Faye glanced around quickly. “Yes. Come on back to my dressing room. We can talk there.”

  Elizabeth and Kaminsky followed her backstage, down a dark hallway, and into a small room barely bigger than a closet. A beat up–looking vanity was shoved against one wall and a slightly mottled full-length mirror was affixed to the wall opposite it.

  Faye sank into the chair in front of the vanity, the rotting cushion sending up a cloud of dust.

  “I’m sorry I can’t offer you a seat,” she said.

  “No problem,” Kaminsky said, twirling his hat between his hands. “That’s pretty brave of you—letting them stick you in that block of ice.”

  Faye reached for a jar of cold cream and began to tissue off her makeup.

  “It’s not as bad as people think. I’m from Bettonsport, you see. That’s in Iowa. And a friend of the family used to pull this stunt at carnivals out there. He convinced me to apply for the job. Said he’d show me a few tricks.” She turned toward them, a tissue dyed red with rouge and lipstick in her hand. “The thing is not to panic. You have to relax and breathe slowly. Not that it’s a walk in the park, mind you, but it sure beats some of the other jobs out there, and it pays almost a hundred bucks a week.”

  “I imagine you down a couple shots of Schenley’s before you go onstage,” Kaminsky said with a laugh. “To get you good and warm—not to mention to give you a good shot of Dutch courage.”

  Faye shook her head. “No. Believe it or not, that’s the worst thing you could do. Believe me, I thought about it myself, but John, that’s the family friend, said not to do it. What I do instead is get into the coldest shower possible and stay there for fifteen minutes. It’s hell, but it lowers the body temperature so by the time I climb onto the ice, I’m already half frozen.” She gave a throaty laugh.

  “I have to say, the act was quite impressive,” Kaminsky said.

  Faye dipped her head briefly. “Thanks. People seem to like it. We’ve always got a good crowd.”

  “So what was it you wanted to tell us?” Kaminsky said after a moment’s silence.

  Faye picked up a brush from the vanity and began to pull it through her platinum curls.

  “I heard that the papers will sometimes pay you for information. You know—for your time and trouble. That’s what Gertrude said.”

  “I might be able to arrange something,” Kaminsky said.

  Faye’s face brightened. “It’s about that sailor who was murdered. I saw the sketch in the paper and realized I recognized him.”

  “You know him then?” Kaminsky said, straightening up slightly.

  Elizabeth wondered how their paths could have crossed, given that the sailor was from France.

  “Not know him, no. But I recognized him. He’d been around the fair a couple of days ago.”

  Kaminsky’s face sagged back into its usual lines. “That’s great, but we already figured that. The police found a ticket to the fair in the pocket of his pants.”

  Faye spun away from the vanity mirror, her brush in hand.

  “Let me finish, would you?” She turned back to the mirror and began pinning her hair up. “I saw him arguing with this guy. I don’t know his name, but he must work at the fair. I seen him around here more than once. Sometimes a couple times a day. Good-looking, too. A little on the flashy side, but I like that type myself. I noticed he had quite the shiner. I couldn’t help but wonder if he didn’t get into a fight over some dame. He looked the sort—you know what I mean?”

  “Black eye?” Kaminsky was all attention now. “Do you remember where you saw the two of them arguing?”

  “Yeah. Sure. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. They were over in what they call the production zone—I swear this fair has more zones than Carter has liver pills. A bit pretentious, if you ask me. Anyway, it was just beyond the pedestrian bridge by the Plaza of Light and the General Electric exhibit.”

  Kaminsky and Elizabeth exchanged a glance. That was near enough to the DuPont exhibit.

  “Did the argument look serious?”

  “It sure as heck did. The good-looking fellow with the black eye grabbed the sailor by the shirt and shook him like he was some kind of rag doll. As soon as he let go, the sailor took off, his arms and legs pumping like a steam engine. The guy with the black eye went after him, but the fair was crazy busy that day and the sailor disappeared into the crowd. The fellow with the black eye was furious. Stood there with his hands balled into fists as if he was just looking for someone to throw a punch at.”

  Chapter 21

  “That was interesting,” Kaminsky said as they left the Tomb of Ice exhibit and began walking toward the subway. “I’d bet you dollars to doughnuts that the fellow with the black eye is Lou Vitale.” Kaminsky stopped and fumbled in his pocket for some coins for the subway. “It looks as if our two cases might be related somehow—the murder of the sailor and the murders of Earl Miller and Flo Grimm. At least it seems as if Vitale is somehow linked to both of them.”

  “You think Vitale killed the three of them?”

  “I don’t know.” Kaminsky scratched the back of his neck. “It seems odd that they all either knew or had an encounter with Vitale. There’s got to be some connection, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe.”

  “And Vitale was arguing with that sailor. So he had some sort of beef with the guy. Maybe he caught up with him in that pub over by the docks and…” Kaminsky ran a finger across his throat.

  By now they had reached the subway. Only a handful of people were waiting on the platform. The train pulled into the station with its customary gust of fetid air, and the doors hissed open.

  The cars emptied and Kaminsky and Elizabeth got on. They got seats by an open window and sat down. Kaminsky stretched out his long legs and tilted his head back. By the time the train left the station, Elizabeth could tell he was asleep.

  She thought about the evening ahead. Had she made a mistake in doing what she did? She’d certainly find out soon enough.

  And that was what she was afraid of.

  * * *

  —

  It took Elizabeth longer to get home than she’d expected, and she rushed in the door to find her mother waiting.

  “Darling, you’d better hurry,” Helen said. She glanced at the slender watch on her wrist. “We don’t want to be late.”

  “It won’t take me long, don’t worry.”

  Elizabeth had had an attack of nerves on the train. What if her plan backfired? Was she being foolish for even attempting this?

  She dashed into her room and yanked open the closet door. What to wear? She hunted through her selection of dresses. A long gown wouldn’t do—the event wasn’t formal. She had a number of short evening dresses as well. She pulled out a pale green crepe dress she hadn’t worn in a while and had nearly forgotten about.

  She took it off the hanger and laid it on the bed then dove back into her closet for some shoes. Somewhere she had a pair of strappy silver heels that would be perfect.

  She knew she needed a quick shower. It had been hot at the fair and even hotter on the subway. She tucked her hair into a shower cap and stepped under the water. It felt heavenly to wash away the day’s dirt and grime, and she emerged feeling refreshed and excited about the evening ahead.

  But nervous, too.

  She perched on the bench in front of her vanity and powdered her nose and applied a slick of raspberry-colored Max Factor lipstick. Thinking about the evening ahead made her hands shake slightly and she had to tissue off the lipstick and start over. She slipped into her dress, buckled her shoes, and gave a final glance in the mirror before leaving the room.

  Her father was in the hall heading toward his study with the evening newspaper tucked under his arm.

  “Jones,” he said to the butler who was hovering nearby, “could you fetch me a whiskey and soda, please?”

  Jones nodded his head and turned toward the liquor cabinet.

  Helen came out of her room, her navy chiffon dress swishing as she moved. She glanced at her husband.

  “Darling, what are you doing? Aren’t you going to get ready?”

  George sighed. He looked down at his dark suit and striped silk tie. “I am ready.”

  “Let me get the lint brush,” Helen said briskly. “And I’ll do your shoulders for you.”

  George sighed again. “Fine. I’ll be in my study.”

  Helen whirled around. “You look lovely,” she said to Elizabeth. “Your cheeks are awfully pink, though. You might want to wipe off some of that rouge.”

  “It’s not rouge,” Elizabeth said, feeling her cheeks grow even warmer.

  Helen’s eyes twinkled. “It must be the excitement.” She lowered her voice. “Who knows who you might meet tonight.”

  The telephone rang and moments later Jones appeared.

  “It’s for you, miss,” he said, nodding to Elizabeth.

  Elizabeth rushed into the foyer. She was slightly breathless when she picked up the telephone receiver.

  “Who was that?” Helen said when Elizabeth returned to the sitting room.

  “Oh,” Elizabeth said, feeling herself blush. “No one. Someone from work. It was nothing.”

  * * *

  —

  George was the first to be ready, waiting in the foyer with the shoulders of his suit jacket duly brushed by Helen. He glanced at his watch occasionally, his mouth quirking in silent annoyance.

  Elizabeth and James joined him. The ends of James’s hair were still damp from the shower, and he had put on too much aftershave. It had a pleasant woodsy scent, but Elizabeth found it slightly overwhelming in the confined space of the foyer and began to cough.

  James shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m afraid I got carried away with the aftershave.” He glanced at Elizabeth. “Is it that bad?”

  “No,” Elizabeth lied. She pulled a handkerchief from her beaded evening bag and dabbed at her eyes. “It’s a lovely scent.”

  James’s face relaxed. “You think so? It’s brand new. It’s called Snuff. Schiaparelli makes it.”

  Just then Helen bustled into the foyer, fussing with her chiffon wrap.

  “Ready, my dear? I have a town car waiting,” George said.

  “Oh, no,” Helen suddenly exclaimed. “I’ve run my stocking. I’ll go change—won’t be a minute.”

  This time George’s sigh was audible.

  Helen finally bustled back into the foyer. She paused briefly and turned around to check the seams in her stockings.

  “I do wish they’d hurry up with that newfangled material you saw at the World’s Fair,” she said to Elizabeth. “Since you said it wouldn’t run as easily. Although I can’t imagine it will look as lovely as silk.”

  The mention of nylon hose brought back the picture of Flo lying on the ground by the Aquacade pool, her wet hair spread out around her head and the nylon stocking embedded in her throat. Elizabeth shivered.

  “Should you bring a wrap?” Helen said to her.

  “Thank you. I’ll be fine.”

  George finally managed to get everyone out the door and onto the elevator, practically nipping at their heels like a sheepdog.

  Elizabeth was quiet—preoccupied with her own thoughts and concerns about the evening ahead.

  The city lights flickered through the car windows as the driver headed down Fifth Avenue. The evening was warm and people strolled arm in arm along the sidewalks, music poured from open windows, and doors were propped open to entice the night air.

  The flags hanging from the front of the Plaza stirred slightly in the light breeze. Cars jockeyed for position at the entrance, the uniformed doorman leaping from one to the next to help the passengers out.

  Elizabeth and her family joined the clot of people moving up the steps and through the doors to the hotel lobby.

  The Terrace Room, where the gala was being held, was on the second floor. They had to wait for the elevator. Elizabeth looked around but didn’t immediately see anyone she recognized. Most of the women in their evening dresses and the men in their dark suits were her parents’ ages.

  They finally got on the elevator with a woman in a low-cut black dress. An enormous emerald and diamond necklace rested just above her décolletage.

  “Vulgar,” Helen whispered to Elizabeth as they got off on the second floor.

  The Terrace Room was decorated with expensive elegance—the chandeliers were replicas of the ones in Versailles, the ceiling was elaborately painted, and mirrors lined the walls. Tonight it was breathtaking with hundreds of flickering candles reflected in the mirrors, giving the room an ethereal luminosity and casting the ladies’ faces in a flattering pink glow.

  Waiters circulated with trays of hors d’oeuvres and flutes of champagne. Elizabeth grabbed a glass as a young man in a white jacket held a tray out to her. She took a very unladylike gulp and had to stifle a cough as the bubbly liquid rushed down her throat.

  “Elizabeth!” A woman exclaimed in breathless tones.

  Elizabeth turned to see Marjorie Hicks bearing down on her—although now she was Marjorie Alsop, she reminded herself, since Marjorie and Bertie had tied the knot. Elizabeth had been a bridesmaid in their wedding—an interminable and horribly boring affair at the Carlyle Hotel where Marjorie had begged Elizabeth to dance with her baby-faced eighteen-year-old cousin whom everyone else was avoiding. Eventually the young man in question had drunk too much of the free champagne and had been sick in one of the decorative urns and had had to go lie down in the room Bertie had reserved for his and Marjorie’s wedding night.

  “Darling,” Marjorie said, putting her hand on Elizabeth’s arm. Light bounced off the enormous diamond on her left hand. “Are you here all by your lonesome?”

  “I came with my parents,” Elizabeth said, realizing that that made her sound twelve years old.

  “Come with me,” Marjorie said, linking her arm through Elizabeth’s. “A group of us have commandeered a table in the corner and Bertie sprang for a bottle of Moët et Chandon. The stuff they’re serving is positively dreadful.”

  Elizabeth looked around desperately. She didn’t want to go with Marjorie, but it seemed she had no choice. It would have created a scene had she removed her arm from Marjorie’s grasp, and as a well-brought-up young lady, she knew better than to make anything even remotely resembling a scene in public.

  Elizabeth looked around the room as Marjorie led her to the table where Bertie and some of their friends were gathered. She was beginning to feel despondent. Maybe he wasn’t coming?

  Elizabeth was lost in thought and didn’t immediately respond when Bertie asked her if she wanted a glass of champagne.

  “Do put down that nasty stuff they’re passing around,” he said, with his rather affected lisp. He took the glass from her hand and offered her another one. “Have some of the good stuff.”

  Bertie smiled at Elizabeth. He was slightly cross-eyed, which she always found a bit disconcerting. He went over to Marjorie and put his arm around her. She was tall for a woman and in her heels towered over him by a good four inches.

  Elizabeth was relieved to see that Phillips was not part of the group. She’d dated him on and off for the better part of a year, but when he’d casually proposed, she’d turned him down. His rather overly large ego had apparently been bruised by her rejection.

  Several other people were gathered around the table—Ida Nevins, Rosemary Gibbs, and Paul Butler. They looked bored and Elizabeth knew they were only waiting for a decent amount of time to pass before they would decamp to the Stork Club or the King Cole Bar at the St. Regis. She was sorry to see Gladys Montgomery with the group—she was a horrible gossip and had a wide circle of people willing to lend her an ear.

  Elizabeth was becoming more and more nervous. She put her champagne glass down on the table—she was drinking it way too fast. Her head already felt a bit as if it were spinning.

  “There you are, Elizabeth,” Helen said as she glided up to the table. “So this is where you’ve been hiding.”

  She glanced around the table, and Elizabeth knew that she was assessing the marriage potential of everyone there. Her glance slid over Butler—he had already been euphemistically dubbed a confirmed bachelor by everyone who knew him.

  A small crease formed between Helen’s thin, arched brows.

  “You really should mingle a bit,” Helen said. “There are some very eligible young men here tonight,” she whispered in Elizabeth’s ear.

  Elizabeth was more than happy to get away from Marjorie and her crowd but not if it meant having to make small talk with a succession of entitled young men Helen deemed worthy of her attention.

  She sensed someone coming at her out of the corner of her eye and turned in that direction.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” Marino said breathlessly. “There was a break-in at the Surrey Hotel. The thief managed to get into a number of the safe-deposit boxes.”

  Elizabeth could feel Helen stiffen at her side. She looked at Marino as if he were a particularly nasty specimen in an entomology collection.

  Marino’s hair was slightly messed with a curl escaping onto his forehead. He smiled at Helen. His eyes were twinkling.

  “This is your detective, isn’t it?” Helen said.

  “Yes, Mother, this is Detective Sal Marino.” She turned to Marino. “Sal, you remember my mother, Helen.”

  “You’re as lovely as your daughter,” Marino said in a low voice.

  Elizabeth could have sworn her mother turned slightly pink. She put out her hand and Marino took it. Elizabeth thought he held it for a moment or two longer than necessary. Helen appeared to be mesmerized by his gaze. Suddenly she smiled—a genuine smile. Elizabeth had the distinct feeling that Marino was casting a spell over her.