Philip watched her face. “Wading into this could get unpleasant. People will wonder what you’re up to. You might as well think it through now, because everyone will ask. Why involve yourself?”
She felt a flush of discomfort. Her first response was indignant. Wouldn’t anyone? Who could abandon a friend to such misfortune? But he was right. Natural empathy carried one only through the immediate crisis. Philip was asking about what came after that—the decision to do more, which only rarely followed the initial sympathy. Why insert herself into Eva’s trouble, and on such relatively skimpy footing? A fortnight ago they hadn’t even met. In short, why did she care so much?
Julia sat back. It was hard to explain. She knew only that a fist was clenching inside her chest. It pained her to imagine Eva’s anguish. Even if she was safe and unhurt (please, God), her future might be shattered. Weren’t friends bound by their troubles as much as their joys? Eva had shared with Julia her soaring triumph and her jubilant hopes, and now Julia would not flinch from sharing her horror too. She opened her mouth to answer, but no words came out.
Philip peered for a long moment into her face and nodded.
The telephone bell was ringing. What time was it? Julia sat up in her bed, pushing back the heavy coverlet spread across her. She’d meant only to take two Spartans and close her eyes for a minute in hopes they might ease her raging headache. But now the drapes were drawn against a weak morning light. She pulled the clock to her face. Seven forty. Had she slept straight through?
The ringing stopped, and Philip’s voice sounded from the hall alcove where the instrument was kept.
Was this news about Eva? Was Eva herself calling? They hadn’t exchanged numbers, but it was easy to try the few Kydds listed in the directory. Julia flung off the coverlet, scrambled into her dressing gown, and stepped into the hall to listen.
“I see,” Philip said three times, at longish intervals. “Yes, all right. Frightfully grateful.” After another maddening silence, he rang off. He turned and saw her.
“That was Kessler. Evangeline Pruitt was located at 5:17 this morning.”
“Alive?” Julia stammered.
“She’s being questioned downtown as we speak.”
Her breath rushed out, as if stoppered for hours, in an exclamation of relief.
“He suggested I might commune with la femme this afternoon. It seems she ain’t inclined to warble for her hosts. He thinks my dulcet charms might persuade her to confess.”
Before Julia could protest the vile assumption, Philip added, “If I can find a sufficiently sturdy pair of coattails, you might care to ride along.”
CHAPTER 13
At two that afternoon they were ushered into Kessler’s offices on the fourth floor of the police headquarters building on Center and Broome Streets. It was a bleak place, oppressive with the remnants of a former elegance. The plaster wore the soot of a thousand cigars. The brown rug and draperies seemed to leak their brackish color into the room. Heavy oak woodwork was yellowed with varnish, and a bronze-and-china chandelier hung morosely overhead.
Kessler was speaking on the telephone, his chair swiveled toward the tall windows behind his desk. Over his shoulder he waved them in. They idly toured the room. Philip narrated what he could about the artist, unknown to Julia, who had produced a pair of bronze statuettes of warring Indians mounted atop a long oak table.
Kessler ended the call and spun his chair to face his guests. He began to greet Philip when he saw Julia and froze.
Philip shook his extended hand. “You remember Julia, my wayward sister? I thought I’d bring her along.”
“Miss Kydd.” Kessler inclined his head. “Please excuse us.”
To Philip he said, “Are you mad? She’s involved in the case.” He hurried around his desk and grasped Julia’s arm. “I’m sorry, Miss Kydd, but you can’t be here.”
“You can’t believe I was involved with that man’s death?” Julia protested.
“Don’t be an ass,” Philip said. “She’s discreet. She might even be useful to you.”
“I’d like to talk with my friend,” Julia said, shaking free of Kessler’s hand. “Not long, just for a quick word. Please?”
He eyed her. “I don’t yet know where you fit into this case, Miss Kydd. Until I do, I will ask the questions. And under no circumstances will you be speaking with Miss Pruitt. Not until we have a great deal more information ourselves.”
“I’ve already told your sergeant everything I know.”
“Then I’ll know more after I’ve read Hannity’s report. Until then, please wait outside.”
“Just grill her yourself, old man,” Philip suggested. “Plumb the depths of her nefarious soul if you must. But do it now, or we both leave.”
Kessler frowned at this but returned to his desk and found his pen to take notes. Julia marveled at Philip’s pull with the man. She knew only that they’d known each other for years. More than that, Kessler was married to Philip’s aunt Arlene, the youngest and now only surviving Vancill sister. Even so Kessler must value Philip’s occasional advice highly enough to defer to the younger man’s judgment. That she was still in the room at all was testament to that.
Kessler’s questions covered much of the same territory Hannity’s had. Julia recounted her tale with what she considered heroic patience. Philip had heard everything before but listened attentively.
“There,” he said when she’d finished. “As I said, she’s a better witness than suspect. Let her stay.”
Kessler still balked. “It’s a stretch having even you here, Kydd. This isn’t some three-ring circus to entertain your idle friends and family. I can’t risk her chattering about this at her next mah-jongg luncheon and jeopardizing my investigation.”
“My concern here is hardly idle,” Julia objected, “and I never chatter, as my brother can—”
“We’re a package set,” Philip said. “Two Kydds for the bother of one.”
“Good God. One of you rooting around in
