While perhaps the bride thought daisies would be a charming choice, reminiscent of carefree summer days, in practice their wilted, pedestrian numbers only served to reinforce our opinion that good taste can be neither bought nor inherited, but is always and only innate.
Genevieve pushed her chair back, the scraping noise of the legs matching her harsh mood, and angrily stuffed Ted’s file back into the drawer labeled “Be-Bo.” The other files met similar fates. This was useless, and she directed her anger at Ted, his mother, and the now-deceased Waglie to Daniel, with his ridiculous directives. The money was so entangled it was impossible to follow. Reginald Cotswold and Peter Stuyvesant Senior had established not one but two charitable foundations together. Andrew Huffington’s son from his first marriage was employed by Stuyvesant and was married to the deputy mayor’s niece. Commissioner Simons had a side business venture with Huffington, Ted was a partner, and Stuyvesant Junior was on the advisory board. Indeed, the only name not entangled endlessly with all the other men’s was Clark’s, who seemed to be in league only with Huffington.
Genevieve paused, staring at the financier’s name on the tab of his file before slipping it back into place with a thoughtful expression. She made a mental note to dig a little deeper into Ernest Clark’s background, then turned her attention to the last file left on her table.
Daniel McCaffrey, the script read, in the same tidy hand as the others.
She’d combed through this file already in recent weeks but hoped to stumble across some tidbit that would make sense, particularly given what she now knew regarding his relationship with Reginald Cotswold. So far, Daniel was still her closest lead to Robin Hood. And now, with one confirmed murder and potentially another, the stakes of catching the thief were higher than ever.
Genevieve sighed, wiped her dirty hands on her skirt, and began to gather her things. She needed a break, and something to eat. Later that afternoon or tomorrow, she decided, she would peruse the contents of Daniel’s file with more care.
The creak of the records room door stopped her in her tracks. Unable to see who might have entered due to the height of the file cabinets in front of her, Genevieve called out, “Hello? Who is there?”
No one replied, but the sound of footsteps grew closer.
“Alice? Verna? Is that you?” she asked. Images of the shadowy figures behind her on Fifth Avenue and Washington Square crowded her brain.
Stop it, she scolded herself, as she had every time the creepy mirages had arisen in the past few days. Her skin began to crawl at the memories. You don’t know that anyone was following you. Men walk on avenues all the time. And in parks.
But while her head knew this logically, her gut told her something different.
And now someone was in here, with her, and not answering her calls.
Heart pounding, Genevieve looked frantically around her tiny corner of the records room. There were tall file cabinets on three sides of her, with only one narrow passage between them toward the door. The few windows in the room were partially blocked by the cabinets as well, not that they would have done her any good, since she was on the tenth floor.
Pulling herself up to her full height, Genevieve grabbed her notebooks and Daniel’s file and held them in front of her protectively as a dark shape rounded the last file cabinet into her corner.
Clive.
Sagging a bit from relief, Genevieve felt her panic quickly turn to annoyance. It was just like Clive to follow her about to make sure she hadn’t been given a better story than him—as if that ever happened.
“Why are you sneaking about, Clive?” she asked. “Why didn’t you answer me?”
Ignoring her query, Clive glanced around the small space. “What are you researching?” he intoned nasally.
“None of your business,” she said, exasperated, as she tried to walk around him.
He moved to block her path.
“Let me by. It’s well past lunchtime, and I’m simply starved.”
Clive didn’t budge but continued to peer around the room. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Furrowing her brow in irritation, Genevieve thought quickly, then let out a fake sigh. “Arthur wants me to write a twenty-year history on the progression of ladies’ footwear in Manhattan. How high did heels rise and fall? When did bows fall out of fashion? Buckles or no buckles? Must the slipper and dress color match? What about boots?”
“Okay, okay,” interrupted Clive, his gaze finally settling on Genevieve. “Fine. Ladies’ footwear, if you say so.” He paused, idly swirling his diamond stickpin around in his lapel. Genevieve let out a small sneeze, overwhelmed by the scent of his cologne, and hoped he had bought her story. She really was hungry, and very much wanted to clear her head from the tangled accounts she’d been attempting to trace all morning. She moved to walk around him again, but Clive surprised her by asking, “Are you sure you aren’t looking into the background of Daniel McCaffrey?”
Genevieve snapped her gaze toward Clive. “Mr. McCaffrey?” she repeated slowly. “Why on earth would I be researching him?”
Clive turned his attention to his stickpin, continuing to turn it again and again, and took another step toward her, making the small space seem much smaller. “Well, rumor has it you two have gotten quite close lately. You’ve been seen out with him quite a bit, you danced with him at the Huffingtons’ ball—and it’s well known Mr. McCaffrey never dances—and you had dinner together at Delmonico’s.”
Genevieve stared in amazement. How did Clive, who was not part of society, know all of these things?
He caught her stare and gave a short, bitter laugh. “Oh, just because I’m not invited to New York’s exclusive drawing rooms doesn’t mean I don’t know what goes on in them, Miss Stewart.” He fixed her with an oily gaze.
