Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties) (16 page)

A joyful pleasure rushed toward the base of his spine as slender arms wrapped around his neck. Closer? Gladly, yes. He pushed her against the alcove wall. She moaned, and he swore his heart shuddered. And as he sank against her, the kiss deepened from tight and frantic to open and slow and ardent.

Nothing existed but their warm bodies and the sound of the rain outside their shadowed alcove.

His tongue slipped between her lips, just once. Testing. Then he kissed the corner of her mouth. Slid his tongue in again. Kissed the other corner. Licked the salt from her bottom lip. And, Gods above, her tongue finally joined in, rolling with his. Dancing, exploring. Tasting.

And he wanted more.

He kissed her chin, her jaw, nuzzling his way into the soft ebony hair beneath the edge of her cloche, smelling both the citrusy brightness of her shampoo and the scent of her skin. Another moan. Fingers grasped the back of his neck. One hand ghosted down the front of his coat, planting on his chest. She was touching him! Glorious, absolutely glorious. He wanted that hand inside his coat, under his shirt.

And look how well they fit together. He didn’t have to hunch over to kiss her.

“Hadley,” he murmured, kissing her cheek, one eyelid, then the next—like he was some sort of erotic priest administering a blessing with his mouth. “Hadley, Hadley, Hadley.”

Christ, he was punch-drunk with arousal, his cock hard and heavy. He rocked his hips against hers, pinning her against the wall, and had begun taking his erotic blessing south of her neck when a foghorn’s bellow made her jump. She immediately shoved him away.

They stood a foot apart, breathing heavily, mouths open.

Her knees buckled. He reached out to help her as she slid down the wall.

She flinched away from his touch.

He lifted both hands in surrender.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she insisted in a hoarse voice, pushing herself back up. She wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Hadley—”

“Oh, there’s a taxi. I really must . . .”

“Are you sure?”

“I—”

“Christ, Hadley. That was—” Amazing. Sexy. Far better than he’d imagined.

“I should go. Please call when you’re ready to . . . Trotter, you know.” Then she darted into the rain and disappeared into the taxicab at the curb. The last thing he saw was her touching the backs of her gloved fingers to her lips as the car drove away.

 • • • 

Instead of heading straight back to work, Hadley took a detour downtown and darted down the sidewalk into a shop upon whose window was painted in fine script:

M
ADAME
D
UBOIS

L
INGERIE
C
OUTURE

A bell tinkled to announce her entrance. She strode between a wooden table displaying a fanned-out selection of silky tap pants and a canvas-covered mannequin to which a half-finished nightgown was pinned. As she approached a glass display counter, a plump middle-aged woman with a perfectly coiffed silver bob looked up and smiled. “Good afternoon, Mademoiselle Bacall.”

“Madame Dubois,” she said with a nod.

The back of the tiny shop was a riot of silk, lace, and colorful spools of glossy embroidery thread. Neatly folded negligées and stockings lined the shelves behind the counter. And on the glass counter, cream boxes were stacked near a roll of apricot tissue paper. Madame Dubois’s creations were the finest in the city. They were also Hadley’s most extravagant weakness.

The scent of rose powder wafted in the air as the Parisian expat seamstress leaned over the counter, a long tape measure hanging around her neck. “And what may I do for you? Special order?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful! Your designs are some of my favorites. What shall it be today?”

Hadley’s heart fluttered faster than hummingbird wings as she unfolded a color page ripped from a recent museum exhibit program. Briefly wondering if this was how her mother had felt years ago when she’d approached the ceramic artist to commission the canopic jar designs, she smiled at Madame Dubois and said, “I’d like you to copy this . . .”

LOWE TELEPHONED HADLEY AT
work the following day to cheerfully inform her he’d found Hugo Trotter. Apparently, the alleged killer had done what many other funeral directors did when San Francisco decided land was too scarce and valuable for the funerary arts: moved his business to the nearby necropolis of Lawndale.

Hadley wasn’t all that jazzed to call on a murderer. But Lowe assured her it would be fine: Mr. Trotter had died ten years ago, so they’d be calling on his son. Hugo Junior had apparently followed in his father’s footsteps. Hopefully not the murderous ones.

Lawndale—“the City of the Silent”—was half an hour from San Francisco. And this is where the younger Mr. Trotter now ran his father’s business, the Gilded Rest Funeral Home and Crematorium. Lowe had reserved the last appointment of the following day, so that he and his “sister” could make funeral arrangements.

He provided all this information without a word about the subject that hadn’t left her thoughts since she’d left him at the wharf.

The kiss.

She’d crashed into him like she was outrunning a storm. And it was indescribably wonderful. Until she panicked. Now she teetered between the fear that it would happen again and the fear that it wouldn’t.

“I’d like to leave at four in the afternoon tomorrow, just to make sure we make it in plenty of time,” his voice said over the crackling line in her office. “We’ll be playing the role of well-to-do siblings, so you’ll need to look as if you have money.”

“I
do
have money,” she reminded him.

“And you have plenty of mourning clothes, which finally works in your favor. But wear the most expensive ones—not something you’d wear to work.”

“Yes, yes,” she said irritably, even though she could hear the teasing in his voice over the line. “It’ll look suspicious if I come to work dressed to the nines, so I suppose I’ll have to invent an excuse to leave.”

“Headache or a cold coming on,” he suggested. “I’m sure even you can dream up a lie that small.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Then I’ll pick you up outside your apartment building around four.”

“Not on Lulu,” she insisted.

“No, an actual car. Must play the part. Are you game?”

Was she?

Come the next day, she spent all afternoon trying on clothes and worrying herself into a frazzled knot. What was she supposed to do when she saw him? Pretend the kiss never happened? Angry with both herself and him, she finally picked a dress that covered up as much skin as possible. She further armored herself with gloves and fur and a brimmed hat that cast half her face in shadow. Then she took the elevator down to the lobby.

He was already waiting for her.

With the exception of a white shirt, every stitch of clothing was black, from the silk band of his fedora, to the well-cut lines of his bespoke suit, to the perfect polish of his shoes. A silver pocket watch chain looped from one button to a pocket on his vest, and his overcoat flowed to his calves.

Gone was the treasure hunter with a lawbreaking family, and in his place stood a well-to-do society man—an unbearably handsome one. Her heart hammered as if it didn’t give a damn about her fears and worries, as if it were saying:
Look! There’s the beautiful man who kissed you like you were the most desirable woman on earth. Go throw yourself at him again!

She ignored these instincts and halted several feet away. He ducked his head to catch her gaze beneath the brim of her hat, and he smiled slowly as he said, “Hello.”

Her reply sounded like the gurgle of an old drain. Dear God. He was making her stupid. Before the night was over, she’d have forgotten how to spell and count.

Dusk fell as he led her to a silver Packard out front. “Very nice,” she remarked, regaining her grasp of the English language.

“It was my mother’s,” he said, holding the passenger door open for her. “Aida’s been driving it. I switched out the license plate, just in case.”

“You did what?”

“My brother’s got a stack of them for bootlegging,” he said, as if that made it better.

The car was as beautiful inside as she was on the outside—all leather and wood and polished chrome. The two-seater’s top was up and the interior was warm. A little too warm when Lowe’s long legs stretched into the driver’s seat. He smelled clean. Like lemon and rosemary.

“What’s the story you’ve concocted?” she asked as he started the rumbling engine and pulled out of her apartment building’s entrance.

“Our older sister died. We want her cremated.”

“That’s it?”

“I don’t like to plan too far in advance,” he said. “Comes off as rehearsed. So just follow my lead and we’ll be fine.”

Easier said than done. As dusk deepened and lights began twinkling, they drove south through the city until the buildings grew shorter and farther apart, the road patchy and dotted with ruts. And all the while, a heavy silence sat between them. Until Lowe broke it.

“You look lovely.”

Her response leapt out of her mouth before she could stop it. “Yesterday was a mistake.”

“I disagree.”

“Well, it will never happen again.”

A long pause. “All right.”

She forced her twined fingers to relax and gazed out the window. Was he going to say nothing more about it? She tried again. “I’m not sure what came over me.”

“If you’re not interested, you’re not interested.”

“It’s not—”

“No need to explain yourself. Consider the matter in the past.”

She couldn’t make out his expression in the shadowed car. This was not going how she wanted it to. She struggled to put words to her thoughts, but he beat her to it.

“Glad I didn’t make a fool of myself asking you out this weekend,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Some friends of mine from the history department at Berkeley are meeting up for drinks and dancing in North Beach. I knew it wasn’t your thing, but everyone’s bringing dates.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, an old college sweetheart recently broke off her engagement and left me a couple of messages, wanting to reconnect.”

She stilled. “Oh?”

“Good old Ruby. A little wild. God knows she cheated on me left and right. But she’s fun at a party. I’ll see if she wants to go.”

Ruby. What a wretched name.

She rolled down the window to get some air as images of supper clubs and jazz bands collided in her head. Jazz bands and dancing and a wild woman who wanted to reconnect with him. A woman he’d taken to bed? Did the time they’d spent together mean so little to him that he could just shrug it off and start up with another girl?

But if she cared that much, she shouldn’t have told him their kiss was a mistake. Why did she say that, anyway? She was terrible at relationships. Part of her had given up on men entirely, and was convinced she’d never fall in love or have a family. But another part of her still hoped. The same part that lay awake at night wanting Lowe. Fantasizing he did the same for her.

Her chest ached. Raw, hurt feelings tightened her throat. Tears threatened.

“Hey,” he said in a softer voice. “You okay?”

“Just a little warm in here,” she said, calming her emotions. This was not the time to fall apart like a small child who hadn’t gotten her way. They had work to do.

“Mint?” he asked, offering her the open roll of candy in his hand.

She took three.

After the San Mateo County sign, they drove through the rural town of Lawndale, or Colma, as it used to be known. The necropolis. In the distance, rolling hills were lined with cemetery after cemetery, each privately owned and operated. Graves aside, there wasn’t much more in town but an athletic club, a train depot, and a downtown area filled with funeral homes.

Trotter’s place was a fat two-story home. The scent of cleaning fluid greeted them at the door, along with a cheerless elderly secretary, who led them into Trotter’s empty office.

“I’ll tell him you’re here,” she said, as they perched on two visitors chairs in front of an old desk. Business licenses and funerary certifications hung in dusty frames along the wall. No urns in sight, but Hadley thought she possibly detected a strange energy; another crossbar might be here.

“You need anything?” the secretary asked. “Coffee? Water? I’m just about to lock up and leave for the day.”

“Nothing, thank you,” Lowe said, sounding weary and empty. Was he already in character? Now she wished she would’ve spent the ride over pressing him for more information on his plan instead of pining over him like a lovesick girl. As soon as the secretary closed the door, Lowe leaned closer and whispered, “You don’t feel anything?”

“I don’t want to talk about that here,” she whispered back. “Later.”

“What?”

She glanced at him. “What
what
?”

“I meant the amulet crossbar. Do you feel its presence?”

Her cheeks heated. “Yes, I believe so. But it’s hard to tell. This place makes me anxious.” She took off her hat and fanned herself.

The door to the office opened, and a portly blond man wearing an ill-fitting suit entered. He looked Hadley’s age. Maybe younger. “Good evening, Mr. Smith,” he said to Lowe, extending his hand. “I’m Bill Trotter.”

Lowe shook and said, “This is my sister, Ruby.”

Ruby?
His nightclub floozy? What in the world was he playing at?

“Miss Smith,” the young funeral director said, bowing his head. “I’m very sorry for your loss.” He didn’t sound all that sorry. If she didn’t know any better, she might think he was looking her over. That didn’t happen often. Maybe he recognized a kindred spirit whose life work also centered on death. “Won’t you please sit down? I’ll try to make this as easy for you as possible.”

The man’s chair creaked as he lowered himself into it. “Mr. Smith, I believe you told my secretary that your sister passed two days ago?”

“Poor Esmerelda,” Lowe said. “We came home to find her bludgeoned on the parlor floor.”

“Robbery?”

“Nothing was taken, so we don’t really know why it happened. Only that she wasn’t a well-liked person, to be honest. Always shooting her mouth off. There was no love between the three of us.” He grasped Hadley’s hand on the armrest; she had to fight every instinct not to jerk it back. “Ruby and I are close. We felt an obligation to take care of Esmerelda, even though she’s only our half sister. But I won’t lie—it’ll be more pleasant around the house now that we can keep her contained, so to speak.”

Good heavens. Lowe was telling the man a version of his own father’s myth—Hugo Trotter’s siblings were bludgeoned and stabbed.

“I hope you don’t find my honesty off-putting,” Lowe added.

“Not at all, Mr. Smith. Not everyone who walks in this door is wracked with grief.” He gave Hadley another glance. Or her legs, at least. She crossed them in the opposite direction and rearranged her dress over her knee.

Lowe cleared his throat. “Since I don’t want to waste your time, I’ll get right to the point. Esmerelda’s body isn’t viewable, which is why we’d like her cremated. But she did leave us a great deal of her father’s fortune, so we’d like to”—he gave Hadley a secret smile—“shall I tell him, dear?”

“Please do.” She had no idea where he was going with this ruse.

“Well, we’d like something extravagant to hold Esmerelda’s ashes. A showpiece—not your usual fare. Something we can put on a shelf and raise a glass to now and then. Money is no object, God rest her soul.”

Trotter brightened. “I’m sure we can find something to meet your needs. I have several unique pieces in stock. Would you like to see them?” He gave Hadley a hopeful smile. And another glance at her legs. Maybe he really was smitten with her.

They followed Mr. Trotter into a small showroom that featured a variety of urn options lined on shelves. Small paper placards provided pricing. A few of the urns were gaudy, but no strange energy, and no canopic jars.

“These are nice,” Lowe said, running his hand along the marble of the most expensive urn on the wall. “But what we had in mind was something exotic. Maybe something Roman or Greek. Something classic.”

“Something sculpted,” Hadley added.

Trotter’s brow lifted. “You know, my aunt Hilda’s urn sounds a little like that. Only, it’s sculpted in an Egyptian fashion. I—”

“O-oh, Egyptian,” Lowe said, as if it were the most intriguing thing in the world. “That’s very exotic. What do you think, Ruby?”

What she thought was that she wanted to brain him over the head with the marble urn he was stroking. “Egyptian would be perfect.”

Trotter chuckled. “Well, I can’t exactly dump out her ashes and sell it to you.”

“Of course not,” Lowe said with a smile. “But would it be too much trouble for us to take a look at it? Might give us a better idea of what we want. As I said, money is no object.”

Trotter jingled change in his pocket as he rocked back on his heels. “Well . . .”

Lowe elbowed Hadley discreetly. She looked up at him and elbowed him back. He made an urgent face, dramatically flicking his eyes toward the funeral director when the man wasn’t looking. She took a guess as to what he wanted her to do.

“Oh, please, Mr. Trotter,” she said, trying her best to sound like a fetching young girl with nothing inside her head. “It would mean so much to us. So much to me.”