“I agree not to kill you,” Evie said around a mouthful of bread. She twirled the butter knife between her fingers.
“Your terms are generous,” Sam said. “But I have two conditions of my own.”
Evie swallowed her lump of bread. She narrowed her eyes to slits. “I will not pet with you. You can cross that one off the list right now.”
Sam smirked. He dabbed a spot of butter from her face with his napkin. “Doll, I have never had to make petting part of a contract. Every girl in my rumble seat has been happy to be there. I had something else in mind.”
Evie didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. “What?” she said, wary.
Sam’s smirk vanished. “Project Buffalo.”
Project Buffalo. Sam’s obsession. According to him, it was some secret government operation during the war, and his mother, Miriam, had been a part of it. She’d left home when Sam was only eight and never returned. The official record said that she’d died of influenza, but two years ago Sam had received a postcard—no return address—with the words Find me, Little Fox on the back in Russian. The handwriting was unmistakably his mother’s. Sam had run away from home and made it his mission to find her.
“Sam,” Evie said as gently as possible, “don’t you think maybe it’s time to let that go? You say you don’t believe in ghosts, but Project Buffalo is a ghost. And you let it haunt you.”
“Evie, Project Buffalo took my mother away from me. And I will not rest until I know what happened to her.”
Sam’s expression was one of grim determination, but Evie could see the hurt there. She knew what it was to lose someone you loved so dearly. If there had been a hope that James was still alive, Evie would’ve followed every lead until she found him.
“Fair enough,” Evie said. “What’s the matter? You look like somebody put hot peppers in your Burma Shave.”
Sam drummed his fingers on the table. “Evie, did your uncle ever mention Project Buffalo to you?”
“No. Why on earth would you think Will would know anything about that?”
“I got a tip.”
Evie raised an eyebrow. “Tips are for cabdrivers and horse races, Sam.”
“Hold on. I need to show you something.” Sam fished out his wallet and extracted a folded napkin. “There’s a fella, used to work for the government. Knows all sorts of secrets, and occasionally, he coughs something up for me. I asked him about my mother and Project Buffalo. He told me it’s still going on. And he got me a name of somebody he said knew about it.”
Sam slid her the napkin. Evie stared at the name written there: Will Fitzgerald.
Evie bit her lip. “When did you say your creepy man gave this to you?”
“He’s not a creepy man.…”
“Fine, your ‘clandestine acquaintance,’ then.”
“About two months ago.”
“Two months ago,” Evie repeated.
“Yeah. Two months ago. Why’re you making that face?”
Evie shook her head. “Sam, Sam, Sam. I never thought of you as gullible.”
“I’m a lot of things, sister, but gullible isn’t one of them. And since when did you become an expert on informants?”
“I don’t know anything about spying,” Evie said, pouring milk into her coffee. “But I do know human nature. Think, Sam: two months ago? The Pentacle Murders?”
“Yeah. I’m familiar.”
“Uncle Will’s name was all over the papers! And you were working at the museum. How easy would it be to connect the two?” Evie explained. “Face it, Sam—you were taken for a ride. I’m sorry if you don’t want to admit it. The con man got conned.”
A worm of doubt twisted in Sam’s gut. He hadn’t taken that into account.
“Sam,” Evie said gently, “have you ever considered that maybe that postcard isn’t from your mother?”
“That’s her writing on the postcard. I know it, Evie. I will find her. I swear I will.”
The waiter delivered Sam’s Reuben and Evie’s Waldorf salad. From the corner of her eye, Evie could see people watching them, gossiping from behind their menus. At the famous round table, Dorothy Parker sat drinking martinis with Robert Benchley and George S. Kaufman, but no one was paying them any mind. Evie and Sam commanded the Algonquin’s full attention. Sam was oblivious. He was much more interested in his sandwich, which he was practically inhaling.
“Don’t choke. I need you alive. For a while at least,” Evie said. “So if I were to help you with Project Buffalo, what would you want me to do?”
“Read whatever I dig up. See if you can get a lead on anything.”
“Object reading.” Evie sighed. “Going two nights a week on the radio is already taxing me. I’d have to be careful. What’s condition number two?”
“You host the museum’s Diviners exhibit party at the end of the month.”
“Oh, Saaaam,” Evie whined. She dropped her head on the table with an Isadora Duncan–worthy sense of drama. “No. I am not helping Will. Why, it’s campaigning for the enemy! I hate that museum, and I hate Will, too.”
“You’re not helping Will. You’re helping me. If the museum goes under, I’m out on the street. By the way, we’re being watched.” Sam flicked his eyes in the direction of a table full of gawking flappers whispering excitedly to one another.
Evie raised an eyebrow. “No kidding. I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck, you know.”
“We should give them a little something for their trouble.”
“Such as?” Evie said, wary.
Sam leaned forward and took both of Evie’s hands in his. He stared into her eyes as if she were the only woman in the world. Like a traitor, Evie’s stomach gave a slight hiccup.
“Help me with Project Buffalo and the Diviners exhibit. And I promise I’ll sell this romance so hard Valentino couldn’t’ve done better.”
From the corner of her eye, Evie could see that more people were taking notice of them. The room buzzed with an energy that made her feel as if she, herself, ran on electric current. She liked that feeling. She liked it very much. Reading a few trinkets and hosting a party—even one for the museum—in exchange for being front-page news and New York City’s biggest radio star seemed fair enough.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Sam, with one last condition,” Evie said.
“I won’t take up golf or folk dancing.”
Evie narrowed her eyes. “A time limit. Four weeks of the swooniest, swellest romance New York City has ever seen. And then, kaput. Over and out. Off the air.”
“Golly, when you say it like that, it sounds as if our love’s not real, Lamb Chop.”
“There will be a tragic parting. Our love will have burned too brightly to live on.” Evie put a hand to her forehead like a doomed opera heroine, then let it flutter into a parting wave. “Toot, Toot, Tootsie! Good-bye.”
“Four weeks, huh?” Sam asked, cocking his head.
“Four weeks.”
Sam stole a glance at the flappers watching them. They were cute, and probably one of them might jump to date him. So why was he entering into a devil’s bargain with Evie? Why did the prospect of a fake romance with her give him the same thrill as thievery?
“Done,” Sam said. He stared up at her with big peepers and a lupine grin. “We’ll have to make the chumps believe it. Moonlight strolls. Staring into each other’s eyes. Sharing the same straw in our egg cream. Dreadful pet names.”
“Not Lamb Chop,” Evie protested. “That’s hideous.”
“You got it, Pork Chop.”
“I will murder you in your sleep.”
Sam grinned. “Does that mean you’re sleeping beside me?”
“Not on your life, Lloyd.” Evie smirked. “The act’s only good when the cameras are flashing.”
“Well, then, guess I’d better make this look good now.” Sam kissed the back of Evie’s hand. The table of flappers let out a collective, swooning Ohhhh. The kiss tingled up Evie’s arm and gave her insides a soft buz
z. Stop that, she thought. She’d have to discuss this with her insides later and let them know the score.
The waiter appeared at their table once more. “The meal is on the house, Miss O’Neill, Mr. Lloyd. Thank you for dining with us at the Algonquin today. We do hope you’ll come again.”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “I could get used to this.” He snugged his fisherman’s cap down onto his head.
“Mr. Phillips has arranged an interview for us at WGI today. Four o’clock. We’re telling the story of our love. Don’t be late.”
“Nifty. I’ll steal something swell to wear. Whaddaya think—pantaloons?”
He was toying with her. This was the trouble with trusting a fella like Sam Lloyd.
“Sam. Don’t make me kill you on a full stomach. I might get a cramp.”
Sam smirked. “Nice doing business with you, too, Baby Vamp.”
Evie batted her lashes. “Go now before I change my mind.”
“Leave separately and disappoint our audience?” Sam nodded toward the other patrons slyly watching from their tables. That wolfish grin was back. But the thread of pure glee was new. Sam slipped his arm through Evie’s, parading her through the gaping patrons of the Algonquin. He leaned in to whisper in Evie’s ear, and her stomach gave another rebellious flip.
“From now on, Sheba, you won’t be able to shake me.”
Theta and Henry raced down the crowded sidewalk of Forty-second Street, late, as usual, for rehearsal. They squeezed past a preacher and his small flock of parishioners holding a prayer vigil. “This sleeping sickness is God’s judgment! Repent!” the preacher thundered, a Bible held high in one hand. “Turn away from loose morals; from those dens of iniquity, the speakeasy; from the Devil’s music, jazz; and from the untold evils of the bootlegger’s liquor!”
“Gee, if I do that, I won’t have any hobbies left,” Henry quipped.
“If we don’t hurry, we’re not gonna have any jobs left,” Theta said.
A corner newsboy waved a newspaper at Theta. “Paper, Miss?”
“Sorry, kid.”
He shrugged and shouted out the day’s headlines. “Extra! Sleeping Sickness Spreads, Docs Fear New Plague! Anarchist Bombers Take Out Factory! The Sweetheart Seer Engaged! Extra!”
“What?” Theta stopped short. “Kid, here,” she said, tossing over a nickel and practically snatching the Daily News from him. “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”
“Is this some sort of joke?” Henry asked, reading the front page over Theta’s shoulder. “Why wouldn’t Evie tell us about this?”
“I don’t know what game Evil’s playing now, but you can bet I’ll find out,” Theta said, shoving the crumpled paper into her pocketbook. “If she’s marrying Sam Lloyd, I’ll eat my hat.”
“Gee, that’s too bad,” Henry said, opening the theater door. “It’s an awfully nice hat.”
The sharp report of tap shoes competed with the melodic rise and fall of chorines singing scales, announcing that rehearsal was already under way at the New Amsterdam. Wally, the show’s long-suffering stage manager, glowered at Henry and Theta as they sauntered down the aisle together, arm in arm. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the Tardy Twins. Congratulations. You’re only”—he made a point of checking his watch—“ten minutes late today.”
Theta patted Wally’s cheek and pursed her lips. “Now, Wally, don’t let your ulcer flare up—Hen’s got a new song for you. Quiet, everybody!”
“Hey, that’s my line,” Wally griped. Not to be outdone, he barked, “Quiet, everybody!”
“Go on, Hen,” Theta coaxed.
Henry perched at the piano and took a deep breath. “It’s a bit rough, mind you. But it goes something like this.”
Henry played a lilting melody, singing along in his raspy falsetto:
“Inside a dream I yearned anew
You appeared, like morning dew
My heart leaped up, no longer blue
But only here in Slumberland.…
The moon sank low in the morning sky
Why, oh why, must we say good-bye?
I’ll see you again, sweet by and by
But only here in Slumberland.
They say that dreams come true, dear,
If you believe their charms
But if my dreams came true, dear,
I’d hold you in my arms.
Sandman come and dust my eyes
Blue moon, won’t you start your rise?
Every night, oh, how time flies
When I’m with you in Slumberland…
I’ll stay with you in Slumberland.”
When he finished, Henry turned to Wally. “Well,” he asked nervously, “what do you think?”
For once, Wally wasn’t cradling his head in his hands and looking like he’d lost the will to live. “You know, kid, that’s not half bad.”
A voice boomed from the back. “A little slow, isn’t it?”
Henry didn’t know when Herbert Allen had sneaked in, but his arrival was anything but good news. “It’s… melancholy. Not much pep. Can you make it zippier, old boy?” Herbie said as he strolled down the center aisle wearing a new plaid suit bought, no doubt, with his latest royalty check.
“Well, the poor fella can’t find what he’s lost,” Henry explained. He tried very hard not to add you tasteless idiot. “He’s yearning.”
“Mmm,” Herbie said, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t know, Wally. Seems a bit dreary for the Follies.”
“I like it,” Wally said, to Henry’s great surprise. “We could use a wistful number.”
Henry enjoyed watching Herbie’s unctuous smile vanish.
“Well, I suppose Flo will make the final decision, won’t he?” Herbie said.
“Yeah, yeah,” Wally said, waving it away. “Take another pass at it, Henry. Rework the bridge and that last chorus, and then we’ll show it to Flo. If he likes it, you’re in, kid.”
“Thanks, Wally!”
“Hallelujah!” Theta said. She jumped up and threw her arms around Henry.
“All right, people, all right. Places for the ‘Hocus-Pocus’ number. Where are my Diviners girls?”
While Wally barked orders to the performers, Henry daydreamed at the piano. Everything seemed new and hopeful now. It was all because of Louis—he knew it was. He couldn’t wait to see him again. And when he did, he’d give Louis a dream suggestion to call the apartment in New York. Somehow, he had to convince Ling to go in with him again tonight. As soon as rehearsal ended, he’d run down to Chinatown and make the arrangements. It was all going to work out.
And the disgruntled expression on Herbert Allen’s face was the icing on the cake.
The minute rehearsal was over, Theta rang Mabel, and the two of them barged into Evie’s bathroom at the Winthrop Hotel, where they found her soaking in a tub full of bubbles.
“Hey! I’m not decent!” Evie protested.
“If we waited for you to become decent, we’d be waiting for years,” Theta said, taking a seat on the commode. She held up the day’s newspaper. “Have you lost what’s left of your demented mind, Evil?”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me yesterday,” Mabel grumbled, perching on the edge of the tub.
“Of all the cockamamie things you’ve done, this takes the cake—the wedding cake!”
“I’m your best friend,” Mabel said, hurt.
Evie wanted to confess everything to Theta and Mabel, but she couldn’t risk it. She and Sam had agreed to keep their little arrangement a secret from even their closest friends. If their pals believed they were in love, there was more chance of the public buying it—and less chance they’d be exposed as liars.
Evie scooted lower, into the protection of the bubbly froth. “Gee, it, um, it all happened so fast. I was planning to tell you. Honest.”
Theta squinted at Evie. “I thought you hated Sam Lloyd.”
“I did hate Sam for a bit. But then I came to see what a truly romantic person he is. How adventurous. And… and s
weet!” Evie said, making it up as she went. “Look, can’t a girl change her mind about a boy?”
Theta folded her arms across her chest. “Sure she can. We’ll wait right here while you change it back. Evie, Sam Lloyd is a con! He could charm the snakes outta Ireland. Sure, he’s handsome—”
Mabel made a face. “Do you think so? Well, I suppose he isn’t un-handsome—”
“How do you know that drugstore cowboy’s not just taking advantage of you now that you’re making money?”
“You could at least say congratulations,” Evie groused, indignant. She had no right to feel that way. Nevertheless, she did.
“Congratulations,” Mabel muttered.
Theta rolled her eyes. “Congratulations. For a wedding present, I’ll buy you a matched set of common and sense. Not that you’ll ever use it.”
“I’ll choose to overlook that remark.” Evie sniffed.
“Something about this ain’t on the level is all I know,” Theta said.
In the other room, the telephone rang.
“Oh, no! Could one of you be an absolute daaahling and grab that?” Evie said.
“I do so lahhve to be a daaahling,” Theta mimicked, and marched to the phone on Evie’s bedside table with Mabel in tow. “Sweetheart Seer residence. Sorry, but currently the Sweetheart Seer is all wet,” Theta said, and Mabel giggled.
“Theta!” Evie howled from the tub. Theta kicked the bathroom door shut.
“Uh-huh… uh-huh… yeah, sure, I’ll tell Her Radio Highness. Good-bye,” Theta said, hanging up the phone.
“What is it?” Evie asked, tying her robe as she pushed through the bathroom door.
Theta put on a hoity-toity accent. “I am to let Miss O’Neill know that her driver has arrived.”
“Driver?” Evie said, eyes wide. The girls rushed to the window. Down on the street, a chauffeur waited beside a shiny green Chrysler.
Mabel gasped. “Holy smokes. It’s like you’re Gloria Swanson or something. Like you’re a movie star.”
“A star,” Evie repeated, eyes flashing.
“Congratulations, Evil. You’ve arrived. I guess we’ll exit stage left, Mabel.”