Murder in Chelsea (18 page)

“Wilbanks doesn’t have her.”

He shrugged again.

“Does she think he still has feelings for her?” Frank asked, trying to make sense of this.

“Emma can be very appealing when she wants to be.”

“Ah, so she’s going to try to revive his affection for her. Doesn’t that bother you, Vaughn?”

“Why should it?”

“Don’t you have feelings for her yourself?”

“Her arrangement with Wilbanks doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember now. You used to visit Emma at that house Wilbanks paid for, and that didn’t bother you either. What kind of a man are you, Vaughn?”

“A practical one.”

Frank shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d seen men turn their wives and daughters out to sell themselves in the street. Compared to that, Emma’s arrangement with Wilbanks was almost decent. “There’s something I don’t understand, Vaughn, and maybe you can help me.”

“I will do my utmost, Mr. Malloy, if it means you will go away and leave me alone.”

“You and Emma had a good life when Wilbanks was keeping her, so why did she suddenly run away?”

He licked his lips, probably thinking he’d like a drink. “She didn’t run away.”

“She left her home, her protector, and her child, and the two of you left town without a word. That sounds like running away to me.”

“She was just tired of it, tired of Wilbanks and the kid. She wanted to be on her own again.”

“Then why not just tell Wilbanks he could have Catherine and come back to her life in the theater?”

“I . . .” His gaze darted around the room, then settled on the whiskey bottle. “She was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of Wilbanks’s son. He’d come to see her. He said he’d hurt her if she didn’t give up on Wilbanks.”

“She wasn’t afraid of Ozzie Wilbanks.”

Vaughn’s eyes widened. “Yes, she was! Well, maybe not him, but his friend.”

“Ozzie and his friend told me she just laughed off their threats.”

“Of course she did, to their faces. She’s an actress, and she didn’t want them to know they’d frightened her. But she said she had to get away before they did something, and that’s why we left town.”

Vaughn was lying, but Frank wasn’t going to get the truth out of him without a lot of work, and he didn’t have time for that today. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d be able to catch up with Emma, though, and maybe she’d tell him just because he asked. He left a grateful Vaughn, who was already taking a swig of whiskey before Frank had even left the room.

He rode the El uptown, and made his way to Wilbanks’s house. He’d probably missed Emma, but maybe he could get Wilbanks to tell him what she’d wanted. The maid took a bit longer than usual to answer the door, and when she did, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes wide with alarm, but not, Frank realized, because a policeman was at the door. Instead, she kept glancing back over her shoulder.

Before he could ask for Mr. Wilbanks, the faint echo of voices raised in anger came drifting down to them from the floor above, and the girl gave a gasp of dismay. Maybe he wasn’t too late for Emma after all.

“I’m with the police,” he said before pushing past her and bounding up the stairs, two at a time. She didn’t even try to stop him.

Frank easily found the source of the shouting. It was the parlor where he’d met Wilbanks the first time, and someone had carelessly left the door ajar.

“You can’t throw me out, and when I’m your stepmother, neither of you will be welcome here!” Emma Hardy said in a voice that probably carried to the last row in the theater as Frank stepped into the room.

Wilbanks sat in his usual chair, a lap robe over his knees. His face was scarlet, a bloodstained handkerchief pressed to his lips, and his eyes frantic. Emma stood beside him, her hand resting possessively on his shoulder, and her expression as haughty as he’d ever seen a woman’s face. Maybe he’d underestimated her acting ability. She glared at Ozzie and a woman who could only be his wife, Gilda, who stood before her and Wilbanks, their expressions outraged.

Wilbanks noticed him first, and the look in his eyes turned from frantic to pleading. Frank was pretty sure what he wanted, too. He cleared his throat, and the others turned to him in surprise.

Ozzie recovered first. “Mr. Malloy, what are you doing here?”

“I came to speak with Mr. Wilbanks. So nice to see you again, Miss Hardy.” To his surprise, she smiled.

“You could not have arrived at a better time,” she said. “I’ve just been telling Ozzie and his wife the good news. I’ve decided to accept David’s proposal of marriage.”

Frank wondered what Wilbanks thought about that, but from the way he was gasping, he obviously could not speak at the moment. Besides, Frank enjoyed Ozzie’s and Gilda’s reactions too much to care if Emma’s claim was true or not.

“Mrs. Wilbanks?” Frank said, nodding. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

Even furious, Gilda was lovely, but she didn’t waste any of her charm on Frank. “No, we have not.”

“My dear,” her husband said quickly, “this is Detective Sergeant Malloy with the New York City Police.”

“Good. Arrest this woman.” She waved her hand at Emma Hardy, who huffed in protest.

“I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“She’s trespassing,” Gilda said.

Frank looked at Wilbanks, who shook his head slightly. “I don’t think I can arrest Mr. Wilbanks’s fiancée for trespassing without his permission, but Miss Hardy, maybe you’re ready to leave. I’d be happy to escort you back to your hotel.”

Emma obviously knew when to make her exit. She leaned down to Wilbanks and said, “I think you should rest now, my darling, but don’t worry, I’ll be back tomorrow, and we can make our plans.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek, which drew a gasp from Gilda Wilbanks. Pretending not to notice, Emma strolled past Gilda and Ozzie toward the door, looking around as she went, as if taking stock. “What a dreary room,” she said. “I’ll have to completely redo it.”

Gilda gave her a look that should have knocked her dead, but of course, Emma paid her no attention. Frank nodded his farewell to the Wilbanks family and followed her out. As he closed the door behind him, he heard Ozzie say, “Father, I’m going to send for your doctor.”

The maid met them at the top of the stairs and escorted them out, returning Emma’s slightly shabby cape to her before opening the front door for them. Emma, Frank noticed, wore a singularly ugly hat and the reddish dress she’d worn the last time he saw her. It probably was the best dress she owned.

“What was that all about?” he asked as they walked down the front steps.

“You’re like a bad penny, aren’t you? What are you doing here anyway?”

“I came looking for you. Vaughn told me you’d be here,” he added at her questioning look.

“I’ll have to thank him for that,” she said acidly.

“You should be glad I showed up when I did. Another minute, and Gilda Wilbanks would’ve clawed your eyes out.”

“I’m not afraid of her or that milksop Ozzie.”

“What about that milksop Terrance Udall?”

They were halfway down the block now, and she stopped and turned to him. “Is that dear Gilda’s cousin? He’s harmless, too. Rich people are so used to having other people wait on them that they can’t accomplish anything themselves.” So much for Vaughn’s claim that she was terrified of them.

“Are you really going to marry Wilbanks this time?”

“Didn’t I just say I was?” She started walking again.

“Yes, you did, which makes me wonder why you didn’t do it a year ago when he asked you the first time.”

She looked at him sharply, and seeing he was serious, she smiled. “I didn’t want to.”

“Why didn’t you want to?”

“Mr. Malloy, you’re starting to annoy me.”

Frank grabbed her arm and jerked her to a stop. “And you’re starting to annoy me, Miss Hardy.”

She pulled her arm from his grasp and glared at him. “What do you want from me?”

“I want to know what made you leave your daughter and run away a year ago, and I want to know who killed Anne Murphy and why.”

“I already told you, I just got tired of Wilbanks and I wanted to get away.”

“So you left your child behind?”

“You can’t take a child on tour, Mr. Malloy. I thought I left her in good hands. I had no idea Annie would lose her.”

Frank could have argued that point with her, but why bother? “Are you really going to marry Wilbanks this time?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because I don’t think he still wants to marry you.”

She smiled again, as if this amused her. “He didn’t want to marry me back then either. All he cared about was Catherine. I did him a favor by leaving town, and he did me a favor today by letting me scare his precious son out of what little wits he has. I was just getting some of my own back after they came barging in telling me to get out of their house. It’s not their house yet, you know.”

“Then you aren’t really going to marry him?”

“You just said you don’t think he wants to marry me, and you’re probably right. In any case, I don’t want to marry him either.”

“Why not? Isn’t marrying a rich man the dream of every chorus girl?”

“Not
every
chorus girl.”

“All right, so you still won’t tell me why you wouldn’t marry Wilbanks. Who killed Anne Murphy?”

“How should I know?”

“Don’t you have any idea?”

“Not a one.”

“That’s funny,” Frank said, “because I can think of at least three people who didn’t want you to find Catherine and might’ve killed Anne so you never would.”

“Who? Ozzie and his lovely bride?” she scoffed.

“And her cousin.”

“Yes, you’re right. I’m sure one of them did it. Why don’t you go arrest them?”

“Or maybe you hadn’t thought of them because you know who really killed her.”

“How could I know that?”

Frank met her gaze squarely, refusing even to blink, and watched her eyes narrow as the truth dawned on her.

“You can go straight to the devil, Malloy.” With that she turned on her heel and walked swiftly away.

He let her go, sure she’d give him nothing more. What she
had
given him was simply confusing. She’d missed an opportunity to accuse the Wilbanks family of killing Anne Murphy, and he had no idea why. Was it because she already knew who did? But if she did, why hadn’t she told him? Or if the killer was someone she wanted to protect—like herself—why hadn’t she tried to put the blame on someone else? Nothing Emma Hardy did made sense to him. He wondered if it would make sense to Sarah and her mother. He’d be sure and ask them at the first opportunity. In the meantime, he’d realized he needed to see Michael Hicks’s investigator, who may know something Frank didn’t.

* * *

J
UST THINK,
S
ARAH,” HER MOTHER SAID AS HER CARRIAGE
carried them through the city streets so slowly, she could have passed it walking without even exerting herself. “If you didn’t have to earn your living, you could go on visits like this with me every day.”

Sarah didn’t want her mother to know her true feelings about such a prospect. She dearly loved her mother, but the thought of returning to the life her mother led—an endless round of meaningless social engagements with people who talked only about themselves or gossiped about other people—made her want to throw herself into the East River. “You’re very kind to take me along today.”

“I realized I needed to do something of which your father would approve, and what better errand than finding out as much as we can about Gilda Wilbanks?”

“I must admit, I’m very curious about her. I just wish you could remember the rumor you heard about her.”

“I know, but believe me, if there’s anything at all to it, Olivia will know.”

Olivia Van Horn greeted them warmly, probably because she hadn’t seen Sarah in years and desperately wanted to know what she had been doing with herself all that time. Her home was located in the section of Fifth Avenue known as Marble Row. After her husband’s death, she had taken a small flat in a luxurious building where she could enjoy the comforts of wealth without the expense of an army of servants. She was one of the Van Horns who didn’t have a penny to her name, at least by Sarah’s mother’s standards.

Her parlor contained what was left of the family’s heirlooms—sideboards and tables from another age holding priceless porcelains—and plush furniture long past its prime. Olivia herself was like an heirloom. Still beautiful although her blond hair had gently turned to silver, she looked as fragile as one of her porcelains and almost as old.

When they were seated and served with tea and cakes, Olivia Van Horn said, “Sarah, you must tell me about yourself. Your mother hardly ever mentions you except to say that you are doing well. I must know everything. Is it true you’re a midwife?”

As much as she would have preferred to talk about Gilda Van Horn, Sarah realized that society gossip was tit for tat. She couldn’t expect to learn anything without sharing something herself. Too bad she didn’t know any juicy stories about anyone else in society that she could share instead. As briefly as she could, she brought Mrs. Van Horn up to date on her life story, managing not to mention a word about having ever assisted a police detective in solving murders.

As soon as Sarah had finished and before Olivia could think of another question to ask, her mother said, “We met a young relation of yours the other day.”

“You did? Who was that?”

“Gilda Wilbanks.”

“Oh, Gilda isn’t
my
relation. She was Gilbert’s, of course. Ralph Van Horn’s daughter. The Van Horns are prolific. I can hardly keep up with all of them. How did you happen to meet her?”

“Felix had some business with her father-in-law,” her mother said. “I thought it would be good for Sarah to make a friend her own age.”

“Oh, I thought perhaps Sarah had occasion to see her professionally, as a midwife, I mean. She’s been married to that Wilbanks boy for years now, and nothing in the way of offspring to show for it.”

“I think it’s only been a little over a year,” Sarah said, stretching the truth a bit. “Much too soon to give up hope.”