark interior of the shop.

In front of him, the gate hung slightly ajar and squeaked on its hinges. Desmond hesitated before opening it somewhat further and peeking around the side of the building. To his surprise, he discovered a large enclosed courtyard1 of attached buildings lit by electric lamps. The space was clear of debris, smelled faintly of motor oil instead of refuse, and appeared well-kept. Desmond felt a rush of relief; perhaps he’d managed to wander into a better part of the city after all.

To his left was a building Desmond thought looked residential—as he would say, a block of flats—with rows of windows lining each of its four floors. It spanned the entire length of the courtyard, broken only by a gated exit wide and tall enough to fit an automobile, cut through the center portion of the first and second stories.

To his right, on the far right corner of the block, stood another structure that, after squinting to read the unlit sign facing the opposite direction, Desmond concluded was an auto body shop. Cars in various states of disrepair squatted in front of the vacant-looking building running perpendicular, between it and the antiquities shop.

He had hit a dead end, Desmond realized, his spirits plummeting once again. There wasn’t a soul in sight, but Desmond didn’t need anyone to tell him the courtyard was a private area where he didn’t belong. He could figure that one out all on his own. The irony that he was now the one prowling around when only minutes before, he’d been worried about who might be doing the same did not escape him, nor did it amuse. What would happen if he was caught trespassing?

Desmond pushed the unpleasant thought from his mind and did one final appraisal of the area, this time noticing a third gate, straight ahead in an alcove between the apartment building and body shop.

That gate, too, was ajar, and he could make out an assortment of rubbish bins lined up on the other side. Later, he wouldn’t be able to say what exactly it was that caught his eye, but Desmond felt compelled to inch closer. Reaching the gate, he made out what looked like a prone figure and could no longer deny that something was very wrong. Desmond’s heart had made its way to his throat, and he was forced to try and swallow it back down along with the inclination to scream like a frightened child.

When a gray tiger-striped cat mewed and hopped down from the top of one of the rubbish bins, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Usually, his friend Rosemary was the one who stumbled across the dead bodies, but it seemed in America, Desmond possessed the unfortunate luck. In fact, he was beginning to think the whole country would prefer he turn around and head back across the pond!

But dead the woman was, though only recently by the look of her. She could have been anywhere between fifty and seventy-five. Desmond never had been able to guess a woman’s age with any sort of accuracy and had learned it was better not to bother trying. He sent up a silent thank you to whichever deity had seen to her closed eyes because had they been open, he wasn’t sure he would have managed to maintain his composure.

Desmond looked up, couldn’t see very far beyond the reach of the lamps, but decided it didn’t much matter. It was plain as day the woman had fallen from a height—most likely, from atop the roof overhead. Had she simply been dead, that might have been one thing, but the bodice of her dress was ripped, revealing a set of deep scratches slashed across her collarbone. Coupled with the aforementioned closed eyes and the swinging gate, Desmond had a sneaking suspicion the woman had been murdered.

He heard the by-now unmistakable click of a revolver before he realized anyone had come up behind him. He caught a whiff of ladies’ perfume—mingled with the scents of smoke, whisky, and something sweet he couldn’t identify—before the lady wearing it stepped into a shaft of light created by the flickering overhead lamp.

Her eyes were hard and black as onyx yet framed by faint lines, suggesting this was a woman who laughed often. The spattering of freckles across a delicate nose reminded Desmond of a fairy or a sprite. A halo of strawberry-blond hair piled atop her head was tied back with a navy-blue bandanna, a few curly tendrils dipping in front of her face.

Desmond’s gaze traveled south, where a skirt fell just a couple of inches above a pair of knee-high boots and revealed a tantalizing strip of milky thigh. He became acutely aware that this was no lady, at least not in any sense of the word as he had previously understood it. He’d have been less surprised to find her frolicking through the woods barefoot than in a dank alleyway, yet she appeared quite comfortable in her surroundings.

The thought that now wasn’t the time to develop a crush crossed his mind (she could be the murderer for all he knew) and it was abundantly clear that the intriguing creature standing before him wasn’t having any of it, anyhow. There was no hope of a bluff this time; it was definitely a gun she held in her grasp, and something in her expression told Desmond she’d have no problem using it.

She raised an eyebrow and, her American accent a hot knife through butter, asked archly, “So, is this a shootout, or are you just happy to see me?”

CHAPTER 3

DESMOND’S EYES FLICKED down sheepishly, and he was relieved to discover her words merely metaphor.

“Apologies, my lady,” he said politely, hoping a bit of British charm might soften the woman’s demeanor. Before the words had fully left his lips, Desmond realized that wasn’t to be the case, as she appeared not to have a softer side at all. Her face was set in stone, cheekbones slashing towards her hairline, eyes filled with suspicion.

Desmond wondered how he, a wealthy Englishman with enough manners, grooming, and pedigree to rival any lord’s, had wound up skulking the back alleys of New York City. Staring down the barrel of a Derringer pistol, he realized he was about to be shot by one of the most attractive women he’d ever seen in real life. How disappointing to meet his end by way of a missed subway stop, a sub-par mugger, and a misunderstanding.

He realized he’d been silent for too long a moment when the woman demanded, “Answer me now because I won’t ask again—what are you doing sneaking around back here? It’s a little late for window shopping, and you missed the entrance by half a block.”

“I’m not sneaking around, and I’m not shopping either,” Desmond replied sheepishly. “My name is Desmond Cooper, and I’m simply lost. I just need to get to The Plaza. It’s on 59th and Fifth, which is apparently in an entirely different city altogether. I am still in New York, aren’t I?”

“You’re British,” the woman said, and Desmond wasn’t sure if it was a question or simply a statement.

He stifled a sigh. “Yes, a fact that’s been pointed out to me rather impolitely already. Isn’t everybody in this city a foreigner, after all? I’m traveling with my ailing auntie, if it makes you feel any better,” he said when it became clear she wasn’t going to accept less than the truth in its entirety. “I’ve come to collect her from the hotel and escort her back to London.”

The woman cocked her head as she considered his veracity.

“Getting lost among hooligans was never part of my plan, and might I also add that whatever happened here,” Desmond gestured towards the dead woman, “occurred before my arrival. She’s been dead for at least an hour, although my authority to judge is tenuous at best.”

Her expression unwavering, she kept the gun pointed at him for a long moment. Her eyes, however, took in every nuance of his face before roaming the rest of his body so thoroughly Desmond’s cheeks pinked. Suddenly, he felt completely exposed, as though she could see not only through his clothes but also his skin and bones and perhaps into his very soul.

“You’re either the stupidest criminal to ever exist, or you’re just a poor, unlucky sap.”

“I’m no criminal, and you’ve got the poor part wrong as well, but frankly, I’m inclined to agree with the unlucky sap assessment. I’ve only been in this city for half a moment, and already I’ve been mugged, had my life threatened, and come across a dead body.”

The woman lowered the gun, gestured with it for Desmond to relax—a notion he considered something of an oxymoron indeed—and said, “Welcome to New York. It’s nice to meet you, Desmond Cooper. I’m Imogene.” She didn’t offer a last name or a hand, so Desmond merely shrugged and lowered his from their position of surrender.

“Who is she?” he asked, indicating the body.

When Imogene looked down at the dead woman, her jaw tightened, and her eyes filled with regret. “Her name was Matilda Fisher. She’s a tenant in the building, a washerwoman by trade, and a friend. She grew the sweetest cherry tomatoes I’ve ever tasted.”

Desmond’s eyebrow quirked at the last comment, which was delivered in such a way that he wondered whether it was the woman or the tomatoes Imogene most regretted losing. Shaking his head to rid himself of the unkind thought, he offered the standard condolence.

“I’m sorry for your loss. Do you know who might want to murder the poor lady?”

If he thought she would be scandalized by the idea that the death wasn’t accidental, he was wrong. In fact, Imogene appeared entirely nonplussed by the insinuation. Her raised brow, he suspected, had more to do with him having come to the conclusion as quickly as he had. “It’s not my first dead body,” he said by way of explanation.

“Nor is it mine,” Imogene replied dryly.

“Hadn’t we better call the police?” Desmond wanted to know, then watched her eyes roll skyward in an impatient gesture.

She said, “We won’t be doing anything. You’d do well to get yourself uptown to that fancy hotel just as fast as your legs will carry you, and don’t look back. This is a private matter.”

Desmond began to protest, but Imogene interrupted, “The police won’t care if this was murder. You can take my word on that all the way to the bank and cash it twice.”

“I’m not going anywhere until I know the situation has been handled properly. I’ve told you too much about myself.” Desmond realized he ought to have been more discreet and less trusting and cursed his chivalrous nature. “You could call the police, give them my name and hotel information, and have me arrested!” He crossed his arms resolutely and planted himself in her path.

Imogene peered at him for a few long moments, considering, until Desmond added, “Either shoot me or explain what the hell is going on around here.”

He swallowed hard as her gaze flicked to the gun at her side, thinking that perhaps he’d finally overplayed his hand.

Imogene gave Desmond one last long look and tucked the Derringer into the leg of her boot. “You’re not a teetotaler, are you?” she asked, “or some kind of bluenose?”

The question, one he’d hardly expected, tickled his sense of whimsy and caused Desmond to let out an involuntary burst of laughter. “Furthest thing from,” he replied, his brow settling back into a furrowed position. “Although, where I come from, we don’t normally hoist a glass to murder.”

“Come on.” She ignored his remark and instead strode back towards the gate leading to the alleyway, indicating for him to follow.

He swallowed hard and did as he was bid, thinking no man in his right mind would have refused to do the same. It seemed the threat to his life had done more to stoke the fires of his curiosity than it had to dampen them, and he suspected Imogene had that effect on most men.

“What you’re about to see will make us square, ensure our mutual destruction should either of us breathe a word of the other’s involvement. I’m choosing to trust you, though quite frankly, I’ve no idea why.” She sounded genuinely miffed.

If he were being honest, Desmond wasn’t quite sure why he trusted her, either, but he suspected it went beyond a knee-jerk attraction.

They would both ponder the notion at length, privately, later on.

CHAPTER 4

SURPRISINGLY, THE DOOR to the shop was unlocked, but when he stepped inside, Desmond realized it was only an entrance vestibule rather than the shop proper. Rather than entering the set of double doors emblazoned with Red Door Antiquities, Imogene instead turned left, toward an empty wall butting against the courtyard side.

With purpose, she ran a finger along the trim that capped off the wainscoting until the questing digit found a particular knot in the wood. Leaning closer, Desmond noted the center of the knot carried a tiny carving of a door. Imogene pressed the knot, and to Desmond’s surprise, the wall opened up to reveal a hidden passageway. “Follow me,” she said, a twinkle in her eye. Up a set of narrow stairs they went, a sense of trepidation causing Desmond to wonder if he ought to have followed his libido after all!

As they climbed, the air itself began to vibrate, and he could hear a faint tinkling sound emanating from the walls. Imogene made a slight left at the top landing and approached another door. This one listed heavily to one side, reminding Desmond of some of London’s elderly architecture, and featured a pixie-sized red door set at face height.

Imogene knocked, received no answer, and let out a harrumph. Then, to Desmond’s surprise, she reached around the molding, fiddled with something—he assumed another button or lever—and the door popped open. Immediately, the sounds of a raucous party met his ears. Imogene smiled and beckoned him inside.

His eyes widened to saucers, which she noticed but politely ignored. Desmond wasn’t the first to have been surprised at what he found on the other side of the red door, but as his gaze traveled around the room, he appeared to be one of the most appreciative.

Mismatched crystal chandeliers with nearly as many broken bulbs as the neon sign out front hung from a pressed-tin ceiling. They flickered in time to the music—a jaunty jazz tune played by a trio of African-American men occupying a stage at the far end—and lit the space with a low, seductive glow. Velvet-covered booths provided ample privacy for those who desired it, while various chairs and tables, all covered in gleaming black paint, crowded the center of the space for those who preferred to see and be seen.

Of course, the piѐce de résistance was the U-shaped bar set into the near corner. More teacups than Desmond, a lifelong Londoner, had ever seen were everywhere: resting on tabletops, hanging on hooks, and stacked in precariously tall piles behind the cherrywood bar top. Some people sipped daintily while others threw their drinks back with gusto, and even while he stood watching, the faint tinkling of broken china reached his ears.

Around the room, a half dozen bleach blond girls clad in scandalously short skirts shimmied and shook for the crowd. One of them caught Desmond’s gaze and smiled flirtatiously. “Bloody hell,” he boomed. “I’ve heard of such places, of course, but hardly thought I’d ever have a chance to visit an actual speakeasy!”

“I think you’re missing the point,” Imogene said lightly, to which he responded by blanching and lowering his voice an octave. “It’s marvelous!”

Behind the bar, a spitfire of a woman wearing a man’s waistcoat over a sleeveless, low-cut dress handed shots of whisky to a trio of eager customers. When she caught sight of Imogene, her brow furrowed, and she raised her voice above the din, “What are you doing here? I told you, I have everything under control.”

Imogene smiled thinly and continued to weave her way through the throng, Desmond on her heels, his mouth agape. He’d never seen anyone with an arm covered in tattoos, and certainly not a woman! He didn’t know exactly what to make of the barkeep, but he snapped his mouth closed and tried to appear as though her appearance wasn’t as intriguing as it was surprising.

“Unfortunately, I’ll have to beg to differ,” Imogene replied grimly. “Everything is certainly not under control. Desmond here needs a bourbon. Why don’t you pour him one and ask Zeke to clear out the bar.”

“Wish I could,” the tattooed barkeep said with a shake of her head that traveled far enough south of her chin to turn the tips of Desmond’s ears a delicate shade of pink. For the second time in one evening, he found himself inexplicably stimulated. “But he’s not back yet; that’s why nobody’s covering the door. What’s with you, anyway? Who died?”

It only took a moment—and one glance at Imogene’s startled face—for her to realize her gaffe. “Oh, no. It’s not Zeke, is it? Is that why he’s late?”

“It’s not Zeke,” Imogene assured, her expression less than comforting, “but I’m afraid it’s time to give them all the bum’s rush. Flip the switch—just blue, they’re not on their way. Not yet.”

Nodding gravely, the barkeep turned around and reached beneath the edge of the island in the center of the bar. She pulled an electrical lever mounted there that Desmond would never have noticed otherwise, and the lights, already dim, switched to blue in a flash. Twice more, she plunged the room into near-darkness, while Imogene called out, “Closing time! You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. Chug your giggle water and then get out—we’ll take your money tomorrow instead! Tell the guy at the door that Larry sent you.”

Amid a chorus of reluctant exclamations, patrons gulped their drinks, rose from their chairs, and quickly gathered their things. With far less fanfare than he expected, they deposited their empty cups on the edge of the bar and filed out a rear door Desmond had hardly noticed during his initial perusal of the space. He wondered where it led—perhaps to another secret passageway!—and hoped he’d get the chance to find out.

Meanwhile, Imogene picked up the telephone receiver and engaged in a brief conversation. She then filled two teacups with amber liquid, handed one to Desmond and downed hers in one gulp, leaving him no choice but to do the same.

Raw spirits burned a path from his mouth to his belly and threatened to set up camp there. Desmond’s eyes watered and he sucked in a couple of deep breaths to refrain from coughing.

“Potent,” he said. A mild understatement that brought a quick smile to the barkeep’s face.

She set about closing up while Desmond watched with avid interest. Bottles of booze went into a set of compartments hidden in the floor, which seemed, while secure, not exactly sanitary. He supposed it didn’t matter much, given the liquor itself tasted like utter swill and was at least 180 proof.

Giving Tuesday a nod, Imogene walked across to grab the corner of an upright piano that sat against one wall. Desmond took a step forward to give aid, then stopped as Imogene needed only one hand to swing the instrument out and away.

“It’s on rollers,” she said when she glanced back to see Desmond transfixed by the sight.

More booze went into racks cleverly concealed in the piano’s false back, and with the same ease, she pushed it back into place.

It only took a couple of minutes for the place to empty. “Night, Imogene,” one of the last stragglers called out, waving a friendly hand. Imogene waved back distractedly and locked the door behind him, even though one gentleman still remained firmly seated at the end of the bar. His beady eyes never left Desmond’s face, and, despite being no spring chicken, he didn’t look like someone with whom Desmond wanted to tussle.

Imogene nodded in the man’s direction and made introductions. “Ray, this is Desmond Cooper, a new acquaintance of mine,” she said, forcing Desmond to suppress a laugh at the word ‘acquaintance.’ He supposed he didn’t have a better one for someone with whom he’d just discovered a murder, but it struck him as funny all the same. Perhaps he was delirious with shock and stress, or maybe it was the way Imogene had said his name, her lips curling around its syllables as though savoring a fine wine.

“Desmond, meet Ray Battle, the landlord of this fine establishment. And this is Tuesday,” she said. “Tuesday manages the bar, along with my exceedingly high expectations.”

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Tuesday drawled in such a tone Desmond had no idea whether she was being facetious or truly condescending.

“What’s the meaning of this?” the man named Ray wanted to know, gesturing around the empty speakeasy, his suspicious gaze coming to rest upon Desmond once more.

“Relax, Ray, he’s a good egg.” The look she tossed at Desmond told him he’d better not make a liar out of her. “And he isn’t the problem.” Imogene quickly explained what had happened to Matilda Fisher.

All the color seemed to drain out of Tuesday’s face and then rise up to settle on the landlord’s cheeks. “You’re sure it wasn’t just an accident?” the barkeep asked, her voice thin and devoid of any emotion resembling her earlier humor. “Who would want to kill Tillie?”

Ray set his drink down on the bar top, hard. “She was an odd bird, but she wouldn’t have hurt a fly,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. Embarrassed, he cleared his throat and continued gruffly. “Probably an intruder—a thief, looking for something valuable to hock. I told you those baubles of yours would cause nothing but trouble. You ought to—”

Imogene cut him off impatiently. “It’s not negotiable, Ray, so let’s focus on the matter at hand. No, Tuesday, I’m sure it wasn’t just an accident, and even if it had been, the police are likely to assume the worst.”

“You think they’ll try to pin the crime on someone in the building?” Tuesday’s voice came out in a squeak.

“Of course they will,” Ray boomed, “and for good reason, because it was probably one of those charity cases you’re always taking in.”

At that, Imogene turned to the landlord. “Which is it, then?” she asked, exasperated. “An intruder or one of our friends?” When he declined to answer and instead clapped his mouth closed, she sighed. “None of this is helping. We’ve no choice but to call the police. Tillie has family who will be looking for her, and she was our friend. We have an obligation to do her right.”

What, exactly, Desmond wondered, would have constituted doing her wrong? Who were these people, and what had he gotten himself into? The thought that he wasn’t in London anymore returned to flicker over his head like the neon light in front of Imogene’s shop. No respectable lady in his family’s society set would have spoken to a man—and certainly not her landlord—with such brazen dismissal.

It seemed that here in New York, everything was turned on its ear, and yet, he found himself impressed by Imogene’s unapologetic attitude and more intrigued than he’d care to admit.

But then again, Desmond had always been drawn to strong and fearless women. It was just too bad that wasn’t the type of woman most usually drawn to him.

CHAPTER 5

IMOGENE INSTRUCTED TUESDAY to wait inside the speakeasy. After five minutes, she was to phone the police, giving time for what, exactly, Desmond wasn’t certain. Buoyed by the potent bourbon—certainly stronger than anything found back home, though he wasn’t sure that was a good thing—he wondered rather than worried over that question while trailing Imogene and Ray back through the secret passageway, up the stairs, and into the alleyway.

The neon sign’s light caught his eye again, and with an internal groan, he realized the working letters weren’t random. The vertical portion of the t was lit, as well as the iqu of ‘antiquities’ and the or of ‘more.’ When read together, the sign spelled out liquor. It was quite ingenious, he had to admit, a code for patrons looking to wet their whistles despite the stringent and, in his mind, unnecessary rules of prohibition.

A man, who neither Imogene nor Ray seemed surprised to see, crouched beside the body. When he heard the sound of their approach, the man looked up, his face etched with resigned sadness. Though quickly approaching middle age, Desmond suspected his female friends would consider the man quite attractive.

“She fell,” he said simply and took a deep breath. “However, you were correct. It wasn’t an accident. There are signs of a struggle, I’m sorry to say.”

Imogene grimaced and replied, “Thank you, Colin,” and then absently made introductions. “Dr. Colin Graves lives in the apartment building, just a few doors down from Tillie.”

Evidently, she considered this neighbor beyond suspicion as well, which started Desmond’s wheels turning. He must have been on the other end of the phone call from the bar.

“Who had access to the roof,” he interjected, surprising himself, “apart from the people who live in this block of flats?” His eyebrow quirked in the doctor’s direction.

Imogene’s lip quirked into what might have been a half smile under different circumstances, and she laid a hand on Desmond’s shoulder. The familiar gesture caught him off-guard.

“Colin is one of the good guys,” she said reassuringly. “I’ll vouch for him.”

Desmond wasn’t convinced. He wasn’t even confident Imogene was one of the good guys, but who was he to argue? Such folly wouldn’t get him anywhere, anyway, and he suspected she would chew him up and spit him out if he tried.

“Is it possible an outsider could have got in without being noticed?” Desmond asked instead. “What was she doing on the roof at this hour, to begin with?” He fired off questions, feeling a bit like Chief Inspector Max Whittington of the London police, and the idea vexed him. Despite the fact that the good inspector looked to end up with the woman of Desmond’s dreams, he decided there were worse men to emulate—another thought he’d keep to himself—and crossed his arms resolutely, waiting for a reply.

He got one from Ray, and just in time, as far as Desmond was concerned. He was beginning to wonder why the landlord had kept so quiet. It was almost as if he wasn’t actually in charge at all. Now, however, he seemed to have something to say, although it wasn’t as helpful as Desmond had hoped.

“You’re asking a lot of questions for someone who just happened upon the scene of the crime. It seems an uncanny coincidence, doesn’t it?” Had he a mustache, Desmond thought the fellow might have twirled it around his index finger.

Imogene shushed Ray before Desmond could reply, and Desmond thought steam might literally pour out of the man’s nose and ears. “He couldn’t have done it, Ray. I found her before he did, and if you could have seen the look on his face, you’d know he was just as shocked as I was. You don’t have to trust him, but you should know you can trust me. If you can’t, we’ll need to have a longer conversation.”

Whatever hold it was Imogene had over Ray was strong because he capitulated easily and took a step back. Half of Desmond hoped he’d be around to figure out their dynamic, and the other half wished to wash his hands of the whole situation and retire to his luxury suite at The Plaza.

Imogene explained. “I suppose someone could have come in from outside. The tenants’ entrance isn’t as difficult to find as the Red Door, but it’s nearly as secure. We take every precaution, of course, given the circumstances.”

“Perhaps not,” Desmond retorted before he had the sense to censor his words.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Imogene demanded, her eyes narrowing to slits.

“Well,” he replied slowly, “you run an illegal establishment, which means there are all sorts of nefarious characters hanging around. The gate was open when I arrived; could not the door have been left unsecured as well?”

He could see the internal struggle taking place inside Imogene, and he thought perhaps he’d overstepped his bounds. Thankfully, Dr. Graves, whose veneer remained intact despite Desmond’s lightly veiled accusation, stepped in and diffused the tension.

“If she’ll permit me to speak for her just this once, I believe Imogene would like you to understand that her customers might be breaking the law, but they’re not criminals. They’re people like you who just want a cold drink after a long day.” He turned to Imogene then with a sideways nod. “On the other hand, it isn’t as though everyone who frequents this alleyway is beyond suspicion.”

His gaze was a meaningful prod in Imogene’s direction, another nuance that Desmond didn’t understand, but she relented. When it seemed she was unlikely to reach for her gun again, he relaxed infinitesimally but vowed to remember just how touchy she could be.

Doctor Graves, who Desmond had softened somewhat towards, explained. “Tillie was up there overwintering the gardens. Something about the light of the full moon—I didn’t catch all of it, but I saw her head up around half past eight after I’d returned from my shift at the clinic.”

Desmond checked his watch and noted it was near-on midnight. “I got off the subway at ten on the dot, and it was somewhere between half ten and quarter to eleven when I arrived in front of the Red Door. I reckon she’d been dead about an hour, but I’ll leave that to your expertise,” he explained, looking to Dr. Graves for confirmation.

He didn’t hesitate but sighed heavily. “I’d say you’re near-on. Indeed I may have been the last to see Tillie alive,” Dr. Graves said nervously. “Besides the murderer, of course.”

“None of us believe you’re responsible,” Imogene assured, her gaze landing pointedly on Desmond. He wanted to protest, but trust appeared, for the moment, to be the status quo. Left with little choice, Desmond decided if he was in for a penny, he had to be in for a pound.

“Where was everyone between nine and ten?”

The first to explain was Dr. Graves, who said, “I went straight to my apartment, alone, unfortunately. I did speak to a friend on the telephone for some time. I’m sure he would corroborate.”

Tuesday’s voice seemed to come out of nowhere, surprising Desmond. “I was behind the bar, mostly. Today’s Thursday, and you know how Thursdays can be.” She nodded towards Imogene to indicate her request had been completed and the police were on their way.

“I was in the body shop,” Ray announced, “collecting the evening deposit. When I got back, I went to the Red Door. I can vouch for Tuesday. She didn’t leave the bar.”

Tuesday’s head swiveled sharply in Ray’s direction, and she nodded in thanks.

“And I,” Imogene declared, “had just come back from a lecture at the Natural History Museum. The gate was open because I left it that way when I saw Tillie lying there.”

“That’s everyone in the building,” Ray pointed out. “Unless anyone seriously suspects old Mrs. White or one of the Gillespies. Except, of course, for the kid, who never arrived for his shift. I think the conclusion is quite an obvious one. Even you, Genie, must be able to see it.”

Desmond didn’t have the first clue about any of the people mentioned, but the shift-missing kid, whoever he was, sounded like a viable suspect. In that respect, he agreed with Ray but kept his mouth firmly closed.

“I’m not blind or stupid,” she replied, sounding tired, “nor am I hasty to judge. Let’s deal with the police and then regroup. Perhaps Zeke wasn’t feeling well and retired early, or he’s out with a girlfriend. He’s young, but he’s hardly a kid, Ray.” Imogene looked up at the apartment building, her eyes resting on an unlit window.

Dr. Graves shook his head. “I checked on my way down, per Tuesday’s request, and he’s not there. It didn’t seem as though he’d left in a hurry.” The last sounded hopeful, but Imogene didn’t appear comforted by the knowledge.

Before long a pair of officers arrived, accompanied by the medical examiner and quickly surveyed the scene. They asked all the perfunctory questions that had already been covered by the assembled group, and Desmond felt somewhat more at ease when everyone’s answers matched the ones they’d given in private.

“Don’t any of you leave town, now,” the officer said, promising a detective would be round to ask more questions at a more appropriate hour.

Ray and Tuesday shivered either from the pronouncement or the cold. Neither wore long sleeves, and the night air had turned frigid enough to match the deathly pall that clung to it.

Once the police were gone, Desmond tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. It had been a long few days of traveling, during which he’d barely slept, and, of course, that was all before the evening from hell! “It’s been swell,” he said wryly, “but I’ll need to be getting on. My aunt is expecting me.” He looked at his watch and reassessed. “At least, she was, several hours ago. Might I use the telephone to let her know I’m not lying in a ditch somewhere? And could you give me directions to the hotel?”

He only vaguely registered the look that passed between Imogene, Ray, Tuesday, and the good doctor. “There’s a vacant rental upstairs. It’s not The Plaza,” Imogene said with a roll of her eyes, “but it’s yours for the night if you want it. I’m sure I can scrounge up a suitable change of clothes, as well.”

Desmond considered refusing but decided that, ultimately, he was too intrigued to simply walk away, so he accepted the invitation graciously. When he did finally speak to someone at The Plaza—he would never again be able to hear those words without Imogene’s sardonic inflection—it was only to discover that his aunt had decided to remain at the Cape with her friends for a few more nights and therefore had yet to arrive!

The thought occurred that he could have taken his time and arrived in New York during the daytime and with a clear head, thus avoiding the entire unpleasant evening he had just endured. But then a little voice in his head whispered that had he done so, he wouldn’t have met Imogene—and that would have been an absolute shame.

CHAPTER 6

THE MATTRESS WAS surprisingly comfortable, so it didn’t take long for Desmond to fall asleep, and he could have rolled back over and continued dozing for at least another hour the next morning had his stomach not rumbled loudly. Nature’s call demanded to be answered at once, so Desmond complied.

He wondered how he’d slept at all, given the commotion going on outside his window. Down in the courtyard, the day was already in full swing.

The gate near the auto body shop was open, and from his vantage point, Desmond could see that all the letters on the neon sign in front of Imogene’s store were brightly lit. He smiled at the knowledge that he was in on the secret, but the feeling only lasted for a moment until his eyes came to rest on the spot where Tillie Fisher had died, the chalk outline of her body a grisly reminder of the macabre events of the previous evening.

The bell on the door jingled when Desmond entered Imogene’s shop. He looked around appreciatively, his eyes widening in delight. Deep shelves lined the walls, a maze of curios and hutches taking up the center, every available surface covered in objets d’art and other assorted oddities. A series of curtains separated the rear of the store from the front, and he wondered what sorts of treasures might be found back there.

Imogene stalked out of the back with a box in her arms. “Don’t touch anything,” she said in lieu of any preamble and tossed Desmond a stern look.

“Would you like some help with that?” he asked politely, ignoring the comment.

She set the box on top of a raised counter opposite the door that held a cash register and a stack of packing supplies.

“I need some muscle,” she said, casting an appraising eye over Desmond. “You’ll do, I suppose. Unless you aren’t up for it.” She meant the comment as a challenge, and he took it as such.

“Up for what, precisely?” he asked, unable to help himself. It was one thing to do Imogene’s bidding, another to go into it blind.

She sighed and explained reluctantly. “Zeke still hasn’t returned. He didn’t sleep in his bed last night. I need to find him, and even though we both know I can take care of myself,” she indicated the boot where he’d seen her stow her pistol the previous evening, “hunting him down is not something I fancy doing alone.”

He didn’t believe the word ‘fancy’ in that context was a turn of phrase Imogene typically employed, and he wondered if she was poking fun at him.

“Let me ensure I’ve got it right: you need my help?”

The glare she pierced him with was sharp as a tack, and he thought perhaps she might go for the gun just to make a point. Instead, she said, “I’d rather not take any chances. Zeke is missing, and I don’t believe in coincidences.”

She sounded so much like his friend Rosemary, Desmond had to blink. He stared at her for a long moment, watching her expression. “And yet, you still think he’s innocent, don’t you?”

Imogene chewed the inside of her lip, her head tilted to one side, and replied, “It doesn’t really matter, does it? I’m compelled to learn the truth, whatever the cost. Not to mention I have a business to run. I can’t afford for Mr. Oppenheimer to shun the Red Door. He was expecting a delivery, and since that was the last place I sent Zeke, I say we kill two birds with one stone.”

The boy’s disappearance looked an awful lot like a smoking gun from Desmond’s perspective, but he knew from experience that trying to press that point with a woman like Imogene would get him nowhere. However flexible her moral code might be, she obviously couldn’t abide murder, and furthermore, it seemed she genuinely cared for the boy.

He nodded once and drew himself up to his full height. “Then I’m at your service,” he said gallantly before his brow furrowed. “This Mr. Oppenheimer isn’t some kind of gangster, is he?” How often had he seen headlines splashed across the London papers, proclaiming the atrocities perpetrated by American crime bosses?

Desmond had always thought those were merely stories, spiced up to appeal to the gossipmongers and keep the tabloids flying off the rack, but now it seemed anything was possible.

Imogene snorted. “When you meet him, you’ll see how humorous that question really is. Now, come on. Let’s get this done and over with. It’s a long ride to Brooklyn.”

CHAPTER 7

DESMOND THOUGHT THEY would take the subway or perhaps one of the elevated lines, but instead, Imogene ordered him to wait by the gate, and a few minutes later, pulled up to the curb in a sleek white convertible Duesenberg Model X. Jaw dropping, Desmond lost a minute just taking in the beauty.

When he regained his composure, he let out a low whistle and walked around to admire the vehicle from every angle. “Is this yours?” The basic shape of the car wasn’t so different from the Bentley he sometimes drove at home, but the slung-back windshield gave the illusion of speed even as the car sat still, and the curve of the fenders reminded him of those of a woman. It was a sexy car, no doubt about it. A sexy car driven by a sexy woman. Did it get any better than that?

Imogene shook her head, but a smile played around her lips. “Just one of the perks,” she said and nodded towards the auto body shop. “Well, I suppose really, it’s the only perk,” she revised, tipping her head towards the passenger seat. “Are you going to get in, or what?”

Again, Desmond found himself wondering what man in his right mind said no to a woman like Imogene.

It was probably a good thing he wasn’t the one tasked with driving; it felt strange enough to get in on the wrong side of the car—best he not be trusted to control the vehicle. Not, of course, that she had offered in the first place.

For a while, Desmond enjoyed the scenery, watching the neighborhoods flash by his window. When the Brooklyn Bridge came into view, he had to admit it was impressive, but to his eye, it lacked a certain sophistication. He preferred the ornate architecture of his home city’s Tower Bridge but kept that thought to himself.

“What did your landlord mean when he said, ‘one of your charity cases’?” Desmond asked finally, once they’d crossed and he’d spent a fair amount of time watching Imogene out of the corner of his eye.

With another roll of her own, she shrugged off his question. “That’s Ray for you, always the pessimist. He thinks he’s doing right by my father, looking out for me. Sometimes, he goes overboard, and, of course, he would prefer I didn’t bring any riffraff into the building. The problem is the only people Ray doesn’t consider beneath him are so far above him in the arbitrary social hierarchy of this city, they don’t even know he exists. But he’s not as hard as he seems. Look at Tuesday; he worships the ground she walks on, and while her story isn’t mine to tell, it’s obvious enough she’s not his usual cup of tea.”

“It’s quite a motley crew you have here, isn’t it?” Desmond asked, noticing the stormy expression on Imogene’s face—the woman telegraphed her every mood, that was for damned sure—and added, “I meant it as a compliment, honest. I have a group of friends back home who might fit under a similar description. My social circle includes a lady detective, an actress, a police inspector, and a businessman I’ve known since we were merely callow youths.”

She softened somewhat and said, “It’s hard to find good staff—people you can trust. Sometimes they don’t come in the tidiest packages, but Zeke is a good kid, loyal. He isn’t some stranger, either. He grew up in the neighborhood, lost his parents, then his eldest brother to the war, and two more brothers to the streets after that. It hasn’t been an easy life, and he’s faltered. Made a few mistakes, but none violent, and all in the past. He tries to do well by us, and he succeeds. You asked me earlier if I believed he was innocent, and the truth is I do. He has no motive for killing Tillie, nor do I believe he stole the trinket I tasked him to deliver. Furthermore, he would never leave without taking the cat.” Imogene took a deep breath. “However, only a fool gives absolute trust, and I haven’t been a fool for a long while.”

Something in her tone told Desmond there was a story there, and not one with a happy ending. He desperately wanted to discover what it was but instinctively knew Imogene wasn’t the type who would appreciate prying. If she told him anything at all, it would be because she wanted to, and furthermore, the information probably wouldn’t come free. They drove in silence for a few moments until finally, inexplicably, a confession popped out of Desmond’s mouth.

“I always seem to think I know a person, and then when it’s too late, I realize I only really liked the idea of them. I assign them qualities they’ve never actually possessed, and then I’m disappointed when they don’t live up to my fantasy.” It was probably the most honest thing he’d said for as long as he could remember, and Desmond had no idea why he’d said it.

“What was her name?” Imogene asked, smirking. “I can only assume she was a pretty young thing.”

He bristled slightly and sputtered, “Since when is it a crime to court a pretty girl? She wasn’t so young—at least twenty-two, and quite well versed in . . . well, I suppose not much, now that I think about it.” All the wind went out of Desmond’s sails, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. “Do you always simply say it exactly how you see it?”

“What do you think?” Imogene fired back. “And what’s the point of beating around the bush, anyway? Watch the world go to hell in a handbasket because half the population would prefer to think the other half doesn’t have anything worthwhile to say?”

Since they were playing quid pro quo, Desmond retorted, “What about my pretty young thing? You basically insinuated she didn’t have a brain in her head.”

Without remorse, Imogene blew out a sigh. “There’s a difference between the type of upright lady a man like you would pursue and a woman who’s had to learn to live in the real world.”

“Actually,” Desmond said triumphantly, “Amelia wasn’t an upright lady at all—she was a nanny, poorer than dirt. What is it the Bard says? Judge not, lest ye be judged.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s scripture, not Shakespeare.”

Desmond shrugged. “I’m British; there’s little difference.”

Imogene, though mildly amused, rolled her eyes. “So you were slumming it with the nanny, then,” she retorted. “What’s the matter? Couldn’t meet any nice upright ladies willing to marry you?”

The barb, though he didn’t think she’d really intended it as one, hit its mark and stuck, for the one lady in his life who might have fit the bill had decided she’d rather cozy up to the chief inspector Desmond had been so loath to emulate the previous evening.

Not typically one to dwell for long, Desmond covered his reaction smoothly. With a devilish smile, he said, “You may rest assured that the droves are waiting, breath bated, for my return.”

CHAPTER 8

MR. OPPENHEIMER’S STORE was the opposite side of the coin from Imogene’s. It lacked any of the curiosities she carried and reminded Desmond of exactly the type of place his mother might shop—uptight, overpriced, and entirely devoid of whimsy.

It was fun for Desmond to imagine himself in a life that wasn’t suffocated by social conventions and familial expectations. Were he to muse on the subject out loud, he suspected his plight would be met with impatience. Desmond could understand the inclination to believe that money and status equaled happiness, but it only proved the old adage that the harvest was always richer in another man’s field.

“Miss Imogene,” the elderly gentleman behind the counter, presumably Mr. Oppenheimer, greeted Imogene warmly. “Was I expecting you? I didn’t think so, but my memory isn’t what it used to be. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Smoothly, Imogene altered the truth. “I was in the area and thought I’d take the opportunity to check in and ask if you were satisfied with young Zeke’s service.”

Mr. Oppenheimer nodded. “Fine young man, that boy. Polite, prompt. No complaints here.”

“And you received my package on time and intact?”

“Why, yes, of course. Quite satisfactory, indeed.” Mr. Oppenheimer appeared genuinely mystified by the interrogation.

She remained stoic, but Desmond could see the relief flash across Imogene’s face, followed by a flicker of regret for having doubted the boy in the first place. She would be annoyed to realize Desmond had already learned to read her moods as she spent a few more moments grilling Mr. Oppenheimer about the exact time Zeke had left his shop. She continued to smile, Desmond noted, but there were storm clouds in her eyes.

When they got back in the car, Desmond said, “That’s good, isn’t it? Your boy didn’t make off with the—whatever it was you sent him out to deliver. So why don’t you look happier?”

“Because,” Imogene replied, “it still doesn’t clear him as the killer, does it? In fact, what Mr. Oppenheimer said makes it possible for him to have arrived back home before Tillie fell. If Zeke’s innocent, where is he?”

Desmond mused aloud. “It does seem the boy had both means and opportunity. Regarding motive, that’s only ever as clear as smoke until the very end.”

“I hope you’re never called upon to talk anyone off a ledge,” Imogene said, exasperated. “No bedside manner whatsoever.”

“I thought you said you wanted the truth,” Desmond fired back. “Whatever the cost, if I remember correctly.”

Imogene snorted. “You know what they say: be careful what you wish for.”

CHAPTER 9

DESMOND, RIDING EXCEEDINGLY high following his afternoon with Imogene, unsurprisingly found himself quite taken with her. If he was being honest with himself, it was likely, given the vulnerable state of his pride, that any woman who gave him more than a cursory glance would have become the next object of his affection. And yet, there truly was something different about Imogene—something intriguing, a je ne sais quoi he believed he’d have been drawn to no matter the circumstances.

Whether or not she felt the same way was another story, but Desmond, despite his rather adolescent reaction to rejection, was nothing if not fearless when it came to matters of the heart. He didn’t see any reason why the situation with Amelia ought to change the way he conducted himself or shake his confidence overly much.

“This was your father’s shop?” Desmond asked curiously when they’d returned and he’d had a chance to peruse the offerings on display in the Antiquities & More portion of the Red Door.

Imogene nodded and continued rummaging through the contents of an overflowing desk drawer. Tidy she was not, he noted silently. “It was.” Her answer was clipped, but when she glanced up at Desmond, he could see some of the lines softening around her eyes and mouth. “Do you really want to know?”

At his insistence she explained. “In his prime he was a great archaeologist, but I only ever knew him as an old man. Daddy was in his forties when they had me, and then, of course, it was just the two of us.” She stopped, was silent for a long moment, and then said, “His heart was always in the dirt, one way or the other; mine was here—or, at least, it used to be, before.”

“Before what?”

“War, prohibition, so-called progress. The march of time. There’s nothing to be done about any of it. Every few years, New York is reborn into something else. The truth is, eventually, my little corner of the city will likely disappear entirely. I’m just glad I won’t be around to watch while it crumbles—” Imogene stopped short and inhaled sharply as if she thought perhaps she could suck the words back into her mouth.

But Desmond was like a dog with a bone. “What do you mean, you won’t be around?” he asked curiously, pulling a cigarette case out of his pocket, lighting one, and taking a drag. “Where would you go?”

“You can’t smoke in here,” Imogene snapped, deftly nabbing Desmond’s cigarette and taking one deep drag before crushing it into a nearby crystal ashtray.

“What about the Red Door?” Desmond pressed.

“The Red Door is just a shop, not much more than a pawn shop anymore, and a front for a juice joint. Like I said, neither will stand forever. Tuesday will take over when I’m finished, and I’ll be glad to see the back end of it.”

“But—but,” Desmond stuttered, contemplating Imogene’s comment.

She waved away his protest. “Pardon me for wanting something more than hustling moonshine and running rum.”

Desmond hadn’t pegged her as the type to run from her problems, but then it occurred to him that perhaps she wasn’t—maybe she was just running towards a better life for herself. Who could blame her, really? Wasn’t that, after all, the great American dream? Who better than him could understand a case of wanderlust? “Where will you go?” he asked curiously and without judgment. “When will you leave?”

Imogene smiled and looked up at the sun. “Soon. I’ve worked like a dog and have almost enough money. As for the where—someplace warm and tropical. The Caribbean, perhaps.”

“You’re going to go to the Caribbean in order to get away from rum running?” Desmond teased, eliciting a rare genuine smile from Imogene.

“All I’d need is a shack on the beach. No need to worry about heating the place in the winter.” She shivered, thinking about it. “I’m getting too old for the cold.”

Desmond scoffed at the idea that a woman as vibrant as Imogene would be worried about aging but refrained from saying so because she also didn’t seem like the type to fancy arguing over the fact.

He recalled the time he’d spent in the Caribbean with Amelia and said, “Islands are for lovers. Perhaps you ought to buy two tickets.”

For a moment, he regretted his brazen comment, and then, when Imogene merely laughed lightly and said, “Perhaps,” he felt a swell of hope rise in his chest.

He opened his mouth to ask a question that had been on his mind since the previous evening but didn’t get the chance as something behind him caught Imogene’s attention.

“Oh, hell,” she said, her expression suddenly one of extreme consternation.

When he whipped his head around to find out what had caused the shift, he saw a long black car pull through the body shop gate.

“Get in the back, now.” Imogene’s tone put a spring in Desmond’s step. “There’s an exit door in the far left corner. Use it,” she hissed, practically shoving him towards the rear of the shop. “Whatever you do, don’t make a peep!”

Desmond found the exit door without incident and almost ducked out of it to the safety of the street but, when he heard the boom of a man’s voice, stopped in his tracks.

“I heard you got yourself into a bit of trouble there, didn’t you, doll?” Desmond didn’t need to get an up-close look at his face to recognize the type. The voice said it all: rich, powerful, and dangerous. “I thought you might need rescuing.” Through the humor, there was a sharpness to the man’s words.

Yet, Imogene appeared nonplussed. “When have I ever been described as helpless or in need of rescue, Lucas?” she purred back in a voice softer than any she’d used since Desmond had met her. It set the hairs on the back of his neck to attention, and for some reason, hearing the tone directed towards a man who sounded nothing if not unworthy sent Desmond’s blood roaring through his ears.

“There’s a first time for everything,” came the man’s oily reply.

Desmond crept closer and wedged himself between two stacks of crates to peek through a gap in the curtain separating the back of the shop from the front. Imogene leaned casually against the counter, looking up at the man she’d called Lucas from beneath lowered lashes. He mirrored her posture the way men do when attracted to a woman, swaying closer than Desmond would have preferred.

So enthralled, in fact, was Desmond with the scene before him that he didn’t see the vase precariously balanced on top of the crate above his head.

“Perhaps,” Imogene said lightly. “But for now, why don’t we keep our business to the matter at hand? I wouldn’t flatter myself by thinking you came all the way down here to personally deliver my order or to check in on my fragile state. I suspect you’ve got an ulterior motive. Or is it a chinwag you’re after?”

Smoothly, Lucas replied, “You’d certainly have something of interest to contribute, wouldn’t you? Did you think I wouldn’t find out what happened here last night?”

“What happened is that my poor old neighbor, Matilda Fisher, fell off the roof and died.” There was no trace of deceit in Imogene’s tone or, indeed, anything other than sadness. A theater full of people would have thought her truly distraught, but Desmond wasn’t buying it—and neither was Lucas.

“We both know that’s not the whole story,” he said, an edge to his voice. “You haven’t forgotten how much sway I have with the cops around here, have you? I know something’s up, and it’ll go better between us if you level with me.”

Imogene didn’t speak, and the pair stared one another down for a long moment before Lucas said, “Don’t make me turn the screws, Genie. You know I’d prefer to keep things copacetic.”

There was a lie if Desmond had ever heard one. And Genie! How intimate were the terms of her relationship with this fool? he wondered.

“Murder brings cops, cops bring heat. We can’t have heat at the Red Door and keep the money rolling in, Genie. You know that,” Lucas chided.

“I wish I had an answer, but I haven’t the faintest idea why someone would want to bump off my washerwoman. She didn’t know anything about anyone or anything about anything, really. It was probably a random act of violence. Perhaps a cat burglar happened upon her unexpectedly. She did have a habit of roaming the roof on moonlit nights, tending to her pea tendrils or some such. There’s nothing to worry about, I promise. I’ll take care of the situation.”

Imogene batted her eyelashes for the smarmy Lucas in such a way that Desmond decided perhaps he’d got the whole thing wrong from the start. He remembered how she’d pointed the pistol at himself the previous evening—as if she’d pulled the trigger before and had no qualms about doing so again.

He thought about Amelia and how he’d felt about her at the beginning of their courtship. Infatuated—besotted, even—and that had gone to hell in a handbasket. Imogene was not the woman to become sentimental over, no matter how tempting it might be to do so. He should have known not to trust anyone that charismatic.

The thought crossed Desmond’s mind that he might still be able to escape unscathed. He could duck out the back, catch a train to the Cape, and haul his aunt onto a ship headed east. They’d be in international waters by the time anyone came looking and back to London, where his family’s solicitors would lob any inquiries straight across the Atlantic.

He had already taken a step towards the exit when he heard Lucas say, “You know I wouldn’t like to see anything happen to a choice bit of calico like yourself, don’t you Genie?”

As Desmond watched, Lucas reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I could fix everything, you know. Quite easily. You could be sitting pretty, at my side, without a worry in the world.”

When Imogene spoke next, she sounded more like the spunky woman Desmond had met in the alleyway. “I’ll handle things on my own if it’s all the same to you.”

“Whatever blows your skirt up, doll,” Lucas said and pulled away. The words were laced with such malice, Desmond’s blood ran cold. “However, if things go south and your actions put my operation in danger, the good Doctor Graves will have more bullet wounds to close than he knows what to do with. I’d suggest you get your house in order and your soldiers in line. The Dumb Dora routine is wearing thin.”

Desmond had been wrong to assess Lucas as merely a dangerous man. He was much more than that: he was deadly.

Fists clenched, Desmond shook with anger. Above him, the vase teetered, and this time, he noticed. He wanted to panic. He wanted to shout or to do something but found himself frozen in place while the vase wobbled back and forth in slow motion.

Lucas sauntered to the door, and when he slammed it behind him, the bauble—a priceless antique, for all Desmond knew—shattered on the floor.

Imogene nearly jumped out of her skin, and he thought daggers might actually shoot out of her eyes when they lighted on him standing there staring sheepishly at the mess. Her eyes flicked to the door, and Desmond watched her sigh with relief when Lucas continued sauntering towards his car, oblivious.

“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” she demanded, jamming her hands on her hips and staring at him expectantly. “I told you to go out the back.”

Desmond ignored the comment and the question and instead fired off a few of his own. It ought to have occurred to him that now wasn’t the time, surrounded by the broken shards of an artifact that would still be intact if he’d followed her instructions. “What did he mean, get your house in order? Do you own the building? Both buildings? The whole block?”

When Imogene didn’t deny any of it, he stared. “Who was that man? What is he holding over you?”

“Quite frankly, it’s none of your concern,” she retorted, the blood rising to her cheeks. “Or did you forget you don’t actually belong here? I don’t know what I was thinking, letting you hang around. You’ll only make things more difficult for me. You have no idea what a precarious balance I’m tasked to keep, and you will never understand because you have the privilege of a charmed life. We aren’t all so lucky.”

With a growl, Desmond shot back, “I’m so bloody sick of people thinking that my social standing makes me immune to struggle and, furthermore, incapable of understanding the complexity of human emotion! Why don’t you enlighten me about how terrible the world can be? Do you not think I’ve seen the opposite side of the coin, or do you only see me as an oblivious simpleton?”

“Lucas isn’t like any man you’ve ever met. He has no scruples—I mean flat none. If you can’t see him for what he is, the gangster you spoke of so cavalierly earlier, then perhaps oblivious simpleton is the correct way to address you.” Imogene’s voice was ice and somehow fire at the same time.

“And you’re in bed with him. Figuratively, at least,” he corrected when she glared at him hard enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck.

Imogene practically growled. “So that’s the problem, is it? You’re jealous of a man I despise and clearly turned down despite what trouble it will cause me?”

“Of course not. That’s preposterous,” Desmond denied, the wind going somewhat out of his sails. She had a point, after all. Imogene had rebuffed Lucas’s advances and even gone so far as to defy his wishes. It sounded as though that might put her in an uncomfortable position, which made his supposition and accusation wildly inappropriate. She was right. He was jealous.

Desmond took a step forward, unsure of his exact intentions but knowing they involved his lips meeting hers, when Imogene snapped, “Where do you think we get the alcohol we serve at the bar? Perhaps in jolly old London, antique baubles and assorted curios would pay the bills, but that’s not how it works here. I do what I need to do to get by, to survive, and to keep my people safe—something which, in case you’ve forgotten, I’ve not managed despite my best efforts.”

Her expression was so pained, Desmond forgot about trying to kiss her. He’d have liked to wrap her in his arms but instead simply asked, “You think Lucas killed your friend?”

Imogene shook her head. “No, I don’t. If he had, he wouldn’t have left her there like that. She’d have simply vanished, most likely leaving behind a note with a perfectly reasonable explanation for her disappearance. Lucas ties up all his loose ends.”

“Perhaps the killer isn’t as diligent,” Desmond suggested. “Maybe he left a clue behind—a set of convenient shoe prints, for instance.”

“You’re right. We should go up and check the roof.”

CHAPTER 10

TRUTH BE TOLD, Desmond had expected to find only a few potted plants and a couple of rickety folding chairs up on the roof and was pleasantly surprised to discover something a bit more impressive than that.

Raised planting beds that seemed to have been made out of whatever was handy—mismatched scraps of wood, worn-out tires, old dresser drawers—crowded the space in a way that somehow looked both haphazard and intentional. Indeed, at the season’s peak, fruits and vegetables would tumble from their containers in abundance, the taller and hardier plants providing shade for those requiring some reprieve from the sun.

It being mid-autumn, most of the beds had already been cleared or wintered over, but the effect was still impressive. Desmond almost smiled, but then he remembered that the woman responsible for the pleasant atmosphere had been murdered, right there, less than twenty-four hours before. He wondered over the fate of the space and thought what a shame it would be if left to go to ruin.

Instead of commenting, he followed Imogene to where Tillie must have fallen and peered over the edge. He shivered, imagining her last moments, wondering what it must have felt like to lose her balance and fall, knowing she was about to die. For one split second, Desmond feared his feet might grow a mind of their own and run him right off the edge. He clenched his jaw and shook off the unpleasant thought.

“Look,” Imogene said and pointed to a pair of planters near the base of the fire ladder. “There was definitely a scuffle.”

Desmond surveyed the scene and quickly concurred. Spilled dirt and a trampled lavender plant were enough to draw a logical conclusion; a broken pot and kicked-over watering can solidified the theory.

Upon a thorough perusal of the area, Imogene taking one side of the roof and Desmond the other, something caught his eye in the tangles of a frost-browned winter squash vine. Carefully, Desmond extracted the object, a piece of woven fabric, and showed it to Imogene.

“I think it’s a pocket ripped off a man’s tweed jacket,” he explained.

She took the scrap of fabric from his hands and examined it, chewing thoughtfully on her bottom lip in a gesture that held Desmond’s attention. “I suppose that clears a few suspects.”

Before he had time to think it through, Desmond opened his mouth. It was his habit to speak first and think second—one he would, within a few moments, vehemently wish he could properly control. “Not necessarily,” he said uneasily. “Tweed isn’t a male-exclusive fabric. I’ve seen lots of women wearing men’s items. Jackets, waistcoats . . .”

Desmond’s pointed tone spoke volumes and caused Imogene to direct a glare his way. “You can’t possibly think Tuesday killed Tillie?” she asked, exasperated. “She’s not capable—”

Desmond cut her off. “Nobody ever thinks anyone they’re close to is capable of murder, not until it happens. You must know that one of your friends is probably responsible. You said yourself it’s unlikely an outsider would have been able to gain access to the roof.” He looked down over the edge of the building again and pointed. “The fire escape doesn’t even go all the way to the ground. Whoever did it came from inside. There’s no other explanation unless you’re holding on to the hope that, somehow, it will turn out to be a big mistake—just an unfortunate accident—and I think we both know that’s a fantasy.”

He knew he’d gone too far before Imogene’s facade cracked. It was quick, but for that split second, she wasn’t the tough, self-sufficient woman who depended on no man—whom men relied on, in fact—she was just a woman who had lost someone she cared for and seemed poised to lose another.

“Would it be so easy if it were your friends we were talking about? You speak so highly of your chums back home. What if there was a chance one of them wasn’t who you thought they were? Your precious Rosemary or perhaps her impish brother, Frederick? Would you just accept it with a song in your heart?”

With a shake of his head, Desmond rejected the idea. He’d known his friends for his entire life. None of them would ever do anything like this.

“I feel the same way you do,” Imogene insisted, reading his expression, “and yet I know someone is lying. Something in the pit of my stomach is telling me if I keep turning stones, I’m not going to like what I find.”

They were both quiet for a long moment. Desmond wanted to go to her—simply to comfort her, he told himself, knowing full well he wanted far more. Even if he had possessed the guts to go for it—which he wasn’t quite sure he did, after all—the sound of the roof-access door squeaking open sliced clear through the tension.

“Hey, I thought I heard voices up here.” The expression on Tuesday’s face was more grimace than smile. She looked around sadly, her eyes landing on where Tillie had fallen, and shivered. “Is everything all right?”

Imogene’s eyes shifted away from Desmond’s, and he let out the breath he’d been holding. “I’m afraid not. Do you recognize this?” she said, a hint of desperation in her voice that Tuesday didn’t seem to notice.

She took the ripped pocket out of Imogene’s hand and turned it over in hers with her brows knit together. “I—I’m not sure. I think I’ve seen it before, but I can’t say for certain.” Tuesday’s eyes didn’t quite meet Imogene’s, and Desmond could see her heart sink.

Imogene cleared her throat and nodded. “Well, you’d better get downstairs. Who’s manning the bar?”

“Ray,” Tuesday answered, distractedly handing back the slip of fabric. “Which means you’re right, I’d better go. You know he thinks he always ought to be the one being served. I should get down there and relieve him before he drives away all our customers.”

When she’d gone, Imogene began to pace, mumbling under her breath. Desmond thought he caught the phrase, “bloody Englishman,” and ultimately decided it was better he couldn’t hear every word.

“I didn’t want to be right, you know,” he said in his own defense.

Imogene glared at him. “Who said you were right? She knows something, obviously, but that doesn’t make her guilty. Lots of people wear tweed jackets in November.”

Desmond stopped in his tracks, a rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. “Lots of people do wear tweed jackets in November,” he said, “because, without one, they’d be shivering in the cold.”

“Yes,” Imogene said slowly, the expression on her face indicating she thought he might be quite daft. “It’s cold in November without a jacket. What are you getting at—oh!”

Two people had been shivering in the cold the previous evening—Tuesday, in her men’s waistcoat and sleeveless dress, and Ray.

One of them had to be the killer.

CHAPTER 11

IMOGENE BEAT DESMOND to the bottom of the stairs, practically jumping half the last flight all in one go. He trailed her across the courtyard, through the Red Door entrance, and up into the passageway leading to the speakeasy. This time, his eyes didn’t travel the room with delight; instead, they went straight for the bar where Tuesday and Ray were engaged in a furtive conversation, only noting in passing just how many people were crammed into the space.

Tuesday and Ray both looked up when Imogene entered. She stopped, and a long look passed between the trio. Desmond watched the cycle of emotions with a mixture of morbid curiosity and intense sympathy. Imogene’s eyes flicked from Ray to Tuesday; she assessed each while appearing torn between two emotions: suspicion and the hope her fears were misplaced.

Ray met her gaze, then looked away as he seemed to experience an internal struggle. He glanced back at Imogene, then shrugged and, as quick as a cat, reached over and flipped one of the levers mounted beneath the bar. This time, the light flashed red instead of blue, and the reaction it elicited was utter pandemonium.

Tuesday was pressed into the throng when Ray made a mad dash towards the exit. Within seconds, she was lost in the sea of patrons also rushing in the same direction. The band that had been jigging along on stage stopped abruptly, their jazzy tune replaced by the roar of the crowd.

“They think we’re being raided,” Imogene shouted above the din before racing after Ray. She pushed her way through, Desmond poised to follow, but then Ray broke free from the crowd and made a beeline for the opposite corner of the speakeasy. He pressed through a panel in the wall that had appeared solid—Desmond realized, now, that nothing was as it seemed at the Red Door—and vanished.

“I’ll follow her, you take him. Hurry!” Imogene urged and continued after Tuesday. The expression on her face—one of fear and desperation—was the last thing Desmond saw before ducking behind the hidden panel where Ray had disappeared.

It was so dark he could barely see his hand in front of his face, and Desmond began to panic in the confined and furthermore dangerous space, knowing that Ray, a possible murderer, was also somewhere inside.

In a stroke of what felt like genius, Desmond pulled a book of matches from his pocket and struck one. After his eyes adjusted to the sudden flare, he could see enough to conclude his quarry had continued on and wasn’t lurking in the pitch black with a loaded gun—a notion Desmond would have found positively ludicrous twenty-four hours before, but now seemed entirely plausible.

He made his way forward, quickly and quietly, striking another match when the first one burned out. Relying on his admittedly sub-par sense of direction, Desmond concluded he was headed for the body shop next door. It took less than two minutes for him to reach the end of the passageway, but it felt like more.

Slowly, he opened the door, finding himself indeed on the upper story of the body shop, atop a set of rickety-looking metal stairs. He crept down towards a room at the bottom—the shop’s office, according to a placard above the door—where he could see a dim light and hear the sound of someone moving around inside.

Blood pounding in his ears, Desmond held his breath, then stepped quietly through the door and found Ray bent over in front of a safe behind the desk. “What are you doing?” Desmond demanded, even though he had a pretty good idea.

Ray’s head shot up and his eyes narrowed on Desmond. “None of your beeswax, is it?” he snapped and continued rummaging, pulling out a fistful of cash and stuffing it into a bag.

“I’m making it my beeswax,” Desmond replied, taking another step closer. “Did you kill that poor woman?” Of course, he didn’t expect a confession to fall out of the man’s mouth (things like that only happened in mystery novels or to his friend and lady sleuth Rosemary Lillywhite!) but it didn’t stop him from hoping. “It would be better for you if you came clean,” Desmond continued.

To his credit, Ray didn’t miss a beat and merely brushed off the comment. “I’ve no reason to come clean. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

It might be true, after all, thought Desmond, if the piece of pocket fabric did belong to Tuesday. The idea struck a nerve and suddenly Desmond knew exactly which button to press. “We’ve narrowed it down to two suspects; if it wasn’t you, it must be the other one.”

“You’re right—it was the boy, Zeke, mark my words. Why else would he have run?”

“Zeke’s been cleared,” Desmond bluffed, “but Tuesday hasn’t.”

Imogene was right; Ray had a soft spot for the barkeep. He stopped and straightened to his full height, turned towards Desmond and glared at him menacingly. Ray wasn’t the tallest man, and Desmond towered over him, but Ray had something to lose and also knew his way around the body shop. Eyes flashing, he picked up a pair of needle-nosed pliers.

Desmond balked, “Am I supposed to be scared? What are you planning to do: pinch me to death?”

“I won’t need to,” Ray said menacingly as he ran his thumb over the pointy end. “I have excellent aim.” He spun the pliers around in his hand in a fluid gesture that caused Desmond to swallow hard. He could run, but that would only ensure he didn’t see the blow coming. He could duck, but he had a sinking feeling Ray would aim low enough to negate the effort. He’d never heard of a death by pliers, but if this experience had taught Desmond anything, it was that, despite his status as a world traveler, he’d lived a sheltered life.

As if he were reading Desmond’s mind, Ray said, “You could just walk away. Go back to where you came from and forget about all of this.”

He could, Desmond supposed, do just that. Already he had considered it, but then what would become of Imogene? “If you’re innocent, why would you need to threaten me?” Desmond knew the answer to the question before the words finished leaving his lips, and that knowledge was enough to keep him rooted in place.

“Suit yourself,” Ray growled, raising the arm holding the weapon.

Desmond didn’t have time to react before the sound of a gunshot rang out from over his shoulder, and the pliers whizzed out of Ray’s grasp. “Arrrgh,” Ray wailed as he crumpled towards the floor, clutching his hand.

Whipping around, Desmond felt a rush of relief. He’d never been so happy to see anyone in his life, and it didn’t hurt that Imogene, with her knee-high boots and kohl-lined eyes, looked like an avenging vigilante straight out of a comic book. Tuesday stood at her flank, the pair piercing Ray with twin glares of disappointment and anger.

“What did you do, Ray?” Imogene demanded. He tried to take a step backward but she waved the Derringer and shook her head. “I wouldn’t, if I were you. When I’m happy, I’m a good shot, but when I’m mad, I’m better. Tuesday has already informed me it was your coat pocket we found on the roof, and unless you’re calling her a liar, I’m inclined to believe it’s the truth.”

Ray swallowed hard and glanced at Tuesday, the guilt on his face plain as day. “I thought I was helping us all,” he said, pleading now. It sounded to Desmond like grasping at straws. “I overextended, and I couldn’t bear to tell you. We’re in debt, and a lot of it. I thought I could pay off the taxes and the mortgage in one fell swoop. Lucas said—”

Imogene’s eyes narrowed and she practically spat. “That was your first mistake, getting into bed with Lucas. What did he promise you? Actually,” she stopped and shook her head, “I don’t care. Why Tillie? Did she find out you’d been corrupted? Did she die to protect your lie?”

“It was an accident! She found the note from the tax collector in my pocket and confronted me. Told me she was going to tell you all about it. I didn’t mean for her to get hurt! She ran, and I tried to stop her but—but—”

“But what, Ray? Why did she run? She wouldn’t have, not unless she was scared. Why was she scared of you, Ray?”

Desmond had never seen anyone verbally badger another human being the way Imogene railed on Ray—and wished never to find himself on the receiving end of her wrath!

“I could have forgiven you the money, Ray. You only had to be honest with me. You chose to lie, and you know I can’t abide liars.”

“Genie, please,” Ray pleaded, all his earlier confidence having dissipated. “You know I’m as good as dead if I go inside. Lucas’s men—”

Imogene crossed her arms and leaned back, appraising the man. His eyes were misty with remorse, but where they met Imogene’s the mist frosted over and turned to ice.

Her voice just as hard, she said, “What makes you think you’re safe out here? No, Ray, you made your bed. Then you lied about it, killed our friend in order to keep your lies intact, and tried to pin it on poor Zeke. What happened to him? Did you kill him, too?”

Imogene looked as though she were made out of stone, but Desmond feared that if the answer to the question was yes, she’d crack.

“Of course not,” Ray said as though the question was unwarranted. She stared at him for a long moment. “I swear, I don’t know where he is. I only told him he ought to get out of town—that he’d be the one to take the blame, given . . . well, given his past.”

“Interesting how you’ve condemned Zeke for making a boyish mistake,” Tuesday finally spoke. “You’re a grown man. What’s your excuse?”

CHAPTER 12

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Desmond watched Imogene while he waited for a cab to arrive and carry him uptown. His aunt had checked into The Plaza late the previous evening and was itching to get back to London. He rather suspected it might be her last voyage, a thought that saddened him greatly and one he tucked away for later contemplation. Now, he could only focus on one thing.

“At least justice will be served,” Desmond said lightly. He and Imogene leaned against the hood of an old Model T awaiting repair, a seemingly permanent frown marring her face.

The events of the previous evening had ended with less fuss than Desmond had expected. The police took statements with the same detached attitude as the last time they’d been called. Imogene assured Desmond that whatever Lucas had in store for Ray, whatever punishment he’d earned for putting the neighborhood under scrutiny, would be served at a later date.

He’d have to sweat it out, wondering, she said, until retribution arrived at the exact moment when he least expected it. The thought chilled Desmond to the bone, and he wished there was something he could do to keep Imogene out of Lucas’s crosshairs.

“I know it’s not much comfort,” he added when she didn’t respond to his statement. He turned, wondering how far he’d stuck his foot in his mouth, but Imogene stared straight ahead, her expression stricken.

“Zeke,” she breathed, but remained rooted in place. The boy, who appeared even less like a criminal than Desmond had imagined, crossed the courtyard in three strides.

“I’m sorry, Imogene,” Zeke said, his face lined with enough pain Desmond could suddenly picture what he might look like as a middle-aged man. “I shouldn’t have listened to Ray. I should have come to you straight away, but—”

“It’s all right,” Imogene replied, her voice thick with emotion. In a moment, the boy was in her arms, and she held on tightly enough to turn her knuckles white. “You’re here now. Go upstairs, feed the cat. Get some rest. We’ll talk about it later.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” she said when he’d gone, sinking back onto the hood of the car with relief. “I couldn’t bear the thought of him out there in this city by himself. He’s hardly more than a child.”

“What’ll he do when you’re gone?” Desmond wondered out loud.

Imogene elbowed him in the ribs in a familiar gesture that reminded Desmond of his friends back home. “I see your bedside manner is improving,” she said dryly, “but it’s no matter. I won’t be going anywhere. How can I, given how Ray left things? I owe more money than I’ve got stashed away, according to the documents Tuesday found in his desk. It’s a good thing she knows her onions when it comes to business.”

Desmond goggled at her for a moment, and she waved a hand. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve been at the bottom before. Perhaps I’m merely reaping what I’ve sown. After all, I played with fire. I can’t be surprised to have got smoke in my eyes.”

“You deserve more than that—than this,” Desmond replied gruffly, catching her eye for a long moment.

The air between them seemed to thicken, the tension building until he couldn’t take it anymore. Desmond leaned in, his heart on his sleeve, and pressed his lips to hers.

For a moment, she responded, her fingers tangling in his hair and quickening his heart rate. Too quickly, though, she pulled away with a sigh. “It will never work, you know. I’m old, bruised, and set in my ways. You deserve more. A nice young British girl, perhaps—one with more than half a brain in her head though, please.”

It was what he’d expected, but that didn’t take the sting out of it. Still, Desmond felt his heart was in better shape than it had been when he’d arrived, and for that he was grateful.

“Don’t close yourself off completely.” He tipped his head towards the apartment building. “Some people are worth the risk.”

She pierced him with one last long look. “Yes, some of them are.”

EPILOGUE

“And that’s my tale of intrigue,” Desmond concluded, leaning back in his chair and appraising the faces of his friends to find out how well his story had been received.

Specifically, he regarded Rosemary with some curiosity, but her expression remained neutral. Had she not long since laid aside her feelings for Desmond, perhaps his philosophic waxing on the subject of his new favorite female sleuth might have caused her some pause, but she had made her choice and still felt confident it had been the correct one.

“Good on you, mate,” Frederick said, clapping Desmond on the back. “Solved a murder, met a pretty lady, and even got to ride in a Model X! I do hope our American adventure is at least as thrilling.”

Vera nodded, though not quite in agreement. “Perhaps we could steer clear of the murder part, for once,” she said with a grimace.

“Bloody unlikely with both Rosemary and Imogene around,” Desmond replied. “Though I suppose any murderer who makes the mistake of tangling with that pair is simply asking for trouble.”

Rosemary tossed him a disapproving glance. “Now you’ve gone and jinxed it, haven’t you? If anything happens, it’s on you, dear Des.”

1920’S SLANG TERMS

Bluenose — a priggish or puritanical person

Bootlegging — the illegal manufacture, distribution, or sale of goods, especially alcohol

Bump Off — to murder someone

Bum's Rush — ejection by force

Choice bit of calico — a desirable woman

Copacetic — wonderful, fine, in excellent order

Dumb Dora — an unintelligent woman

Giggle water — liquor, alcoholic beverage

Half-seas over — drunk

Juice joint — a speakeasy

Know One’s Onions – know what one is talking about

Level with me — be honest

Moonshine — bootleg alcohol

None of your beeswax — none of your business/concern

Rum running — transportation of illegal alcohol

Sitting pretty — in a great position

Speakeasy — Irish word to describe an illicit, undercover bar selling bootleg liquor

Teetotaler — A person who abstains from the consumption of alcohol

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Other series by Emily Queen

Mrs. Lillywhite Investigates

The Red Door Speakeasy Mysteries

Notes

1. Click HERE to view the Red Door Courtyard graphic