Perhaps, even, of an unfortunate man whose head had been smashed in an alley. She leaned forward and tugged her friend’s sleeve.
“Luther, were you able to find out anything about that dead man? The one in Bottle Alley?”
He tore his attention from the arguing voices, which even through closed doors had noticeably risen in volume. “Yeah. His name was Gerald Knox, went by Gerry. He was pretty well known to the police, had a history of public drunkenness and petty theft. They’re not changing their tune, mind,” he warned, in response to her raised brows. “Cause of death is still the bottle.”
Huh. Genevieve began to tap her pencil again, considering. Luther leaned forward, lowering his voice again.
“I did hear he somehow found out about that group the mayor put together. The one about housing conditions.”
“The one that was never made public? How do you know about that?”
Luther rolled his eyes at her teasing. “Worst-kept secret in town. Anyway, on the day he died, your man Gerry showed up at City Hall, drunk as a lord, banging his fist on the reception desk and demanding to speak to the mayor about how cold his building was.”
“What?”
“Yeah. The police had to physically eject him from the premises.” Luther shrugged again. “Like I said, he had a history.” He drew back his head and eyed her in a considering way. “What’s all this about, Genevieve?”
Follow the money. The words echoed in her head, but outwardly she shook it.
“I don’t know. Probably nothing. If it adds up to anything, you’ll be the first to hear.”
“Just be careful, toots.” Luther hopped off her desk and fixed her with a concerned look. “Let me know if you need help with this nothing.”
She smiled at him in return, a smile that sputtered out and faltered as he wove his way toward his own desk, no doubt to retrieve the things he needed before heading back to the police station in hopes of gleaning more information about Mrs. Bradley’s death.
Genevieve heaved a worried sigh, then set her mouth with determination. As galling as the thought was, it was time to heed Daniel’s advice.
Hours later, Genevieve looked up from her work at the small desk she had tucked herself into in a back corner of the records room that held files relating to New York’s most prominent members. She was dusty, tired, and disheartened.
Spread before her were files on several members of the elusive committee. As most of the men were old Knickerbockers, the paper had articles and journalists’ notes on their respective subjects dating back decades. She frowned at the files, trying to puzzle out how Daniel’s directive connected to the information contained in these dusty brown folders. Of course there were connections among the men, intricate spider webs of business and social ties that also stretched back decades; upper-class New York society was self-contained, the same families interacting and intermarrying for generations, hers included.
The only outlier in the group was Ernest Clark, the purported paramour of Sarah Huffington. Genevieve discontentedly flipped open his file, which was on top of the stack, and nudged the scant notes in there around again. A Wall Street wunderkind, Clark had become a begrudged favorite among many society hostesses: he was new money, to be sure, but he had plenty of it. He was also lively and charming, and possessed a slick sort of handsomeness that many of the season’s new “buds,” or debutantes, seemed to find attractive.
Flicking the folder shut, Genevieve leaned back in her chair and stretched. She idly wondered if Ernest would continue to be welcome at events, now that rumors of his affair with Sarah Huffington were public. And how those rumors would affect his dealings with Sarah’s husband, Andrew. She sighed and plopped her chin in her hand. The machinations of society held as little interest for her now as they always had.
Ted Beekman. The file’s label, written in an unknown secretary’s neat, tidy script, slyly peeked out from underneath that of Ernest Clark. The handwritten name indicated it had been created some years ago, before the now-ubiquitous typewriters had begun occupying desktops with their collective squat presence.
She’d already looked within the file’s dreary covers, had examined its contents, and had attempted to remain businesslike and dispassionate. But seeing the copious notes of Jackson Waglie, the late society reporter whose vicious, razor-sharp comments had made even the venerable Mrs. Astor quake in her slippers, on the details of her own defunct wedding had shaken her resolve. Waglie had been a stickler for decorum and tradition, and needless to say, the eccentricities of the Stewart clan had horrified him not a little. It was commonplace for society columns to build anticipation around an upcoming prominent wedding with articles detailing the plans and gifts. Upon Genevieve’s insistence, her mother had dutifully supplied the particulars to Waglie and the Globe, though she’d claimed to have no idea why anyone would want to read about what the Winstons had gifted them.
Genevieve opened the folder and flipped backward in time to reread a few of the notes. The details she had fretted over, things that had seemed so important, such as the flowers, the color of the bridesmaids’ gowns, the careful cataloging of presents, were all recorded in Ted’s file. There was a copy of a telegraph from her mother—she presumed the original was in her own file, buried in its appropriate drawer—informing Waglie that the bride and her attendants would be carrying daisies. Memories arose of her feeling very strongly about these details, but they were distant, shrouded in haze. It seemed ridiculous to her now that she’d agonized, literally lost sleep, over the question of daisies (her choice; their sunny presence had always gladdened her) versus roses (the conventional choice, far more elegant, and what her almost-mother-in-law clearly expected—“But why not roses, dear? And daisies? They’re little more than weeds”). She had stuck to her guns on the question of flowers
