“Cassie, is that you?” her father called from the parlor.
Cursing silently to herself, Cassie descended the stairs. Once in the parlor door, she said cheerily, “How are you, father?”
He unfolded himself from his favorite armchair in the corner. Her father was a large man, tall and hefty, and his height translated to a lankiness in his daughter that could be either elegant or awkward, depending on the moment.
“Where the devil have you been?” he asked. “I have a young man coming over for supper tonight.”
Cassie groaned. “Who is it this time?”
“A young man from my office. He’s the new amanuensis to the mayor. Quite capable, not bad looking.” Seeing Cassie’s pained expression, he added, “You should feel lucky he’s coming. There aren’t many men who are interested in a maid of nearly eight-and-twenty.”
“That’s exactly why I’m groaning. He’s either an ogre or he’s just trying to ingratiate himself with you.” Her father had been prominent in New York City politics for decades, and she had seen enough men grovel at his feet to know exactly how the system worked.
“I have to make sure you’re taken care of. Without your mother here—”
“I know, I know. I’m taking care of myself, though, remember?”
“I think you’ll find one day that taking care of yourself is not all it’s cracked up to be.”
She refused to be dragged into this argument once again. “I must go up and change to be prepared to greet our guest.” She turned and stomped up the stairs to her room.
***
Still fuming, Cassie had Lacey bring out her third-best dress, a green muslin with no lace. She didn’t want this Mr. Whoever-it-was to think she was trying to impress him.
When he arrived, she was glad she hadn’t made much effort. He was, as her father had described, not bad looking: about thirty-five, balding, but with a fine nose and kind eyes. Irish, like so many in the New York political machine. She couldn’t help but compare him unfavorably in looks but favorably in temperament to the other Irishman she had met that day, the rude but handsome Mr. O’Neill.
Once they had tucked into dessert and exhausted all the usual dull subjects—the weather, the next election, Cassie’s many feminine accomplishments that might entice a suitor—Cassie ventured into new territory. “Do either of you know about the Tiatelli family?”
Her father coughed. “Where on earth did you hear that name?”
“It came up in a story I’m writing.”
“Tell Mr. Ellerbee you won’t be doing those kinds of stories any more. Stay away from them. Horrible people.”
Cassie, of course, had no intention of staying away from any of it. “What about Mr. Horace Walker?”
Her father frowned. “Who’s he?”
“Nobody.” His answer to her question had told her enough. To salvage the conversation, she added, “His wife wrote a cookery book.”
“Ah, I see.” Her father relaxed, comfortable with this line of inquiry. “I’m sure he’s a fine fellow. Now, where on earth is the brandy?”
***
Mr. Ellerbee scanned the page of copy Cassie had written about Mrs. Walker’s success. When he finished, he looked up at Cassie. “Well done, Miss Woods. Right at the desired length, as usual. I’ll get it over to the copyeditors right away.”
“And it will run in tomorrow’s edition?”
“I believe so. Unless we need to cut for space. But it’s been a rather slow news week.”
“Wonderful. About the article, I mean, not the news.”
“Right.”
Cassie stood awkwardly and hurried out. Mr. Ellerbee hadn’t caught the clue she had slipped into the book review to aid her investigation. A phrase casually inserted at the beginning: “Mrs. Walker, née Tiatelli.” A phrase designed to put whoever was paying attention on notice that Cassie Woods was on the case.
She smiled to herself as she settled back at her desk.
***
The first result came the next morning, when she received an urgent note from Mr. Greene after he had read the morning’s paper.
Miss Woods—
I read your article this morning and see you failed to mention Mrs. Walker’s disappearance. I did, however, note your inclusion of Mrs. Walker’s maiden name. I don’t know who told you about that, but I assure you it has nothing to do with the current situation. I demand you cease and desist and stay away from my client in the future.
Mr. Greene, Esq.
A hand rapped on Cassie’s desk. Startled, she looked up from contemplating the letter. Mr. Powolski, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, stood over her.
“Sorry to interrupt your daydreams, little darling,” he sneered. “Boss wants you to write a piece up about the latest trends from Paris to fill space for tomorrow’s paper.” He dropped an illustrated French magazine on her desk.
“Thank you,” she said dryly as she dragged the magazine toward her.
Powolski walked away without another word.
Cassie flipped through the pages, trying to concentrate on coming up with three hundred words on necklines and puffed sleeves, but her mind couldn’t focus for long before returning to Mrs. Walker’s case. She didn’t need Mr. Greene’s permission to investigate. The very fact that he had warned her off further inquiries must mean there was something to discover. There must be other people to interview and find out what was going on. Except, how did one make contact with a secretive crime family? She couldn’t exactly look them up in the society pages…But perhaps the city directory would have something.
