Antonia’s fingers and toes went cold and numb, as if she were back in Stillborn Alley after dark, making her way to the shack where Maman waited.
Antonia began to walk again, no longer trying to catch up. She watched Mrs. S, who had almost reached the store, and the man in the gray derby who followed her.
Mrs. S slowed.
The man in the gray derby slowed.
Mrs. S. stopped in front of the door and closed her umbrella, glancing up the street.
The man in the gray derby with the umbrella stopped and pulled out his watch.
Mrs. S opened the door and went inside.
The man tucked his watch away. He turned around and began heading up the street in Antonia’s direction.
She could see he had a small neat beard and mustache, and glasses.
A roar filled Antonia’s head, like the voice of the wind. Her maman’s voice wove through it, whispering: He is here.
Thoroughly spooked now, Antonia ducked into the nearest store—A. C. Robison, Importer and Dealer in Birds and Cages. The door slammed shut behind her and she was engulfed in an explosion of squawks, screeches, twitters, and coos. Wings beat against wires, and feathers floated to the bottoms of cages, with some escaping to land on the floor. A man wearing an apron and holding a sack of sunflower seed looked up, first hopeful, then annoyed. “Can I help you?”
The chill had disappeared, and now she was suffocatingly hot in the store. “My aunt’s birthday is soon and she wants a bird. I heard you have lots of birds.” Lying came easier to Antonia than telling the truth.
He perked up. “What kind of bird?” he asked. “Does she want one that sings? Talks? We have canaries, finches, nightingales, parrots—including Cuban parrots—but I would recommend the yellow-headed Mexican first, as a talker, with the gray African as a whistler.”
She looked around at the winged prisoners, some hopping on their perches, others knocking against the bars, others with beaks lowered and feathers fluffed, like they’d given up and were just waiting for whatever life decided to drop next on their little heads. “Uh. I dunno.” She backed toward the door. “I’ll bring her back with me. Later.”
With that, she slipped out and, holding her breath, scanned the street.
No gray derby in sight.
No dead voices whispering in her ear.
Antonia clutched her lunch pail and book strap tighter, and dashed across the street, heading to the store.
Chapter Nine
Rain pattering atop her open umbrella, Inez strode down Pine, thinking about her just-completed visit to Mrs. Young’s millinery shop. She had been pleased at Mrs. Young’s positive response to an offer of buying a twenty-percent share of the business in return for financial stability. “It’s been difficult since my husband passed on, some years ago,” said Mrs. Young.
Inez had nodded. “I quite understand.”
“Yes, I’m certain you do.” Mrs. Young had passed her hand over the black grosgrain ribbon on the counter, destined to grace a half-completed widow’s bonnet. Black net drifted over the polished wood.
Inez had also mentioned, as if in passing, that she had recommended the establishment to a friend of hers, Mrs. Sweet.
“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Young beamed. “She was here earlier. Very charming, and her husband no less so.”
“Her husband?” A vision of Harry Gallagher rose unprompted in her mind. But that made no sense. Harry was not the type to care about such trivialities, nor to pretend to be anyone other than who he was.
Unless it wasn’t Harry.
Inez said cautiously. “So, Mr. Sweet, he was with her?”
“Oh, no. He came in later. Wanted to know if she had shown interest in any particular bonnet. Obviously, he dotes on her, he was so solicitous!”
Definitely not Harry.
And if not him, then it had to be the mysterious de Bruijn.
Inez regretted that she couldn’t demand a description of the impostor, since she’d presented herself as such close friends with Flo.
Unease darkened her mood. On the walk back, Inez pondered if, perhaps, the elusive detective had first followed Flo to the music store, despite Flo’s maneuvers. In that case, it might be that “the jig was up,” and she should steel herself for a visit from the as-yet-faceless de Bruijn or perhaps even Harry himself. Neither was a pleasant prospect.
Inez stopped in front of the store and tilted her umbrella to protect her hat from a sudden gust. The lively notes of a popular parlor tune drifted out to her. Through the glass, she saw the “Monday night regulars,” including Carmella’s admirers, clustered around the centerpiece grand. Welles was at the bench, playing, while Nico stood off to one side, deep in conversation with John Hee.
The rain intensified. She looked up and down the street, wary.
Nothing in particular caught her attention. The usual gentlemen of leisure and business hurried by. A few women, baskets over their arms, hastened home to prepare for family and suppers. No one stared at her. No one suddenly turned away. Jostling umbrellas hid faces for the most part. And even if they didn’t, she had no idea who she was looking for. She closed her umbrella, and went inside the store.
“Ah, good,” said Nico in an uncharacteristically shorthand fashion. “Mrs. Stannert, John and I have some business at the warehouse. Now that you are here, we can depart.”
Welles segued into a salacious tune more appropriate for a battered upright in a deadfall on the Barbary Coast than the elegant keyboard in the middle of an upscale showroom. The others laughed uproariously. Although no one burst into song, it was clear they all knew the lyrics.
Nico coughed, a small sound of disapproval, and turned to Inez. “You will stay on the floor, no lessons this afternoon?”
Inez said, “No lessons, however, I have a question for you both.”
They leaned in toward her, and she lowered her voice so no one else would hear. “Have you told anyone about Mr. Monroe?”
Hee shook his head. Nico frowned. “No.” He glanced
