Yingling didn’t want him chatting with the rest of the servants. He took his leave of the cook, determined to find out what else she might know. If he got to see Mr. Van Orner, he’d ask permission to question the rest of the staff.
He tried to chat with the maid, but she kept insisting she didn’t know anything and left him to kick his heels in the ugly little room where he’d met with Miss Yingling earlier.
What, he couldn’t help wondering, was taking so long? All she had to do was ask him a simple question.
Finally, the door opened, and a lovely young woman stepped in. This, he decided, must be the Van Orners’ daughter. She wore an expensive dress in some light purple color with lace trim. It fit her well, showing off a shapely figure. Her dark hair was in a fashionable Gibson girl knot, with occasional loose curls brushing her cheeks and the back of her neck. She held herself erect, her hands clasped demurely at her waist.
“Mr. Van Orner will see you now, Mr. Malloy,” she said.
He had to stare at her for another moment before he realized the truth. This vision was Miss Yingling.
7
FRANK RECOVERED QUICKLY AND FOLLOWED MISS YINGLING upstairs to wherever Mr. Van Orner was waiting for him. As they climbed the stairs, Frank’s mind was racing as he tried to make sense of what he knew about Miss Yingling.
While she had worked as Mrs. Van Orner’s secretary, she’d tried her best to be unattractive. Or at least she’d made no attempt to make herself attractive. Today, however, with Mrs. Van Orner dead, she had made herself as beautiful as possible before speaking with Mr. Van Orner. Frank could think of several reasons for this, none of which reflected well on Miss Yingling. Or on Mr. Van Orner, for that matter.
They reached a closed door, and Miss Yingling knocked before opening it.
“Mr. Malloy is here to see you,” she said, then stepped aside for Frank to enter and closed the door behind her as she left. The spacious room was furnished in the current style, which meant it was stuffed with enormous furniture and cluttered with knickknacks of every description sitting on every flat surface. Dull paintings in heavy frames covered portions of the busy pattern of the wallpaper. A thick and richly patterned carpet stretched across the floor. Heavy velvet drapes shielded the occupants of the room from any hint of sunlight.
Frank needed a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness before he found Mr. Van Orner. He sat in a wing chair near the fireplace, a glass in his hand resting on the arm of the chair. A thick-chested man whose good looks had softened with age and whose dark hair was thinning, he wore a silk smoking jacket, and he’d changed his shoes for slippers.
He studied Frank through narrowed eyes and made no move to rise or otherwise acknowledge him. He seemed remarkably relaxed for a man who’d just lost his wife.
Frank introduced himself. “I’m very sorry about your wife.”
“Did you know her?” he asked.
“No.”
“I thought perhaps . . . because of the charity work she does. Did.” He lifted the glass to his lips and took a sip of the amber liquid. “What do you want?” he asked when he’d lowered the glass again.
Frank wasn’t sure exactly how to start. He took a stab at it. “The circumstances of your wife’s death are . . . unusual.”
“I guess they are. Healthy women don’t usually drop over dead while riding home in their carriages.”
Frank hated asking right out, but Van Orner wasn’t giving him any indication of his wishes. “Would you like for me to find out exactly how she died?”
“That’s what Tamar said you were going to do.”
“Tamar?”
“Miss Yingling,” he said impatiently. “She said you thought my wife had been murdered and you were going to find out who did it, so by all means, find out. That’s what the police do, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
Irritation flashed in his eyes, but he said, “I don’t know anything about my wife’s little project, if that’s what you want to know.”
“I was wondering if you knew if she had any enemies? Anyone who might wish her harm?”
“Vivian? Of course not. She was a saint. Everyone loved her.” The words were right, but the tone of them was all wrong. Van Orner sounded almost angry and certainly disgusted.
And obviously, if she’d been murdered, at least one person didn’t love her at all.
“Do you know what became of Mrs. Van Orner’s purse? The one she had with her when . . . in the carriage?”
“I have no idea. Ask the servants. Ask Tamar. She knows everything that goes on.” He looked up at Frank, his eyes suddenly shrewd. “And ask her for your fee. She’ll take care of it.” He looked away and took another sip of his drink.
Frank felt his face burning. Everyone on the police force accepted “rewards” or even outright bribes. Since no one could live comfortably on the salary the City of New York paid, the arrangement was a necessity. Most people treated the matter in a businesslike way, but Van Orner was purposely making Frank feel cheap, like a tradesman who was demanding more than his product was worth.
“Mr. Van Orner—”
“That’s all.”
Frank had been dismissed. Having no other choice, he turned and left the room. Miss Yingling was waiting for him in the hallway.
“I told you he’d want you to investigate,” she said.
Frank hadn’t gotten that impression at all. Van Orner seemed more resigned to the fact than anything. “He said you’d show me Mrs. Van Orner’s purse.”
“Her purse? Why do you need to see her purse?”
“The report said she had a flask with her, that she carried it in her purse. If she was drinking from it, maybe there was something in it . . .”
“Oh, I see. Mary!” she called. A young maid appeared, breathless, to answer the summons. “Take Mr. Malloy back to the receiving room.” She turned back to Frank. “I’ll join you there.”
A few minutes later, Miss Yingling found him waiting once again in the grim little room. She carried a ladies drawstring purse and a silver flask.
“I think this is what you were looking for.”
“Do these belong to Mrs. Van Orner?”
“Yes. She carried the flask in her purse. She . . . Mr. Malloy, I hope we can count on your discretion. I wouldn’t want Mrs. Van Orner’s memory to be tarnished by idle gossip.”
Frank was starting to see the problem. “I’m not interested in gossip, Miss Yingling.” He held out his hand for the flask. With apparent reluctance, she gave it to him. “Why did she carry this?”
“Mrs. Van Orner hated displays of emotion.”
“So you’ve said.”
“She . . . she found that when she was upset, a few sips of . . .”
Frank had unscrewed the top of the flask and sniffed. “Whew! What is that stuff?”
“A liqueur.”
“I know it’s liquor. What kind is it?”
“I told you, it’s a
“So it goes down easier than whiskey,” he guessed. “And she drank it whenever she needed to calm down?”
“She found it calming, yes,” Miss Yingling admitted with apparent reluctance. “No one knew, of course. She was very careful to never let anyone see her.”
“And today she had that argument with this Amy woman at the rescue house, so she probably felt the need for something calming.” He shook the flask. Only a tiny amount of liquid remained in the bottom. “I don’t suppose it
