Diva (22 page)

“Well, that didn’t work out as planned,” Clara said with a nervous glance out the window.

Lorraine peeked out from underneath her oversized black felt hat. “Sing it, sister.”

They’d probably be sitting in the big house right about now if Clara hadn’t thought to run straight from the bridal salon to a street vendor. They’d hastily bought disguises—the hats, for one, as well as feathery white shawls—and worn them into the diner across the street from the shop.

Now they could sit by the window and keep an eye on the police cruiser parked outside Priscilla’s without worrying about the fuzz spotting them. The diner was a greasy sort of joint with stuffing bleeding out of half the red booths, and smudged windows.

Deirdre stood in front of the shop, talking to two police officers. Marcus’s fiancée twisted her veil nervously in her hands, leaning on Marguerite for support. The old hag of a shop manager patted Deirdre’s shoulder and pulled a handkerchief from her suit pocket. Lorraine guessed bitches like them had to stick together.

“Thank God that woman doesn’t know who we are!” Clara said. “Otherwise she’d be giving our names away to the cops!”

Lorraine gave a little laugh. “Um, yeah!
By the way
”—she paused and put on a smile—“you didn’t happen to grab my purse, did you? Because I might have forgotten it. In the bridal shop. With all of my identification inside of it.”

Clara’s gray-blue eyes widened. “Raine, how could you do something so—”

“Don’t worry, Clara, I know
just
the guy to go back there and get it for us. A total, um … sheik. Well, maybe a sheik-in-training.” Lorraine stood and headed toward the pay phone in the corner of the diner. She spoke to Clara over her shoulder. “He’d do anything for me!”

Melvin already looked silly in his lumpy gray sweater vest, wrinkled red button-down, and checkered bow tie. But carrying Lorraine’s alligator clutch as he walked into the diner took him to a whole new level of ridiculousness.

Lorraine waved him over. “Poor thing,” she whispered to Clara. “He’s desperately in love with me. Says if I don’t kiss him, he’ll die! Can you believe it?”

Clara rolled her eyes. “Hardly.”

“Hmmph.” Lorraine watched as Melvin approached them. So maybe he’d never said those words
exactly
to her … but no reason for Clara to know that.

Melvin held the clutch low against his thigh, trying to hide it. But he was so awkward about it that he made the purse even more obvious. A little girl eating an ice cream sundae pointed as he passed. “Look at the man with the purse, Mommy!”

A woman in a frumpy day dress didn’t look up from her issue of the
Queen
. “That’s nice, honey.”

“I never should’ve believed this was just about a purse,” Melvin said, and slouched in the booth beside Lorraine. “There are cops in that dress shop! Things are never simple with you, Raine.”

Lorraine frowned. “Simple? Who likes simple!”

Clara extended her hand across the table. “We can’t thank you enough. I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced—I’m Clara Knowles.”

“Right, from Forrest Hamilton’s party. Melvin Delacorte.”

“I really can’t tell you how much we appreciate this. I hope we didn’t pull you away from anything important.”

“Oh no, I was just working on my art history paper on Millais.”

Clara clasped her hands to her chest. “I love his
Ophelia
painting!”

“I do, too!” Lorraine had never noticed what a sweet smile Melvin had. Or maybe he just didn’t smile that way around her. “His depiction of the flora around the river is just amazing.”

“I always thought Ophelia was the best part of
Hamlet
—much better than Hamlet and all his I-have-to-do-something-but-I’m-too-depressed-to-do-something hooey,” Clara said. “Make up your mind!”

“Ah, I always like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern best. Every good story needs its double-crossing spies,” Melvin replied.

Lorraine looked at them. Clara wasn’t trying to seduce Melvin, was she? He wasn’t her type, but still—the girl did have a habit of stealing men right from under Lorraine. Not that Lorraine wanted Melvin, of course. She just didn’t want Clara to want him.

Besides, it wasn’t like Lorraine didn’t know that painting, too. It was of a dead girl floating in a river. What was so
amazing
about that?

Clara nodded at the purse. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble?”

“No, it was actually really easy,” Melvin explained. “I just told them that my cousin, recently released from a sanatorium after having been jilted at the altar, has a penchant for attacking brides.”

Clara burst into laughter at this. Lorraine cracked a smile,
too, though she doubted anyone had really believed the story. “Erm … good one, Melvin.” She looked down at her light green floral-print day dress with its ruffled skirt and her perfectly matching heels. Could a crazy girl put such a fantastic outfit together? She thought not. “Whatever gets the job done.”

“I had to pay some damages,” Melvin went on, “and they put your name on a watch list, but they’re not going to press charges.”

Lorraine raised her eyebrows. How much had he paid for her bad-cop routine gone wrong? Melvin was at Columbia almost entirely on scholarship—he didn’t have much money to throw around. Lorraine threw her arms around his neck in a sideways hug and kissed his cheek. “Aw, Melvin, thank you so much! I’ll pay you back.”

Melvin’s face turned bright red and he scooted away from her. “I can’t believe this is why you called me—to involve me in your petty crimes. I thought something serious had happened, and when I got there, well …” He shook his head, at a loss for words. “I helped you out this time, but don’t call me for any more of these shenanigans.”

“Shenanigans? I can’t get in trouble with the cops again!” Lorraine exclaimed. “You know that, Melvin! You, Mr. Squeaky Clean, could probably steal a car right in front of the owner’s eyes and he’d still never suspect you.”

Melvin wiped his brow with one of the napkins from the table. “Raine, you’re not asking me to—”

“No, no! Believe me, my career in crime is over.” Lorraine
took off her hat and plopped it right onto Melvin’s head. “Though I’m not sure you should end yours. You’d look pretty spiffy in a fedora.”

Melvin chuckled and scooted back into the booth. He slid Lorraine’s chocolate milk shake away from her and sipped it. It was the rudest thing Lorraine had ever seen him do, and also the most attractive. Was Melvin finally growing some backbone?

“All right, so tell me what this is all about,” he said with the hat still on. The way it flopped over his forehead, Lorraine couldn’t see his face—it was a good look for him.

“Well,” Lorraine said, “we’re trying to stop Marcus from marrying that gold digger. Clara here—she’s a reporter for the
Manhattanite
—found out all sorts of dirt about her. The woman’s changed her name about a thousand times, and she’s wanted for robbery and assault. And those are just the things the cops know about! Once Clara digs a little deeper—”

“I’m not going to pursue this any further,” Clara cut in.

She was looking wistfully out the window. The coppers were finally leaving, and Deirdre was back in her normal clothes: a peach crocheted day dress with little black bows down the front where buttons would usually be. It was still hard to believe such a delicate flower of a woman had committed all those crimes.

Which was probably exactly how she’d gotten away with them.

“What?” Lorraine exclaimed. “Why? Now we
know
it’s her—she confessed!”

“If Marcus wants to marry that Deirdre woman, it’s his business.” Clara reached over to take a French fry from the basket they’d been sharing (“These are more French than that lying harlot,” Lorraine had commented when the waiter brought them) and nibbled it. Lorraine noticed sadness in Clara’s eyes. “I need to stop pretending it’s mine.”

“Applesauce, it’s not,” Lorraine said. The cheerful bell over the door jingled as an elderly couple left. “Don’t be an idiot like me! Haven’t you learned anything from my example?” She looked at Melvin. “Marcus is only with this Deirdre girl because he misses Clara, who lied to him and broke his heart.”

“Thanks for that,” Clara said.

“But I thought
you
liked Marcus,” Melvin said.

“Oh, that was
so
three weeks ago,” Lorraine replied, waving him off. “Nope, Clara’s the only girl for Marcus—anyone but the two of them could see that in a second.”

It was only when Lorraine said it that she truly believed it. Clara and Marcus really did belong together. With their runway-ready looks, neither of them had any business being as smart and sensitive as they were. They needed to get back together, get married, and have beautiful blond children. Who would probably also be charming and clever enough to take over the world.

Clara raised her eyebrows at Lorraine and opened her mouth, surely to object, but Lorraine wouldn’t let her.

She met Clara’s eyes. “The only reason that girl’s spell works on him is because he can’t see straight. He got hit so hard by
you. Like he was hit by a brick. Yep, that’s it exactly—he was smashed in the head by a brick full of love.” Lorraine let out a tiny cough. “For you. Not me at all. Definitely for you, Clara.”

For a second, Clara looked as though she might start crying. Lorraine dug into her purse, readying a tissue, but then Clara blinked, took a deep breath, and composed herself.

“Do you really think so, Raine—that he, you know … the love brick? For me? He was so cold when I went to see him … not that I didn’t deserve it.”

Clara was asking Lorraine’s opinion as if it actually mattered to her. The way Gloria used to, back before everything had gone so wrong between them.

It felt really nice.

“Probably because you told him you were only there as a friend,” Lorraine said. “He wanted you to tell him that you’re lost without him, that you want a happily-ever-after with him, so that he could sweep you into his arms, and—”

“It’s true,” Melvin chimed in. He took off the hat now, and swept his hair back with his hands. Actually, it was a good head of hair, Lorraine thought. “Men don’t really want to be friends with women.”

Lorraine elbowed him in the ribs. “What’s that supposed to mean? You’re friends with me, right?”

Melvin glanced away sheepishly. “Yeah, but—”

“No buts about it!” Lorraine said. “Clara, you need to snap out of it. We have to stop this devil woman
together
.”

What she didn’t say out loud was that not only did she
want to help Marcus, but she wanted to help Clara, too. After all, they were starting to become … 
friends
. Weren’t they? Stranger things had happened. Lorraine had been manager of a speakeasy before she’d turned eighteen, after all.

“Spare me the theatrics, Raine,” Clara said. She straightened her hat and grabbed her briefcase. “I’m gonna get out of here.”

“Where are you going?” Lorraine asked lightly.

Clara sighed. “The
Manhattanite
offices. I’ve got to talk to Parker, see if he’ll actually let me write something about this Deirdre.”

Lorraine’s lips spread into a big smile. They
were
friends. It was such a relief to finally have a real girlfriend in the city. She had Becky, she supposed. But she and Becky really didn’t have much in common. Lorraine had started to wonder whether Becky was joking about that matronly stuff at all. She’d made shortbread the other day, and it had been
delicious
.

“Melvin, you mind letting me out?” Lorraine asked.

“Of course not.” He drank down the last of her milk shake and stood.

Lorraine sprang from the booth and gave Clara a hug. “Sorry for fouling everything up earlier. I’ll try to keep my flair for the dramatic in check from now on. Though you do have to admit … Deirdre looked much better with the dress over her head, don’t you think?”

Clara swatted her back. “You’re so bad, Raine.” She giggled.
“But seriously—if all this works out, and if Marcus ever speaks to me again, I’ll be sure to tell him everything you’ve done. I think he’d be impressed by how far you’ve gone to help him.”