“We’re from the Daily Trumpet,” Kaminsky said. “Mind if we ask you a few questions?”

  “Let’s go into my office,” Miss Parker said. “Although I doubt there’s anything I can tell you.”

  She led them into a smaller room next to Vitale’s office. It was barely bigger than a broom closet. Most of the space was taken up with file cabinets and a metal desk with a typewriter in the middle. A neat pile of folders was stacked to one side and a framed sepia photograph of an older couple was placed on the other corner of the desk.

  “Have you worked for Mr. Vitale long?” Kaminsky said as he got out his notebook.

  “Not terribly long, no. Mr. Thompson—he’s with the DuPont corporate office—wanted me to keep an eye on Mr. Vitale. He’s quite young, and running this exhibit is a lot of responsibility.”

  “Is he doing a good job? In your opinion.”

  “Yes. There have been a few moments where a little…guidance was called for. But other than that, yes, he’s doing a fine job.”

  “What sorts of moments?” Kaminsky said.

  “Generally involving the ladies.”

  “Was Mr. Vitale acting inappropriately?”

  Miss Parker shook her head. “No, nothing like that. It was the girls themselves—squabbling with each other and things like that.” Miss Parker straightened the already straight stack of folders on her desk. “Then there were a few misunderstandings.”

  “Would one of them have been about Flo Grimm?”

  Miss Parker looked surprised. “I warned Mr. Vitale that hiring her was a bad idea. He’d already hired this other young lady, you see—Shirley Davis. And he let her go in order to make room for Miss Grimm.” She shook her head again. “I knew no good would come of it, but Mr. Vitale wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “What happened?”

  “For one thing, Mr. Vitale was engaged to one of the young ladies—Miss Howard. There was bound to be trouble.”

  “Was his interest in Miss Grimm unseemly in any way?”

  “No, not really.” Miss Parker tapped her fingers on the desk. “I have to admit that Miss Grimm was better suited to the job. Miss Davis was rather plain, poor thing, and not always very well groomed. Her hair—well, that doesn’t matter. It was just unfortunate that Miss Howard did what she did.”

  Elizabeth could sense Kaminsky’s excitement. Were they on to something at last?

  “What did Miss Howard do?” Kaminsky said in a nonchalant tone that didn’t fool Elizabeth for a second.

  “She took it upon herself to tell Miss Grimm’s beau that Miss Grimm had been flirting with Mr. Vitale. If Miss Grimm had been, I certainly never saw it.”

  “What happened then?”

  Miss Parker puckered her lips. “It was most unseemly. I could hear them through the wall of Mr. Vitale’s office.”

  “Who?” Kaminsky’s tone bordered on impatience.

  “Why, Mr. Vitale and Miss Grimm’s boyfriend, of course.”

  “They were talking?”

  Miss Parker gave a hiss of impatience. “No. I would have to say they were yelling. They were loud enough that I could hear them in here.”

  “Really?”

  “And after Miss Grimm’s beau left, I went into Mr. Vitale’s office, and what do you think I found?”

  Both Elizabeth and Kaminsky stared at her.

  “The poor man was sporting a black eye,” she declared triumphantly.

  * * *

  —

  “Now we know where Vitale got that black eye,” Kaminsky said as they left the DuPont building and began walking back toward the amusement zone of the fair.

  “We also know that Earl now has a motive as well.”

  “Yes. He learns that Flo was flirting with Vitale. He gets mad. They argue, and he strangles her. Maybe he didn’t mean it. His temper got away from him.”

  “It gives Lou a motive as well,” Elizabeth said.

  Kaminsky stopped and turned to look at her. “Lou?”

  They had crossed the pedestrian bridge over World’s Fair Boulevard and were nearing Billy Rose’s Aquacade where they could hear loud clapping and whistling.

  “Looks like it’s back to business,” Kaminsky said, jerking his head toward the Aquacade. “But tell me why you think Lou had a motive for killing Flo.”

  “Maybe Flo was flirting with Lou and maybe he was returning the favor. But then maybe she pushed him to break off his engagement with Dotty. When he refused, she threatened to tell Dotty. And you said yourself that he might have seen Dotty as a catch since he thought her family had money. Certainly more than Flo’s anyway.”

  They had started walking again and were passing a statue outside the Music Hall of three enormous wings flowing from the backs of the figures of a man and a woman.

  “I wonder what that’s supposed to be?” Kaminsky said as they stopped to look at it.

  Elizabeth read the plaque affixed to the base. “It’s called To the Morrow and is by Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney. It’s meant to symbolize man’s future in the sky.”

  “Maybe someday man will go to the moon,” Kaminsky said and laughed. “Have you ever been on a plane, Biz?”

  “Yes, once. One of my dorm mates in college had a house in Florida and invited me for a week. It was quite thrilling seeing everything down below from so high in the sky and then flying through the clouds.”

  Kaminsky grunted. “You won’t catch me going up in one of those things. I like having my feet on the ground.”

  “Where are we going?” Elizabeth asked as they passed the Music Hall where a large sign out front announced the next showing of Michael Todd’s Hot Mikado.

  “I need something to quench my thirst.” Kaminsky smacked his lips. “And the Ballantine Three Ring Inn is the perfect place to do it. Aaand”—he drew the word out, pointing a finger at Elizabeth—“we can see if Shirley Davis is available for a little chat.”

  The Ballantine Inn was crowded, but with a capacity of one thousand people, Elizabeth and Kaminsky were able to find a seat. Waiters and waitresses bustled between the tables, their trays laden with steins of beer and heaping plates of sauerbraten and bratwurst with red cabbage.

  A waitress dropped menus in front of them as she whisked by, heading toward another table with a tray full of dishes.

  Out of curiosity, Elizabeth picked up the menu. The cover was a sketch of the map of the World’s Fair with the Ballantine Inn’s location prominently displayed.

  Kaminsky pulled out his cigarettes and reached for the ashtray—it was in the shape of Ballantine’s three rings logo.

  “You want something to eat?” Kaminsky said, opening his menu.

  “No. I’m going out to dinner tonight.” Elizabeth couldn’t help it—she felt her face color.

  “Am I to take it by the expression on your face that your dinner date is with the very charming Detective Sal Marino?”

  “Yes.” Elizabeth lifted her chin and squared her shoulders.

  “Good.” Kaminsky tilted his head back and blew out a smoke ring. “It’s time you started living your own life.”

  “Is that good for you?” Elizabeth asked in an irritated tone, pointing at Kaminsky’s cigarette.

  Kaminsky just smiled.

  The waitress arrived at their table. “What’ll you have?”

  Kaminsky looked at Elizabeth.

  “What are you having?” she said.

  “I’ll have a Ballantine’s India Pale Ale. A stein,” Kaminsky said.

  “I’ll have the same,” Elizabeth said.

  She didn’t normally drink beer—she’d only had a sip of it once or twice on picnics with Phillips. But she was thirsty, and it would be cold.

  “By the way,” Kaminsky said before the waitress could turn away. “Do you happen to know if Shirley Davis is working today?”

  “She just clocked in. She should be in the kitchen.” Her eyes narrowed. “Say, what do you want with Shirley anyway?”

  “I’m an old family friend,” Kaminsky said glibly.

  The waitress still looked suspicious, but she nodded and headed off to get their order.

  Moments later she plunked two steins of beer down on the table. Elizabeth eyed hers warily before taking a cautious sip. It was ice cold and left a line of foam above her lip. She dabbed at it with a paper napkin.

  “Are we going to try to talk to this Shirley?” she said.

  “Sure. Why not? I want to see what she’s like—if she’s capable of murdering someone.”

  “How can you tell?”

  Kaminsky tapped the side of his nose. “Instinct. I’ve been in this business long enough to trust my gut.”

  Kaminsky finished his beer and glanced over at Elizabeth.

  “I can’t finish this,” she said, pushing the stein away from her.

  “Want to see if we can locate Shirley Davis?” Kaminsky said.

  Elizabeth stood up. “Let’s go.”

  They made their way through the tables in the enormous dining room. At one point a waitress nearly collided with Elizabeth. The tray she was carrying on her shoulder tilted precariously. She smiled apologetically at Elizabeth and slipped past her.

  The clamor in the kitchen took Elizabeth aback—cooks shouting orders, plates rattling, pans sizzling on the enormous stove, and metal banging against metal. The air was hot and steamy, redolent with the scent of spices, meat braising, and beer.

  “Excuse me,” Kaminsky touched the sleeve of a busboy rushing past with a bin stacked high with dirty dishes. “Do you know Shirley Davis?”

  “Sure. She’s over there by the sinks—the tall girl with light brown hair.”

  Elizabeth and Kaminsky looked in the direction the busboy had indicated. A tall woman with broad shoulders and large hands was scraping dishes into a garbage can and then plunging them into a sink full of soapy water.

  “She looks like she’d be capable of strangling someone,” Kaminsky said as they began walking toward the sinks. “And Vitale was right about her legs.”

  Elizabeth gave Kaminsky a stern look and refused to comment.

  “Mind if we talk to you for a second?” Kaminsky said.

  Shirley paused as she was putting a plate in the sink. Soapsuds dripped from her arms onto the floor.

  “We’re with the Daily Trumpet.” Kaminsky pulled out his press pass.

  “This is a joke, right?” Shirley smiled and looked around at the other workers in the kitchen. “Who set this up?” she said, trying to look stern but barely able to hide a smile.

  “It’s not a practical joke,” Kaminsky said. “I’m a reporter, and this is my photographer.” He motioned to Elizabeth.

  Shirley’s smile faded. “Okay, so it’s not a joke. What do you want with me then? Have I won a contest or something?”

  “I wanted to talk about the murder of Flo Grimm,” Kaminsky said.

  “Who?”

  “The girl who took your place at the DuPont exhibit.”

  “What about it?” Shirley looked confused. She reached for a towel and wiped her hands.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?” Kaminsky said.

  Shirley frowned. “We’d better go outside.”

  She led them through the kitchen and out a back door. They found themselves in a small fenced-in area.

  “What is this all about?” Shirley said.

  “We were told you could tell us about Flo Grimm. What was she like?”

  Shirley put her hands on her hips. “How should I know? I never met her.”

  “Did you resent the fact that you lost your job because of her?”

  “I might have if I’d known about her.”

  Shirley shook her head when Kaminsky offered her a cigarette.

  “It wouldn’t do for me to take up smoking. Not with my asthma.” She thumped her fist against her chest. “Anyway, all I knew was that the manager over at the DuPont exhibit told me to take a hike—that they didn’t need me anymore. He didn’t say anything about replacing me with someone else.”

  “He never mentioned Flo at all?” Kaminsky said.

  “No. What was she—his girlfriend or something?”

  “Not exactly,” Elizabeth said.

  “He was apparently quite taken with her,” Kaminsky said.

  “I thought he fancied himself as something of a playboy,” Shirley said. “I guess he did me a favor.”

  “But washing dishes…” Kaminsky said.

  “I’d rather clean plates than have to fend off some Lothario every time I went to work. Speaking of work…” Shirley glanced toward the door.

  Kaminsky held up a hand. “One more thing, if you don’t mind. Do you remember where you were the night Flo Grimm was murdered?”

  “That was Friday night, wasn’t it? That’s one of our big nights. I was here scraping plates and washing dishes. One of the gals called in sick so I did a double shift.”

  “Can anyone vouch for that?”

  “Look.” Shirley put her hands on her hips again. “You’re not the cops. I don’t owe you anything, okay?”

  Kaminsky made soothing noises. “I just want to get the story right. People have been talking about how you might have had a grudge against Flo Grimm because she took your job. I want to be sure to set them straight.”

  Shirley sighed. “Look, there are a lot of people who could tell you I was here doing my job and minding my own business that night.” She started toward the back door. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll find someone.”

  Elizabeth and Kaminsky followed her back into the kitchen where the frenetic activity had not slowed a bit.

  “You shouldn’t even be back here,” Shirley said, eyeing a man with a clipboard who was staring at her rather pointedly.

  She grabbed the arm of a waiter rushing past with an empty tray tucked under his arm.

  “Dieter, do me a favor, would you? Will you tell these people that I was here working the night they fished that girl out of the pool at the Aquacade?”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Dieter said, his English heavily accented. “Shirley was here all night. I remember because I dropped a tray with all the dishes on it, and she helped me to clean it up.” He smiled at Shirley. “She’s a good girl, our Shirley.”

  * * *

  —

  “That’s that, I guess,” Kaminsky said as they headed back into the restaurant.

  “He could be lying.”

  “True. But somehow I don’t think so.”

  “I guess I don’t either,” Elizabeth said. “Wait, what’s that?” She put out a hand to stop Kaminsky.

  “What’s what?”

  “That.” Elizabeth pointed to a display case on the wall of the restaurant. It was filled with one-dollar bills.

  They walked toward it.

  “Oh,” Elizabeth said as she studied it. “There are five thousand one-dollar bills, and they’re holding a contest to pick the charity the money will go to.” She turned toward Kaminsky. “Come on. Let’s enter.”

  Kaminsky hung back. “You go ahead.”

  Elizabeth filled out a ballot.

  “What charity did you put down?” Kaminsky said, peering over her shoulder as she was writing.

  “The March of Dimes.” Her tone indicated she thought that ought to be obvious. “They’re working on a cure for polio. It’s a horrible disease,” she said thinking of her friend Clara who had succumbed to it and her friend Irene who was still living with the effects.

  “All right,” Kaminsky said. “Give me one of those.” He pointed to the ballots. “I’ll fill it out for the March of Dimes.”

  Chapter 11

  “Good evening, Jones,” Elizabeth said when the butler opened the front door for her.

  “Did you have a good day, Miss?”

  “An interesting one,” Elizabeth said.

  “I don’t imagine there’s ever a dull moment at the Daily Trumpet.”

  Helen appeared around the corner. She looked slightly put out.

  “Mrs. Murphy isn’t feeling well,” she said, “so we’re having a cold supper tonight.” She patted her hair. “To be honest with you, I don’t suppose I really mind. It’s quite beastly hot, isn’t it?”

  “I have to change,” Elizabeth said, hoping to escape before her mother was able to ask too many questions. “I’m going out tonight.”

  “Oh? With whom?”

  Elizabeth waved a hand. “You know. The usual crowd.”

  “Well, have a good time, darling.”

  Elizabeth shut the door to her room with relief. She hated lying to her mother, but she wasn’t in the mood for a discussion of Marino’s unsuitability as a beau. Her mother thought she was wasting her time on him when she could be pursuing someone more appropriate.

  Marino hadn’t said where they were going, so Elizabeth was in a bit of a quandary as to what to wear. She didn’t want to look too dressy—as if she fully expected him to take her somewhere fancy and expensive like the Stork Club. On the other hand, she didn’t want to look as if she hadn’t made any effort at all.

  She stood in front of her closet and sighed. She didn’t lack for clothes fortunately. She thought of some of the girls who ran the switchboard at the Daily Trumpet—Sally, for instance. It hadn’t escaped Elizabeth’s notice that she was very ingenious at disguising the fact that she was wearing the same black skirt nearly every day by being terribly clever with scarves and accessories.

  After going through all the dresses at her disposal, she settled on a bright yellow floral-print silk dress with a round collar, puffed sleeves, and a narrow belt.

  She quickly slipped it on then sat at her vanity to run a powder puff over her nose and freshen her lipstick. After pulling a brush through her hair, she was ready.

  She stood in front of her mirror and viewed her reflection. She thought the dress struck the right note—not too fancy but a little dressier than what she might wear to work.