“Frankly, Pears soap got spooked when you read that fella’s comb and … started screaming at him, asking where he got it. It was a frightening display.”
Bob Bateman. He’d lied to her about that comb. But she couldn’t tell Mr. Phillips what she’d seen or why it was so upsetting to her.
“I reported exactly what I saw,” Evie said, and wished she didn’t sound so defensive.
“Oh, say, now, Evie. People have short memories. This nonsense can be forgotten. Why don’t you start getting yourself in good with Harriet and her readers?”
Evie would rather eat glass.
“Listen here: Why don’t you clean yourself up a bit, eh? Show Pears and the people of New York what a good girl you are,” Mr. Phillips said, as if he were delivering a pep speech to a losing football team heading into their last quarter. “When you read objects, keep it all on the happy side—tell them more about what they want to hear and nothing too alarming. Keep it entertaining! Do a bit of charity work! Make yourself a little more like, well, like Sarah.”
Evie imagined pummeling her boss with a basket full of Pears soap.
Still clutching the newspaper, a thoroughly unhappy Evie left Mr. Phillips’s office. Around her, WGI’s Art Deco hallways buzzed with activity and ambition. Evie passed two comics honing their patter, a jazz orchestra tuning up, and a soprano decked out in a velvet evening gown practicing roller-coaster vocal scales just outside the ladies’ lounge. Everybody wanted to be heard on the radio these days. Everybody wanted to become famous.
Staying famous was harder.
Earsplitting screams drew Evie back to WGI’s golden doors. Sarah Snow had arrived and was shaking hands with the many fans crowding around her, desperate for her to notice them. With her hair set in a fresh permanent wave and an orchid corsage pinned to her white dress—her signature look—Sarah gleamed like a modern angel, a saint with jazz-age flair. A month ago, she’d been a struggling radio evangelist. Now she was WGI’s rising star. And if the crowds outside were any sign, she was rising right past Evie.
A newsman’s camera flashed. It bounced off the glass and hurt Evie’s eyes.
“You seem to be awfully chummy with Jake Marlowe, Miss Snow. Any truth to the rumor that you might become Mrs. Marlowe?” a woman in a turban asked. Harriet Henderson, the scandal-sheet snake herself.
“Mr. Marlowe is a wonderful man. I’m pleased to be his friend,” Sarah said, smiling for the cameras.
But you didn’t deny it, you crafty little crusader, Evie thought, not without admiration.
With a last wave of her white-gloved hand and a bright smile, Sarah walked toward WGI’s golden doors, and Evie tried to sneak away.
“Good evening, Miss O’Neill,” Sarah called, catching Evie mid-tiptoe.
Evie turned around with a pasted-on smile. “Good evening, Miss Snow. My, you sure do have a lot of fans!”
“I’m simply the Lord’s vessel,” Sarah said, opening her arms wide.
“Like the Titanic?” Evie muttered under her breath.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, it’s terrific!”
“Why, thank you.” Sarah’s expression was all wincing sympathy. “I was sorry to hear about your broken engagement.”
I’ll bet.
“Must be especially hard after the way Sam so gallantly saved your life from that poor man who tried to shoot you. What was his name?”
“Luther Clayton,” Evie said.
“Oh, yes. I heard they’ve put him in the asylum. Poor thing.”
“That poor thing tried to kill me,” Evie reminded her.
“Jesus asks us to forgive our trespassers. Anyway, I’m terribly sorry about your broken engagement,” Sarah said again in case anyone in the hallway missed it the first time. “You must be devastated by the loss.”
Evie’s lips stretched into a smile as phony as Sarah’s sympathy. “Yes, I’ve put teacups all around my room to catch the overflow of my tears. Somehow I muddle through without Sam. Though I do have to go out if I want tea.”
Sarah appraised Evie for an uncomfortably long time. “You’re not really as jaded as you make yourself out to be, Miss O’Neill.”
“Says you.”
“Well, I will keep you in my prayers, Miss O’Neill,” Sarah said, and walked away.
“Why’d she have to go and say something human,” Evie muttered as she closed herself off in one of WGI’s telephone booths to sulk. She watched the enthusiastic secretary pool gather around Sarah, eager for her attention. Months before, it was Evie they’d been gathering around. The picture of her toppling into the hotel’s giant potted plant blared up from the newspaper. “At least my gams look good,” Evie said. She leafed through the pages, stopping when she came to a small mention of some grisly murders out at the Manhattan State Hospital for the Insane, the very place where they were holding Luther Clayton. Quickly, Evie grabbed the telephone, asking the operator for the number of the Daily News.
T. S. Woodhouse’s oily voice slithered over the line. “Well, if it isn’t the Sweetheart Seer herself! To what do I owe this honor?”
“Listen, Woody, I’ve got a hot tip for you: The Sweetheart Seer is going out to the asylum at Ward’s Island to meet with Luther Clayton.”
“The fella who tried to shoot you?”
“Yes. I’m … I’m going to forgive him! Poor … fellow,” she said, making it up as she went along. “I thought you might like to write a story about it.”
There was a pause, followed by a laugh. “This is about Sarah Snow, isn’t it?”
Evie poked her head out the telephone booth’s glass door. At the end of the long hall, Sarah posed with Mr. Phillips as Harriet Henderson looked on and a photographer captured it all. Evie felt the jealousy down to her toenails. “I don’t have the foggiest notion what you mean, Mr. Woodhouse.”
“Don’t you? I got news for you, Sheba: You will never be able to best Miss Pure-as-Snow at the good-girl game.”
Evie snapped the door shut again. “Come on, Woody. Help a girl out.”
“All right. I want to sniff around about the murders out there anyway, but, understandably, they don’t want any press. You get me in, and I promise to write up your Luther Clayton story in a way that makes your halo shine brighter than ten Sarah Snows.”
Evie grinned in relief. “It’s a deal.”
As she hung up, the photographer’s blinding flash went off, and Evie blinked against Sarah’s refracted glory.
Ling arrived at the museum at precisely five o’clock. It had taken her two buses, a trolley, and a full hour to get there. Her hands burned from the constant pressure of her crutches, and even though it was brisk outside, under her wool coat, she was covered in a sheen of sweat. She removed her damp coat and dropped into a chair, flexing her aching fingers. “I can’t stay long. I told my mother I was attending an evening Mass with Henry and Evie at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.”
Henry put a hand to his chest in faux shock. “You used the Lord to lie to them? I’ll just stand over here in case you’re struck by lightning.”