The Bachelor Girl's Guide to Murder (22 page)

Ray was standing close—too close, he knew. But before he could step back Jem lunged toward him. She made to loop her arms around his neck and brush her fingers over his hairline, perhaps expecting her lips to softly meet his. But what she actually did was topple and trip, and her nose found the hardest part of his shoulder blade.

“I'm so sorry!” But Jem seemed committed now. Winding deeper into a whirlwind of disaster and flailing arms, she steadied herself and pulled his face toward hers. Now their movements were anything
but
synchronized, and as she moved in and he tried to hold her up, she misjudged the angle and her teeth smacked hard against his lips.

“Ow!” Ray felt his top lip for blood.

“Oh, Ray,” she said, looking horrified. “I'm so sorry!”

The way she jutted her chin up just made her the more vulnerable. The lace licking her throat and wrists had his skin prickling, and his brain wondered what a sudden friction of fabric-on-fabric might feel like. For a split second, his face slightly ducked toward hers, and he thought of parting her lips, cupping her face, and giving wholly in. Every nerve and tendon in him wanted to. She obviously wanted him to.

Instead, he put a finger to his bruised lip and pushed her to arm's length.

If Jem were any other girl… But she wasn't any other girl. She was a treasure to him. So purely, delightfully inquisitive. So wide-eyed and hopeful. No, Ray would as soon throw himself through the window as take advantage of her.

But Jem had a different idea. The bold little thing tried again, nearly bowling him over. He couldn't decide whether to catch her in his arms and kiss her properly or scold her. He settled on holding her gently but firmly by the arms and smiling sadly, despite the pain in his lip and nose. “No, Jem. Such a bad idea.”

Her eyes got even bigger somehow and her face flushed.

“Jemima, you kissed me. Or tried to kiss me.”

“I thought you might want some bold gesture. I thought that's what a girl's got to do to… to… ”

Ray shushed her more harshly than he meant to, and then he rubbed his neck and exhaled. His lip really hurt. She looked so mortified. He touched her elbow gently. “
Spirito.
You've got it in spades, Jem. Courage too. You're a brave, crazy girl.”

“Oh, you must think I'm a stupid fool.”

“I like you better now than I did five minutes ago. Come, let's get you a taxi with some of that money Gavin Crawley's left you.”

Moments later, they were at the base of the fire escape. The moonlight mingled with the electric lights spilling into the alley from Yonge Street.

“I've never done that before,” Jem said.

“Thrown yourself at a strange man in a theatre?” There was a lightness in his voice.

She wouldn't meet his eyes. “Kissed anyone.”

“Well, we can't count that.” Ray shook his head. “Jem, your first kiss should be something wonderful. In a garden—a real one—with butterflies and someone who truly loves you. I… ” He looked away. “Don't waste that on me.”

They reached the end of the alley. Ray flagged a cab and it swooshed over, its veneer catching the lights of the electric marquis.

Ray beheld the contradictions in this porcelain beauty beside him. She didn't mind crossing way over the lines of propriety in so many ways, and yet she was as traditional as a Sunday School lesson in others.

He didn't want to look at her because he knew he'd hate the disappointment he saw there. But he didn't want her thinking he was cross, so he opened the door for her and pressed on a half-smile. “Good night, Miss Watts. Thank you for the tour.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. But he didn't look at her face. If their eyes met, he was sure she'd see everything, so he gazed at his shoes until the cab drove away.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

For what is religion if not a great mystery? It is nothing if not a series of clues, a key to unlocking the greatest secrets of the universe. The careful detective will spend as much time pondering the spiritual mysteries as he does on whatever singular problem has crossed his path on any given day.

Guide to the Criminal and Commonplace, M.C. Wheaton

C
rime doesn't stop just because one's mind is overtaken by the shame of a stolen kiss.
Something M.C. Wheaton
should
have written, Jem decided. She could barely keep her mind still as she walked to Spenser's the next morning. Disappointment, absolute mortification, excitement—every emotion known to man seemed to be whirling through her.

Act normal, act normal
, she told herself as she walked through the heavy doors to the mailroom. She coaxed her lips into a smile as she greeted the other girls, and she settled herself at her desk, hoping for something to jolt her out of this hopeless, purposeless daydreaming.

And just then, something did. The jolt came in the form of Tippy. She was sullen and pale, with burdened movements and bright eyes bereft of any sparkle or light. Jem was certain it was due to more than those notes she had presented to them, especially since those had seemed to stop.

Jem started staying later at Spenser's.

“Time to go, Jem,” said Tippy on Monday afternoon as the clock ticked past five o'clock.

“Oh, I don't know. I thought I would try this conscientious thing.” Jem winked at Tippy. “You're always being the model employee, so I thought maybe I can coax a raise out of old Mr. Spenser someday, eh?”

Tippy went positively pale. What could be hiding behind Tippy's jerked movements and constant anxiety? And of course Jem remembered the fuss Tippy had made on the street the other night. Jem needed to get Tippy out of there.

“How awful of me, Tippy,” she lied. “My mind is a sieve. Miss Rumsfield in shipping asked if you would bring over those boxes by the end of day. Would you mind terribly?”

Once she had their corner of the mailroom to herself, she searched through Tippy's workstation. Tippy was a master at creasing the lines of brown paper and affixing floral garlands and other touches of her craft. It almost pained Jem to rip open the package that had been set slightly aside from the others and marked with the slightest black dot.

Beneath the tissue and decoration, Jem found a bound stack of papers. She leafed through them, her eyes wide. IOUs. Bets. And unless she missed her guess, it looked like the next race at the Danforth Tracks was going to be rigged.

“What a colossal waste of time,” said Merinda, shrugging into her coat. “We come all the way out here and spend the whole evening at a ridiculous dance hall, and do you think the Morality Squad bothers to show their faces?” She grunted. “This is supposed to be Forbes's hunting ground.” She re-balanced the weight from one uncomfortable foot to the other.

“At least everyone else is having fun,” scowled Jem, taking one last look around the hall. Dozens of women loitered there, hazed with wine and without the protection of a beau, hoping for a stolen kiss or a frantic spin around the dance floor to some forbidden ragtime tune.
Instead of dancing, Jem had nursed a cup of punch and wondered why it was so easy for other girls to fall into the natural rhythm and grace of their partners' lead while she couldn't even muster up enough feminine prowess to land a decent first kiss.

Finally, having seen neither hide nor hair of the Morality Squad, they left.

Jem's heels pinched her. She pulled her gossamer wrap more tightly around her neck, suddenly conscious of the lateness of the hour.

“We're out here without an escort,” Jem said, looking around warily.

“We're
always
out without an escort.” Merinda's eyes were straight ahead.

“Never without hats and trousers. We're women tonight, Merinda. We're conspicuous.”

Jem felt a sudden jerk of movement, and she heard Merinda scream. Jem's shoulder felt like it was being wrenched out of its socket as she was dragged into an alleyway, a broad hand over her mouth. Merinda was in the shadows, shoving her way forward and lashing out heatedly against her captor.

“Looking for me?” Forbes's voice was a gravelly grunt.

“Let her go!” Merinda reached into her purse and extracted her file, which she brandished like a small knife.

Forbes merely laughed and let Jem wriggle a little, his arm held tightly across her chest. “I've got a hundred pounds on you, lady. Gonna give me a paper cut with that?”

“What do you want? Money? I don't have my change purse here but—”

“You're a nuisance.” Forbes looked from Merinda to Jem and back to Merinda again. “This little lady friend of yours is suspected of vagrancy.”

Merinda rolled her eyes. “This is almost ironic. So much for tracking Forbes down for questioning.”

“Mr. Forbes,” Jem said in a voice that—much as she tried to imbue it with strength—could only be described as mouse-like, “we would
like to verify that you are working for Mr. Montague. Further, that you are somehow involved in the Corktown Murders. Would you care to c-comment?”

Forbes spun Jem around and slapped her across the mouth.

Jem tasted blood. Her head went fuzzy and her sight momentarily blurred.

Forbes snarled. “It's a jail cell for you two. Roaming around, bold as brass.”

Merinda lunged at him. She was wiry and quick, but Forbes pinned Jem with one arm and shoved Merinda backward with the other. She fell against the brick wall behind her with a thud.

“Merinda!” Jem shouted.

Dazed, Merinda adjusted herself, felt around her on the ground for her file, and determinedly rose again. By now, Jem was crying and hiccupping. She didn't like Forbes's smell of tweed and sweat and meat or his grimy palm over her mouth.

“So this is the Morality Squad!” Merinda was red-faced and disheveled, but she laughed without mirth. “Brutally assaulting women in the name of Montague's campaign?” She was enflamed. “I've got a few words for your judge.”

“I've been watching you.” Forbes looked at Merinda. “Lady detective in there with—”

“Spare me. Let Jem go.” Merinda spread her arms. “Take me instead.”

Jem tried to protest, but all she heard were the mumbled sounds of her voice filtered through Forbes's hand. In a rare moment of strength, she opened her mouth and bit down on his thumb with all her might.

Forbes let out a holler and Merinda flew at him, piercing his shoulder with her file and pushing him away. She grabbed Jem's wrist and spun her out of the alleyway and back onto the street.

Forbes might have had a hundred pounds on them, but they were faster. They wrestled out of their icepick heels and laces and were thereby able to speed up. Jem's hair whipped around her face as her carefully constructed hairstyle came unpinned, and she pushed it
out of her eyes. She could hear the grunting Forbes picking up pace behind them.

“This was,” Merinda said breathlessly as they ran, “perhaps a… poorly planned evening.”

Jem stole a look over her shoulder. Forbes was gaining on them, holding his injured shoulder.

They reached the safety of Yonge Street and its bright lights just ahead of him. Despite the hour, the street was populated with patrons emerging from late suppers and cabs picking up their last fare of the night.