The Bachelor Girl's Guide to Murder (25 page)

Carefully designed to mirror the elegant world-class theatres in New York and Chicago, Tertius Montague is happy to have personally financed the grand Winter Garden Theatre. An invitation-only gala tonight will give Toronto's finest their first peek into what Montague and his designers assure us is a breathtaking whiff of a summer garden, even as the winter drags on.

The Hogtown Herald

W
hat are you doing?”

Merinda looked up from her desk as Jem entered, divesting herself of her damp coat and stomping her boots to rid them of snow.

“Nothing much,” Merinda said. She picked up the notecard on which she'd been writing and leaned back, blowing on it to dry the ink.

Jem walked over and leaned over Merinda's shoulder, squinting to see what was written on the card. “Request the honor of your presence… grand opening… Winter Garden Theatre…
Martina
Forth! Merinda! Who's Martina?”

“I am,” Merinda said matter-of-factly. “You've weaseled your way into the event on Golden Boy Crawley's arm, but I'm not letting you go on your own.”

“So how… ”

“This is Jasper's father's invitation,” Merinda said with a roll of her eyes. “Honestly, Jem, you can be such a simpleton sometimes. Mr.
Forth is infirm, and he was all too pleased to part with his invitation. It's a simple matter to change
Martin
to
Martina
.”

“I can see that,” Jem said sarcastically.

Thereafter followed an hour of frenzied preparation, in which Merinda put on a yellow gauzy dress frilled with lace and Jem dressed in a similar one in blue. As Jem powdered her nose, Merinda tucked an ivory-handled pistol into her handbag.

The electric lights of Yonge winked at them alluringly. Even as they stepped off the streetcar, Jem could see the marquis of the theatre, far larger than its predecessor, attracting them from a block away.

The entrance to the theatre was bright and beautiful. On either side of the grand foyer the names of great composers and playwrights were ensconced in marble. A staircase led up to French doors with polished handles. They passed inside and followed the queue to the left of the golden lifts that would propel them to the second floor and the Winter Garden Theatre. The flash and pop of several cameras met them—Skip McCoy's among them. He spotted them, waved, and moved his way across the red carpeted foyer. “Miss Herringford! Miss Watts!”

“Quite a crowd, Skip!” Merinda said, taking in the whirlwind of music and laughter.

“This place has a secret, you know.” He looked between them.

“A ghost?” wondered Merinda.

“A tunnel. Did you know there's a tunnel that goes straight under here, and all the way under the Dominion Bank, and comes out at Massey Hall?”

“Whatever for?” asked Jem.

“Something to do with the War of 1812. In case there was a siege or something. I always think of it, though. Whenever I'm here.”

He continued on about its dimensions but Merinda, bored, shuffled Jem away, leaving Skip talking to himself.

Merinda and Jem merged with the throng in the foyer. Waiters rotated in a glistening carousel of poised silver trays and crystal champagne flutes. At the heart of the crowd, they spotted Henry Tipton, chief of police, clinking glasses with Tertius Montague.

“It's stuffy and boring here,” Merinda complained. Her eyes danced around the room for something exciting. She swiped two flutes of champagne from a waiter and handed one to Jem.

“Misses Herringford and Watts, the city's favorite bachelor girl detectives.” Gavin Crawley said it loudly and a few onlookers inched closer.

Jem blushed. Merinda laughed. Jem had no idea they had attracted the following they had. It would appear that Ray's articles in the
Hog
enjoyed several readers among the affluent. He'd be thrilled.

“Mr. Crawley, how pleasant.” Jem responded with false sincerity as the crowd fringed back into their conversations and Gavin lifted Jem's hand to his lips. Jem still wasn't sure how to talk to him. How had she let Merinda let her get in this deeply? She looked to her friend for support, but Merinda was sipping champagne.

“When Tertius Montague is duly elected,” Gavin said, raising his voice so as to keep those near within hearing, “he will assure that all females—all who would be so inclined—are kept from defacing the city's moral code with their ridiculous antics. Especially”—and here he narrowed his eyes at Merinda—“those who try their hands at a man's job in a business they have no right to be in.”

Merinda seethed. “You're courting this fool?” she said to Jem.

Jem shrugged sheepishly, wanting to remind Merinda for the umpteenth time that she had wanted to cut ties with the cad weeks ago.

“Jem,” Gavin said, taking her hand and leading her toward the buffet, “you won't always need to dash after Merinda to earn your bread, you know. Nor will you need to be seen out in ridiculous men's clothing.”

“What about the immigrant women? Are you going to help them too? You and Tertius Montague? And what about me, Gavin, who—”

“Shh. Jem. You're getting ahead of yourself. And,” he said with disapproval, “sounding far too much like your friend.”

“That's not such a bad thing, Gavin.”

“It is to me.”

How much longer would she have to play this game? “I don't think we've ever wanted the same things, Gavin. Not where it counts. I don't believe in what you've made for yourself, and I don't believe in the man you are backing.”

“Montague is the future of the city, Jemima. He proved it in his last term.”

“I disagree,” said Jem. “He hasn't yet learned that the world is spinning out of his control and that he can't put walls in place to stall its progress.”

“You want Toronto to be overrun by crime? Festering with an influx of out-of-work vagabonds?”

“Families,” Jem corrected. “With children. Wanting something new.”

Gavin took her hands and spun her to the side of the mirrored foyer. “Jem, you would see the way I do if only you would tear yourself away from that friend of yours. There is some fire in you that goes with that sweetness. You can make me a better man, and I can give you the life you want.”

Jem's brain spun. The life she wanted? What did Gavin know of the life she wanted? “What life is that, Gavin?” Strauss and strawberries, monogrammed serviettes, her parents' approval. Matching dishes from the Spenser's catalogue.

“A few babies,” he said. “A beautiful home. How about a garden to rival the Winter Garden here? A man to worship you.” His eyes wandered over her. “Your friend wouldn't understand. You know, you
are
allowed to give up the life she has tied you into for your own self-preservation, Jem.”

“Is this a proposal?”

Gavin took a sip of champagne. “Do you want it to be?”

Before she could respond, a man in coattails announced that Tertius Montague would now receive guests in the lobby. Gavin joined the surge in that direction, and Jem was able to slip away.

Ray shoved his hands deep into his pockets. Every sinew in him ached to cry out and reveal Mayor Montague for the fraud he was. Scratch that—the entire night was a fraud. Montague and his business cronies were out to save pennies at the expense of women like Viola and men like Lars. What a sham, this need for the flounces and fervor, the lights and the promenade. He kept his tirade to himself, though, and observed. Reporters observed. His eyes traveled around the room, and he saw faces familiar, faces new, and faces that looked a lot like…

Jem and Merinda. Seeing them here where they shouldn't be was like a phonograph skipping over the same portion of music again and again. A smile couldn't help but flicker up the side of his face. He assumed Jem had been given an invitation by Gavin, but he wondered how Merinda had gotten in.

Jem was talking to Gavin, her shoulders rising as Gavin leaned into her. She folded her arms, then, in a most unladylike way, even in a pretty blue dress. This was the opposite of the Jem who had thrown her arms around him and rammed her lips against his and blushed to high heaven.

Gavin may have had the pedigree and background Ray desired, but he didn't have the heart of Jem Watts.

Alexander Waverley, editor of the
Globe,
stood before the crowd and announced Mayor Tertius Montague. Ray looked over and around top hats and feathers for a glimpse.

“In just a few moments,” Montague boomed in his tenor voice, “it will be my privilege to introduce the garden I have waiting for you. The Winter Garden Theatre.”

Enthusiastic applause followed.

Montague proceeded to speak about the construction of the theatre and the tireless efforts of its workers. He made sure to mention how it rivaled similar structures in Chicago and New York. He
reiterated how the Elgin spanned a full city block in length, testament to the city's cultural sophistication.

Despite his bold words, Ray thought the mayor appeared nervous. Montague brought his handkerchief up and wiped his brow. This intrigued Ray, who had never seen the mogul anything but supremely confident. Why would he be anxious now, when the city was all but crowning him with the laurels of victory—not only for the mayoral race but also for his contribution to the city's architectural endowment?

“The Winter Garden Theatre is the icing on the cake,” Montague said, folding his handkerchief away. “The Elgin and the Winter Garden will be accessible to everyone. There will be discounted prices for Wednesday matinees and Sunday afternoons.”

Even the rich of Toronto, in their sateen and starched collars, applauded this show of benevolence.

Waverley stepped forward again and instructed the crowd to enjoy the buffet and conversation for another hour before proceeding to the second floor for the unveiling of the Winter Garden Theatre.

Ray kept to the side of the foyer as the crowd milled about. Swishes of satin and lace whisked passed him and up the grand staircase. At the top of the stairs, a chamber quartet launched into a Boccherini piece.

Skip was soon at his side, working with the plate in his camera and hoisting the stand. “Got some good pictures tonight, Mr. DeLuca.”

“Get some of Montague mingling, will you? In his element with all of this liquor and food.”

Skip nodded and set off.

Ray heard a small voice calling his name. It was high-pitched and rather desperate. He turned and found a young woman standing before him.

“You're that fellow from the
Hog
.”

“Yes.” Ray noticed she wasn't dressed to the nines, as were the other patrons. He assumed she'd winnowed her way into the event somehow.

“My name is Tippy. I have information on Tertius Montague and Gavin Crawley that you might find interesting.”

He leaned forward. “Why not go to the police?”

“They wouldn't listen to me.”

Ray shrugged. “I suppose not. Then, why not come to my office? It can't have been easy to get inside this gala.”

“It couldn't wait.” Tippy replied.

He led her out of the grand foyer and out to the street. Halfway down Yonge they paused under a streetlight.

“At first, I thought he was legitimate,” Tippy said. “Gavin. He was a reporter. I had seen his name in the paper. He promised me money and trinkets if I did a few things for him. He told me he was doing some work to uncover corruption in the mayor's office. A kind of undercover assignment. One night, after I'd started slipping envelopes for him, he took me to Grace Street for supper. A quiet place. Just us with candles and wine, and I actually thought he might propose.”

Ray knew where this was going. He took off his hat and scratched the back of his head.

“He told me everything. His family history. His dire financial straits. He used the mailroom for bribes and to pay his bookies. I did it for him gladly. We had all been in a tough spot, and he was turning his world around. He was going to change the city with his paper. And he cared for me.” She held her arms tight around herself, looking small. “Mr. DeLuca?”