Hattie Ever After (21 page)

It was pointless to argue with Marjorie D’Lacorte. That much I’d learned since arriving at the
Chronicle
. I had to admit I would not mind skipping my usual tin of soup. “Dutch treat,” I said.

“Your money’s no good where we’re going. So don’t argue.” She slipped into a navy flannel coat with a fur collar. “And tonight you call me Marjorie. Don’t argue about that, either.”

I didn’t.

We walked through the crisp evening air, passing businessmen carrying briefcases and umbrellas, and ladies of the house with packages tumbling out of their arms. Soon
we were in a part of the city that was new to me. Tall, narrow homes huddled together on the street like Aunt Ivy and her cronies at a coffee klatch. As we walked, I learned that Miss D’Lacorte—Marjorie—had an older brother, Tom, who’d been a pilot in the war. “When he turned up missing, I joined the Red Cross to find him. That’s how I got in the reporting business. Sending dispatches home.”

“So you found him?” I asked.

Her gloved hand rested in front of her mouth. “I did.” After a moment, she continued. “Do you know what he’d done? Named his plane after me.” She cleared her throat. I waited for more of the story but it didn’t come.

Her pocketbook clicked open and she dabbed her eyes and nose with a handkerchief. “I’ve worked for lots of sheets. Chicago. Kansas City. Seattle, too. At the
Times
.” She tucked her handkerchief away. “Now, there’s an editor for you: C. B. Blethen. Cannot abide females in the newsroom.”

“Even you?”

“Especially me.” She gave a low chuckle. “Too bad I was their best reporter. Oh, did that give him conniptions.” She took my arm, turning me to face the opposite side of the street. “Thar she blows.” She pointed to a very elegant-looking restaurant.

We crossed over, stepped inside, and were quickly seated. I tried to stay upright when I read the menu prices. When the waiter came, I ordered a small salad and cup of soup.

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Marjorie slapped her hand on the crisp white tablecloth. “Forget that nonsense. Bring us
two steaks. With the works.” The waiter seemed to know her, because very quickly a glass was set in front of her, two olives bobbing in a clear liquid. I was brought a ginger ale. Marjorie lifted her glass. “To you, Hattie.” We clinked, then she sipped and sighed. “Ambrosia.”

Dinner was delicious, but Marjorie’s stories were even better. Some were hard to believe—could she really have danced with General Pershing?—but I didn’t care. The evening was flying by delightfully, and without my once touching a can opener.

Dessert was apple pie. À la mode. I wouldn’t need to eat for a week. “This is all so wonderful,” I said. “Thank you.”

She took one small taste of her pie, then slid the plate aside. “Your life is none of my business, of course. But let me offer some uninvited advice.” She chuckled. “I suppose most advice falls in that category.”

I swallowed and put my full attention on her. Advice from a seasoned reporter would be welcome, invited or not.

“This is a hard row you’re hoeing, Hattie Brooks. I should know. I’ve been down it myself.” She wet her finger to pick a crumb of crust off her dessert plate.

“I have to pay my dues. I know that.” Though how many more column inches I could type about hemlines and hairstyles, I wasn’t sure.

She studied me. “I’m not talking about the newspaper.”

I frowned, puzzled. “I don’t follow you.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

It seemed as if she were speaking in code and I didn’t have the key. “I’m sorry. I think I’ve missed something.”

“I think you have, too.” She leaned toward me. “I saw your face when you were with your mechanic at the airfield that day. Saw his, too.” She whistled. “You seemed pretty glad to see him when you landed.”

“We’re good friends.” The restaurant had grown stuffy. “We’ve known each other a long time.”

“I could see that.” Her eyes twinkled and I flushed. “You’re pretty lucky to have a good friend like that. Not like some of the other men we know.”

I studied my dessert plate, fully aware she was referring to Ned. “There’s probably no one kinder than Charlie. But he wanted to make plans for
us
.” I rested my chin on my hands. “And I need to make plans for
me
.”

The waiter slipped the bill on the table. “And his plans and your plans don’t mesh?” Marjorie asked.

“I can’t get married!” I took a sip of ginger ale. “Besides, he’s moving to Alaska.”

She studied me. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

I couldn’t believe it. Here I thought she had taken me out to dinner to give me a pep talk. “Miss—I mean, Marjorie. You know how hard it is in this business, especially if you’re a woman. But a married woman?” I shook my head at the thought of that complication.

She glanced at the bill and opened her handbag. “If you are looking for someone to emulate, I am not that person.”

Melted ice cream dribbled off my piece of pie onto the plate. I poked at it with my fork, but now had lost all taste for its sweetness.

She stood.

I could not forget my manners. “Thank you. It was delicious.”

“You can find your way home from here?” she asked. “I’m around the corner.”

No wonder the waiter had known what to bring her. “Yes, I’m fine.” Well, I wasn’t fine, but that was no call to be rude.

“Hazel Archibald,” she said as we stepped outside.

“Pardon?”

“Hazel Archibald. Works at the
Seattle Times
. She’s married.” Marjorie finished buttoning her coat. “See you tomorrow.”

I watched her walk away, reflecting on the evening. I now regretted the rich dinner sitting heavily in a stomach accustomed to one of Campbell’s twenty-one varieties of canned soup. My heart was heavy, too. Why did Miss D’Lacorte have to bring up Charlie? It had taken all of my willpower to write back, and wish him well, after his letter. Why should it bother me that he was going after his dream? I’d expected him to allow me to go after mine.

And what of that dream? Sure, I had a job at the
Chronicle
. But I was no Nellie Bly, Grand Adventurer, Great Writer. Never would be. I was not even a Marjorie D’Lacorte. I was only Hattie.

I blinked back tears, longing for Ruby and her understanding heart. If only I could talk to her. She would help me figure out what to do. If only she weren’t in Santa Clara …

Wait. Why couldn’t I go to her? I began to walk faster. Ruby had been so kind to me; the very least I could do was spell her as she cared for Pearl. I had money saved up. Well,
saved up for a trip north. But I wasn’t sure I had the gumption for Seattle right now. I needed to feel useful, to think about someone besides myself. That was the ticket!

I knew I was on the right track with my thinking when I found the feather. A heavenly sign in answer to an unspoken prayer. And this was some feather, with its shiny coral shaft; it was that stunning color that had caught my eye. The pattern on the vane put me to mind of an appliquéd quilt block, as if an autumn oak leaf had pressed itself onto a shell pink feather. I picked it up, imagining the bird it had once adorned. It must be magnificent. Gill was a bit of a bird fancier; maybe he would be able to tell me about this feather. I slipped it into my pocketbook, feeling more chipper by the moment, even lighthearted enough to indulge in some window-shopping. I passed a milliner’s and peeked in. Inside the hat shop, a woman was trying on an enormous hat. She was redheaded and petite, like Ruby. Very like Ruby.

The evening had definitely taken a toll on me. I rubbed my temple. Ruby was at her mother’s, caring for Pearl. This must be wishful thinking on my part. Then my redhead stepped into better light and I came to a dead stop on the sidewalk.

This wasn’t someone who simply looked like Ruby. It
was
Ruby! But that was impossible.

I could not breathe. Could not move.

The woman sashayed to the cash register to count out bills to pay the clerk. No doubt some of them from
my
cold cream jar. And there she was, pretty as pie, using them to buy a hat. An extremely ugly hat.

My dinner now threatened to spill itself over the sidewalk. I swallowed hard, stumbling blindly down the street. Ruby. Here. What did it mean?

It wasn’t until I was back in my room, trembling on the bed that it hit me. The feather was not the sign I’d prayed for.

It was Ruby in that horrid hat.

The Stars Are in Alignment

I lay awake late into the night. Surely there was an explanation. Ruby had returned to town and hadn’t yet had the opportunity to let me know. But what kept her from contacting me? I’d gone out for the evening, yes, but Raymond would’ve taken a message. Had there been a message.

As the sun slowly brought light into my room near dawn, it also brought light into my thinking. I had been overwrought from the evening. Marjorie’s probing had upset me more than I’d realized. The rich food had thrown me off, too. And then there was the news about Ned. And Charlie. It was all too much. I wasn’t thinking straight. How else
to explain jumping to such a vile conclusion about Ruby? I would telephone her right away. And she would clear it all up. There’d be a good reason. A simple reason. Until my dying day, I must never let her know my hateful thoughts of the night before.

Deeply ashamed of myself, I somehow dressed and went downstairs. I double-checked with Raymond to see if there was a message for me. “Nothing,” he said. “Not one thing.” I glanced over the desk and saw that Raymond was drinking coffee. I believed him.

Gill greeted me when I arrived at the newsroom. “I know you’re a big-time reporter now,” he said. “But I spent an hour down in the dang-blasted morgue and couldn’t find what I was looking for. Could you give me a hand?”

Anything to stall writing the article I’d been assigned: “What to Wear When You Motor.” I nodded. “Sure, what do you need?”

He gave an uncomfortable laugh. “Now, don’t think I’m another Ned,” he said, “but your idea got me to thinking about women criminals.” He made a face. “It’s been a slow crime week.”

He looked so pathetic, I had to laugh. “And that’s a bad thing?”

“Very funny.” He grimaced. “It is when you’ve got the police beat.”

I picked up my notepad. “What are you looking for?”

“You ever heard of Mrs. Cassie Chadwick?”

I shook my head.

“There’s a story for you! Happened in the late nineties.
She bilked a slew of bankers out of over four million dollars by claiming she was Andrew Carnegie’s secret daughter.”

“How?”

“Showed them a piece of paper with his signature, something like that. They thought she was worth billions, so they loaned her whatever she asked for.” He shrugged. “The details are fuzzy now. But I don’t want the piece to be about her. It needs to have a—”

“Local hook.” I knew the drill. “Sure. I can poke around for you.”

“I’d like to have three names—kind of a nice round number.” He handed me a slip of paper. “Here are my notes so far.”

I took it, glancing at the newsroom clock. “I can give you an hour,” I said. “I have to finish my five hundred words on selecting one’s wardrobe to match one’s automobile.” I tilted my nose up. “Very hoity-toity.”

With a laugh, Gill said, “I’ll take whatever time you can spare.”

“I need to make a phone call first.” I asked the operator to ring Ruby’s apartment. No answer. Then I had her try Mr. Wilkes’ office, too. Even though she was no longer employed there, they might know something. Mrs. Holm answered. “No, she’s not here. I believe I heard Mr. Wilkes making arrangements to drive down to Santa Clara next weekend.”

Oh, what a relief to hear such words! “If you do see her, would you please tell her I called?” Mrs. Holm said she’d be glad to. I nearly skipped to the elevator.

“Good morning, Miss Hattie.” Leroy closed the elevator door. “Where you going?”

“The morgue, please.” I held my notepad to my chest. A weight had been lifted, and I was ready to tackle whatever challenge Gill’s query would provide.

When I pulled open the heavy wooden door, it felt like a homecoming. It’d been a while since I’d spent any time in this place. I stopped inside the door and listened for my voices from the past. I wondered what they were going to tell me today.

I decided to start with 1915. The exposition had brought thousands of people to town, and not all of them upright citizens. The number of articles about confidence men, check forgers, and insurance frauds was astonishing. And many of these “con men” were women! It didn’t take me long to find some possibilities for Gill, including a Mrs. Denton, who claimed that her personal belongings—including all her jewelry and two sable coats—were in her automobile when it caught fire. Her mistake was in making that same claim five times, to five different insurance companies. There was a woman who professed to represent the British Patriotic Society of San Francisco and absconded with the money she’d raised to benefit “war sufferers.” There were five stories about women who conveniently “forgot” they were already married and accepted the proposals of wealthy elderly men. And one about a church secretary arrested for juggling the church books. So much for the fairer sex being the purer sex. It appeared that women were equally capable of graft and greed.