“Yes, but what’s the saying—‘Any publicity is good publicity’? So why would having the sordid details of their breakup splashed across the front page of The Hollywood Reporter harm her career?”
“Sweetie, she jumped into bed with L.A.’s most notorious psychiatrist, who was in the middle of being sued for sexual harassment by his client. That doesn’t exactly make her look stable. And whereas the general consensus was that you deserved sympathy, given Ryland’s slimy morals, I’m sure most folks thought Didi had a screw loose. If I were a film producer with two hundred million of my investors’ cash at stake and a bonding company to keep happy, I’d think twice about casting her.”
Jordan sighed. “You may be right, but she has an alibi.”
“Wait and see what the PI turns up—I’ll bet she’s lying. My money is on her infamous temper.”
“Well, I can vouch for the temper,” Jordan said wryly.
“You sure I can’t visit for a few days and at least provide moral support?”
Jordan thought about the wisteria and the gritty film that had settled over everything. Definitely not Carol’s preferred milieu.
“I’ve got two words for you,” she replied. “Plaster dust.”
“I just became the least supportive best friend you’ve ever had.”
“I thought you’d see it that way.” She flipped the phone shut, setting it on the nightstand next to her bed.
Given the revelations of the day, she felt eerily calm. Of course, there was probably only so much stress her nervous system could take before it completely shut down its fight-or-flight response. Maybe she was a walking zombie at this point. So the possibility loomed that she might hang just like Frank Lewis, for a crime she didn’t commit. So what? So there were a few extra ghosts populating her reality. Not a problem.
She changed into sweats. Glancing out the bay window, she noted that Frank hadn’t stirred from his post across the street. Their gazes locked for one long moment, and he inclined his head. She closed the fragile lace sheers, ridiculously reassured that he was standing watch for the night.
Climbing into bed, she turned on a lamp and started thumbing through the stack of memoirs and diaries on her nightstand. She’d already read Greeley’s diary and hadn’t found anything of note, but she still had those volumes of Hattie’s diary she’d found earlier to finish. Pulling them from the stack, she settled back against the pillows.
Maybe before she landed on death row, she could clear another suspect’s name.
The Abduction
MORE than two days had passed, and Frank hadn’t regained consciousness. The increasing fear that he wouldn’t awaken at all had Hattie’s nerves stretched as thin as the thread the girls were using to sew Charlotte’s new gown. Sleepless nights were taking an additional toll.
Hattie sat in the chair beside the bed in the waning afternoon light, reading Henry James aloud and hoping Frank could hear her voice. Exhaustion had her stumbling over the lyrical prose; she could only hope the famous author would forgive her.
Her life felt as if it were temporarily suspended. Surely Frank would awaken, and he would remember the names of his attackers. But until then, she felt as if she were useless, doing nothing more than waiting.
Timothy had shown up faithfully each morning to report on the prior day’s business at Longren Shipping, and she’d taken bits of time away from the attic to have him help her decipher the files she’d brought home after her last visit to the office. She now knew that Longren Shipping made regular payments to a vendor whose name was unknown to the Port Chatham business community. In all likelihood, that vendor was no more than a dummy account to accumulate the cash skimmed by Clive Johnson. But she needed more proof to make any formal accusation of wrongdoing. Her only hope was that Frank had managed to discover more before he’d been attacked, and that he would eventually be able to tell her what he knew.
The girls had proceeded with their plans to make Charlotte’s gown for Eleanor’s soirée, which was scheduled to occur the next evening. They’d even sewn a beautiful mourning gown for Hattie, made from the mousseline de soie and trimmed in dark green velvet. She would wear her dark green velvet cape as a wrap, though she knew it would likely cause Eleanor’s eyebrows to inch ever higher. But the excitement over the upcoming social event had yet to take hold of Hattie—she couldn’t think past the moment when Frank might awaken.
She’d struggled through a portion of the next chapter in James’s Portrait of a Lady when she felt rather than heard a slight shift of the blankets. She looked up, her voice trailing off midsentence, to find Frank’s eyes open and fixed on her, his expression confused and grimacing with pain.
She dropped the novel on the blanket and reached out to grip his hand in both of hers. “Don’t try to move—your ribs are broken, and you have a concussion. Do you understand?”
“Yes … water?”
She poured a small amount into a glass from the pitcher on the table next to his cot, then held it to his lips so that he could swallow.
He leaned back against the pillows, exhausted by the effort. “Where?” His voice was hoarse from disuse.
“You’re in my attic, and safe for now,” she said softly. “No one knows where you are.”
He nodded slightly, closing his eyes.
“Frank, who did this to you?”
“Don’t … know. There were … four.” Each word seemed to tax him further, bring him ever more pain. “Seavey’s … I think.”
“Mona is asking around. We’ll get names, then I’ll take them to Greeley.”
“No.” He opened his eyes, his expression fierce. “Too dangerous … Greeley … paid by Seavey.”
His agitation increased, and she strove to reassure him. “Very well, I won’t go to the police.”
One corner of his mouth rose. “You … must’ve been very worried … aren’t arguing with me.”
She laughed softly. “I’m fine, now that you’re awake. Do you know why you were attacked?”
“Know … too much. Seavey … Johnson bribing boardinghouses … Johnson started fire …” His voice trailed away, then he seemed to rouse himself. His grip tightened on her fingers. “Henry James … kept hearing your voice … brought me back.”
She smiled. “Rest.”
“Don’t leave …”
“I won’t,” she promised.
* * *
SHE left his side only after his breathing had deepened, and only long enough to return to the second-floor parlor to pen a note. She rang for Sara. “Have Charlotte and Tabitha deliver this to Dr. Willoughby at once. Also, prepare some chamomile tea—strong enough to mask the flavor of laudanum, if possible.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Sara slipped the note into her skirt pocket, then fidgeted.
“Yes, what is it?” Hattie asked impatiently.
“Mrs. Starr is at the kitchen entrance again, asking to see you.”
“Ah. Bring her to me, please.”
“Is that wise, ma’am?”
“For heaven’s sake, Sara! Do as I say!”
Sara fled, leaving Hattie feeling guilty for having snapped at her. The housekeeper only had her best interests at heart. An apology was in order, she feared. She rubbed her face, exhausted.
At the telltale swish of satin skirts, she dropped her hands back to her lap. “Please come in, Mrs. Starr.”
“You really should call me Mona.” She walked over to the chair next to the fire. “And how is our patient this evening?”