Shrouded In Thought (Gilded Age Mysteries Book 2) (23 page)

“Given how much he prizes his reputation, I just can’t imagine Martin Allworthy making eyes at anybody!” Freddie registered surprise.

“Well, frankly, neither can I, but it’s worth pursuing just in case. Something you told me right after Nora was drowned sticks in my mind. It was something about flowers. Something her roommate said. Do you have that infernal notebook of yours around anywhere?”

Freddie leaped to his feet triumphantly. “See, I always told you it would come in handy someday!” He dashed off to the dining room where he had unceremoniously thrown his suit jacket over the back of a chair. Diving his hand into the pocket, he withdrew his most prized possession and returned to the parlor.

By this time Evangeline had tilted her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes, steeling herself for the unendurable minutiae. “Read!” she commanded. “Read out loud to me everything you wrote down right after Nora died.”

With great enthusiasm and various vocal pitches to mimic the people he had interviewed that day, Freddie read. When he got to his conversation with Sophie Simms, Evangeline sat up.

“Stop!” she ordered. “Stop right there.” She passed her hand across her forehead. “So Nora had been receiving flowers from an anonymous someone who called himself her ‘greatest admirer.’”

“That’s what it says.” Freddie pointed to his notebook as if it contained holy scripture and was, therefore, incontrovertible truth.

“Perhaps I might be able to fit a face to the man with no name. Did you write down Miss Sophie’s address?”

“Of course,” Freddie replied with wounded dignity. His thoroughness as a reporter had been callously impugned by the question.

“Would you be so good as to jot it down for me?” his friend inquired patiently.

Freddie scribbled out the address and handed it to her.

“And she said the flowers were always delivered from a shop around the corner?”

“Yes, but I don’t have the address to that.”

Evangeline shrugged. “It shouldn’t be hard to find. It may even be printed on the cards. Let’s hope that Miss Sophie is the sentimental type.”

Freddie raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Let’s hope she hasn’t tossed them out. I’d like to get a look at those cards and talk to that florist.”

“What do you think you’ll find out?”

She tilted her head to the side, considering the question. “Perhaps something, perhaps nothing.” Without warning, Evangeline stood up to go. She slipped on her gloves and marched in the general direction of the exit with the young man rushing to catch up. “If I’m very lucky I should be able to find out whether Nora’s greatest admirer had gray hair or blond.”

Her friend held the door open for her.

She glanced back briefly into the apartment. “Your apartment is quite nice, Freddie. It will do very well to entertain company. Thank you for the tea.” She briefly eyed the mismatched china. “Once again, let me advise you to engage a valet, dear boy.” She patted him on the cheek as she left. “At the earliest possible opportunity. There really are some necessities one shouldn’t live without.”

Chapter 21—Gone For Evermore

Freddie regarded his trip to the Evermore Club with far less trepidation than the last journey Evangeline had commanded him to make to the levee during their previous detecting adventure. Having survived Mother Connelly’s shabby house of sin, he considered himself a veteran of the worst the red light district could offer. He even neglected to wear a disguise this time, so confident was he of his own investigative powers.

The Evermore Club, while still part of the first ward, refused to be classed with the ramshackle sporting houses and third-rate saloons that constituted the old levee, Little Cheyenne, which extended only as far south as
Harrison Street
. With genteel disdain for their downscale competition,
Ada
and Minna Evermore had withdrawn farther south to the new levee, or the Tenderloin as it was called, where they had leased a three-story, fifty-room mansion and decorated it with a splendor hitherto unknown in such establishments.

Freddie, through apocryphal stories told by other reporters, knew something of the history of the owners. The Evermore sisters, who had both made less than blissful marriages, had pragmatically concluded some years back that the prospect of being beaten and robbed by strangers was less of a certainty than being beaten and robbed by their own spouses. They therefore pooled their resources, abandoned said spouses to their own unnatural devices, and opened a house of prostitution in
Omaha
. There they met with such success that they decided they were ready for the big city, whereupon they opened the Evermore Club in
Chicago
. They had, of course, wisely decided not to use their actual surname in this venture. The alias was a private joke, since their grandmother had always chosen to end letters to her nearest and dearest with the words ‘Evermore yours.’

While Freddie felt less dismay about this visit, he couldn’t completely eliminate a certain degree of nervousness since he had never set foot in Tenderloin territory before. He decided the likelihood of running into anyone he knew was more remote if he scheduled his visit for the middle of the afternoon at which time he took a cab to the address in the 2100 block of
South Dearborn
. After climbing out of the hack and paying the driver, he found himself standing before a sedate and imposing edifice that looked for all the world as if it could have been the home of one of
Chicago
’s richest business tycoons. The business which was conducted in the building would never have been guessed from the outside. Only its proximity to the exotic House of All Nations, which Freddie knew was not a foreign embassy, might lead one to guess its purpose.

He rang the doorbell and was totally unprepared for what greeted him. Instead of a blowsy woman in a kimono, the door was opened by a butler with an English accent.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the butler said. “Please step in.”

In awe and wonderment Freddie walked into the foyer. The floor was inlaid with glossy teakwood parquet, covered by antique oriental carpeting. A young woman in a chiffon frock descended the staircase and crossed the foyer to enter one of the closed rooms on the first floor. “Good afternoon,” she said, nodding pleasantly as she walked past Freddie. He stood gawking after her. She wore her hair curled in blond ringlets and reminded him of Ophelia Cartwright, the daughter of one of his mother’s oldest friends. He remembered dancing with Ophelia at a cotillion once. He also remembered imagining at the time what it would be like to—

He shook himself out of his forbidden reverie when he noticed two other young woman walking down the front hall, whispering and giggling to one another. They smiled and greeted Freddie with great civility as they passed. Certain he had made a mistake, the young man took a slip of paper out of his pocket to check the address he’d written down. It seemed to him he had wandered into a young ladies’ finishing school and not the Evermore Club.

“This... this is... the... uh... Evermore Club, isn’t it?” he stammered to the butler.

“Yes sir, it is. May I show you to the wine room for some refreshment? Or perhaps you would care to view the art collection first. May I take your hat and gloves for you, sir?”

“You’re sure this is the Evermore Club?” the young man persisted.

“Quite sure, sir. I have been employed here for some time.” The butler’s voice was grave. “There can be no mistake.”

Freddie took a deep breath and collected his wits. “I’d like to see one of the Misses Evermore, if you don’t mind.”

“Do you have an appointment, sir?”

The young man decided that such a conversation occurring in such a place as this could be classified among the greatest oddities he had ever experienced.

“An appointment? To see a ...” He trailed off, realizing that what he almost said could be construed as offensive. “Uh, that is, I mean, do I really need an appointment?”

The butler took Freddie’s hat and gloves and disposed of them in the foyer closet. He returned and straightened his jacket fastidiously. “The ladies keep a very busy schedule, sir. Miss Ada is not in the house at present, and Miss Minna is immersed in paperwork.”

Freddie tried a less impertinent approach. “Could you inquire of Miss Minna if she is at liberty to speak to a visitor? I won’t take much of her time. Fifteen minutes, no more.”

The butler looked him over, obviously judging his rank from the cut of his suit. The verdict was that he was probably a gentleman and a potential customer whom Miss Minna would not want shown to the door too hastily.

“I’ll just see, sir. Whom shall I say is calling?”

Freddie fumbled quickly for his calling card case and handed a card to the butler.

The servant glanced at it. “If you’ll be good enough to wait here, Mr. Simpson.”

“Of course, of course. Thank you, my good man!” Freddie felt a flood of relief.

After the butler departed, the young man’s eyes wandered around the foyer. He felt like a prize yokel who had just come to the big city for the first time. He gaped up at the ceiling chandelier which contained about a thousand cut crystal prisms. Freddie then glanced off to an open parlor on his left. He couldn’t help but notice the piano. It appeared to be made of gold—solid gold. The heavy draperies that graced the front windows were of gold thread. His jaw dropped open. He had originally believed the brochures to be an exaggeration but after being struck by opulence from every side, he rather thought them to be an understatement.

The butler startled him by padding up noiselessly on the plush hall carpet. “Miss Minna can spare you a few moments now if you’ll step this way, sir.”

Freddie gawked and gaped his way down the hall past every open parlor door. One had copper walls with brass wainscoting. Another was ornamented entirely in gold—gold curtains, gilt furniture, gold-leaf wallpaper, and, of course, a gold spittoon in the corner.

At the very end of the hall, he was led into an office with a massively carved claw-foot walnut desk. Behind it sat a tiny woman of about forty, dressed conservatively in a striped silk shirtwaist and black skirt. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a simple pompadour which called attention to her pearl teardrop earrings. A gold pince-nez was perched on her nose as she made some notes in a ledger book before her. She looked up and removed the pince-nez when she saw her visitor had arrived. Rising, she came around the desk and extended a tiny, beringed hand in greeting. “Mr. Simpson, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

Freddie stepped forward, bowing slightly as he took her hand. “Ma’am, the honor is all mine.” He registered a sense of the absurdity of the conversation. “First allow me to say how overwhelmed I am by the splendor of your... uh... house.”

Minna Evermore resumed her seat and gestured for Freddie to take a chair in front of the desk. She smiled. “Thank you, we’ve tried very hard, my sister and I, to make this place a cut above the average. Might I offer you some sherry, Mr. Simpson, or perhaps—”

“No, nothing, thank you, ma’am.” He cut in precipitously before she offered him something more awkward to decline. “If I might ask. I noticed a few young ladies as I came in. They were very well-dressed. They aren’t... uh... that is, I mean, what do they do here?”

Miss Evermore laughed. “They are escorts for the gentlemen who come to this establishment. Some of the gentlemen find their company so captivating that they manage to while away entire evenings together.”

Freddie felt his eyes grow round as saucers. “But they were so... so...”

“Ladylike?” Minna completed the thought. “I’m pleased you think so since that was our intention. All our girls take elocution and etiquette lessons. Our clientele is the crème de la crème of
Chicago
society. You understand we serve only the best people. There’s no reason why someone engaged in this line of work needs to act badly or be treated badly. All our girls act like ladies, and I insist that the gentlemen who patronize this establishment treat them as such.”

Evidently noticing that the look of surprise had not left Freddie’s face, Miss Evermore decided to elucidate the point further. “Do you know what it costs to visit the wine room here, Mr. Simpson?”

“Why, no, I can’t say that I do.”

“Ten dollars. We keep a very good cellar in this house. Dinner costs about fifty dollars, as would an evening with one of the ladies.”

“Fifty dollars!” Freddie gasped in wonderment. “Holy Moses!”

“A bit too rich for your blood perhaps?” Miss Evermore smiled in amusement.

“No, I didn’t mean that. That isn’t why I’m here anyway but... fifty dollars... holy Moses!”

“It serves a dual purpose. The rates allow us to make a comfortable living and also help thin out the riff-raff we don’t wish to attract as part of our clientele.”

“I see.” Freddie still couldn’t shake his sense of amazement. “You really must know your business, Miss Evermore, but I have to say you just don’t seem the sort of woman who—”

“Who chooses not to be mistreated by a man, Mr. Simpson?” Sighing, she stood up to walk around the room as she spoke. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the world seems to be skewed to the benefit of the male sex. Small wonder that is, since the laws were made by men. Before there were laws, I expect they just bullied women into doing what they wanted. Nature seems to have given them the muscular advantage to have their way in most things.” She laughed sardonically. “As far as I can determine, there’s only one profession in this wide world where that balance of power seems to be reversed in favor of the ladies.” She ran her hand across the back of Freddie’s chair as she walked past. “When it comes to affairs of the... shall we say, heart, it’s a different matter altogether.”

Minna Evermore resumed her seat. “I am a social realist, Mr. Simpson. Not being the sentimental type I don’t get tangled up in the Divine Destiny of True Womanhood and other such philosophical nonsense. As long as men continue to be men, we poor women must make our way in the world as best we can.” She looked around the office speculatively for a moment. “Someday
Ada
and I will retire to a quiet little town somewhere. Two maiden ladies with a substantial fortune between them and no past to speak of. In a few years. At this point, a very, very few.”

Freddie was struck by the fact that Evangeline probably shared more views in common with Minna Evermore than his friend realized. He smiled. “I have a lady friend, Miss Evermore, who really ought to meet you.”

The proprietress shrugged. “Well, if she’s young, attractive, and can conduct herself like a lady, she may apply for employment here.”

Freddie laughed out loud at the thought. “No, that isn’t exactly what I meant. She’s more the suffragette type.”

“Unfortunately, that attitude really isn’t good for our business.” Miss Evermore’s face was solemn.

“No, I wouldn’t expect so,” Freddie murmured in agreement. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Evermore, you must be the J. Pierpont Morgan of your profession.”

Minna Evermore smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Simpson, that’s quite gratifying to hear. One should always try to do one’s best.” She hesitated,
 
eyeing the ledger book in front of her. “I’m sorry to be abrupt, but as you can see I have a great deal of work left to do this afternoon. Would you be kind enough to state the nature of your business?”

With a start, Freddie realized that he’d become so distracted by everything he saw and heard that he’d completely forgotten his errand. “Oh, I am sorry. I’m here because I’d like some information.”

The woman behind the desk raised one corner of her mouth in a skeptical demi-smile. “Information is a valuable commodity, Mr. Simpson, like some other commodities I have for sale in my house. It may carry a heavy price tag, depending on the nature of the question. What is it you wish to know?”