Mrs. Houdini(27)

She had always prided herself on understanding Harry when no one else could, on being able to solve the mysteries and riddles he presented her with during their marriage—just as she had seen through his Metamorphosis trick when she first saw him onstage. She needed to channel his spirit—not his ghost, but his being, wherever he was. Her search, she realized, should be guided not by the conventional methods of the time—the endless séances and prayer vigils—but by following Harry’s rejection of convention. She only had to figure out what that meant.

A friend of Stella’s came up behind Bess and grabbed her arm, swaying to the music. “Is it true Lou Gehrig was here the other day? I was hoping he would come in tonight! Do you think he might?”

“He only came for lunch.” Bess shrugged. “I don’t think he stays out late.”

“Stella says you’re friends with dozens of celebrities.”

Bess smiled. “A lady never tells.”

Niall rolled his eyes. “You’re a right old pontificator.” He turned to the woman. “She knows them all, and they know her—Josephine Baker, Al Jolson, Jack Dempsey. They’ve all been in here at one time or another.”

The woman shrieked and wandered off in search of anyone famous who might be lingering among the crowd.

When she left, Bess shook her head. “I do know them, but it’s not true they’ve all come in here. Josephine Baker and Al Jolson live in California.”

“Oops.” Niall threw up his hands. “So it’ll bring a little more business your way. How else do you think places become popular? Rumors. That’s how. I’ll tell you, if this was my place, I’d do whatever I had to do to keep it strong. Did you ever consider dating someone else famous? At least for the papers? I heard that’s how it’s done in Hollywood. One person’s fame boosts the fame of the other, and vice versa. You get a few photographs taken together, and you don’t even have to go out on a real date. Of course, you can sleep with the good-looking ones.”

“I’ve been on dates. Just not ones I flaunt in the papers.” Bess turned to survey the antics in the dining room. A small cigarette fire had started on one of the tables but appeared to have been extinguished.

“Why not? Do you really think Harry would blame you? What was it you said to that reporter last month? ‘I’ll practice temperance when I’m old’?”

“Oh, come on. That was just publicity for the tearoom. I’ve got to make this place seem like someplace where anything could happen.”

Niall followed Bess’s gaze to a young redhead who had stripped down to her pink checkered stockings and wrapped herself in a tablecloth. “Well, it certainly is that.”

The woman saw them and stumbled over. Niall held out his hand to help her stand.

“This is Marlene,” he told Bess and Gladys. “I brought her with me.” She was beautiful, and very young—only twenty or so—with coiffed auburn hair and black eyelashes. “Marlene’s husband went away to prison, you see. But he managed to hide away enough of their money to get her a little apartment near the park.”

Marlene noted Gladys’s surprise and added, “It’s all right. Everyone knows about my husband. We used to give fabulous dinners.”

Niall nodded. “They did, that’s true.”

Bess turned to the bar, where bowls of oranges and lemons were set out beside blue glass bottles. It looked like a painting; she had stayed late after the lunch hour to set up for tonight. “Let’s have a drink.” She poured two gin rickeys and handed one to Gladys, who took a tentative sip.

“We’re talking about finding ourselves some men,” Bess said. Marlene clapped her hands. “Oh!” she cried. “I have the perfect men for you. They’re brothers. I just met them a few moments ago.” She looked around. “I think they were brothers.” She wandered off, still holding the tablecloth around her shoulders.

Bess raised her eyebrows at Niall. “Why, she’s as beautiful as a peacock and stupid as a goose.”

“Don’t be cruel,” he said, throwing up his hands. “She lives in the apartment next to mine, and she caught me on my way out.”

Gladys reached for Bess’s elbow. “Would you sit with me for a moment?” she asked. “I’m feeling a little light-headed.”

“Oh no.” Bess led her over to the lounge and settled her onto the couch. “I shouldn’t have given you that stuff. It’s practically poison.”

“I’m just overwhelmed is all.”

Bess fumbled around in her purse for a cigarette. “Sometimes, I feel this city is so large that it makes me feel small.” She reached for the issue of The Delineator buried among the magazines on the coffee table. “I haven’t had a chance to read that article you told me about yet.”

“Colleen read it to me. It’s in the back somewhere, I think. It’s very sweet.”

Bess flipped through the pages. The artistic renderings of the women were always like her—small and boyish, with thin hips and breasts flattened by side-laced bras. Years ago she had been ridiculed for her shape, and called a child. How ironic that it was only when she was a woman of middle age did she finally possess an enviable form. Still, she knew she was getting older. An advertisement for Palmolive facial cream asked, “The kindly candles of last night, the telltale revealments of noon! Do you fear the contrast they may offer?” And she did, she did fear it.