Mrs. Houdini(30)

“I ought to go,” she said. “What I really need is to get some air. You are funny though.”

“Well, you shouldn’t go alone.” He followed her out the door that led into the alley beside the building and then onto Forty-Ninth Street. Next to the tearoom, a little jewelry store had opened up a few days earlier, selling hammered gold bespoke pieces. It was dark out and there was a breeze going; she closed her eyes and leaned against the glass storefront.

“That’s better,” she said. “It’s so hot in there.”

Robert pulled her against him and pressed his mouth hard against hers. Bess opened her eyes, startled. For a moment she wasn’t sure what to do. Finally she did nothing, and let him kiss her. It felt good to feel someone’s lips against hers again, even if it didn’t mean anything.

He took her tightly by the waist. “Really,” he said. “You can’t possibly be twenty years older than me. You barely look forty.”

“I can assure you I’m not forty.”

Someone whistled from the sidewalk. “Yoo-hoo, Bess!” She looked over to see a girlfriend of hers grinning at her from across the street.

Robert’s hands fell from her waist. “You’re Bess Houdini?” He was aghast. “Good God! I didn’t recognize you!”

“Yes, I know. It was nice.”

“I’m—sorry. I didn’t mean—I really should go.” He stumbled onto the sidewalk. Bess stared after him. She wasn’t surprised he’d run off. The scandal surrounding her was still fresh, after all. Besides, men didn’t like women who were famous for being other men’s wives. And they certainly didn’t like women who famously held séances for their dead husbands. Now she was alone, and the piano music from next door was falling softly into the street.

She rested her face against the cool glass of the jewelry store. She was happy something so innocuous had opened in the space, and not another restaurant to compete with hers. In the window, the female mannequin was dressed in a white silk shirtwaist with a red necktie and a wrist wrapped in gold. She was standing in front of an enlarged black-and-white photograph of a yacht, tied in the harbor at dusk; in the background, a man was leaning over the edge of the boat, waving to someone off camera.

Bess looked longingly at the mannequin’s bracelets. No one had bought her jewelry since Harry died. She could buy herself dresses and hats and shoes, but jewelry was something else; it wasn’t something one bought for oneself.

There was something familiar about the charm on the mannequin, she realized. It looked like one Harry had bought for her years before, on their first trip to London. She still had it in a wooden box on her dressing table. It was a tiny gold ladybug, the tips of its wings dotted with red paint. Hers was much smaller, of course; they had had very little money at the time, but it was the first piece of gold jewelry she’d ever owned, other than her wedding ring.

Below the man’s hand in the photo, the name of the yacht was barely visible. Home Again, it said, the words painted in curled black letters.

Bess froze. It couldn’t be. She pressed her palms against the glass and searched the image for something else she recognized, but there was nothing familiar at all about the scene.

At the back of the store, she saw a light burning under a closed door. Someone was in there. She pounded on the window glass. After a moment the door opened and a thin old man hobbled toward her, removing a head-strap magnifier.

“What do you want?” he called through the front door. “We’re closed.”

“I own the tearoom next door!” she yelled back. “I need to talk to you!”

The jeweler unlocked the door and let her in. “Bess Houdini? Why didn’t you say so? This damn magnifier does things to my vision.” He frowned. “What’s the matter?”

Bess hesitated. “I’m sorry about the noise next door.”

He shrugged. “I like the noise. Makes it seem less lonely in here. To be honest I came into work so late because I knew it would be chaos in there.”

“The picture in your window,” she said. “I need to know where you got it.”

He blinked at her. “What do you mean?”

“That yacht. Did you take that photograph yourself?”

“No. My son made the display for me. That’s him in the picture. But it was taken years ago.”

Bess examined it. It didn’t look familiar. “Where was it taken?”

“I’m not sure. I just said I needed something for a display, and he pulled it out of his album and had it enlarged.”

“Do you have a copy of the photograph?” She wasn’t sure what she was going to find, but she felt, if she could study it at home, something would come of it.

He looked confused. “What’s this about?”

“I know it’s an odd request. You see,” she lied, “it looks just like a boat my father used to own when I was a girl.”

He shook his head. “My son has the negatives. But he lives in Chicago now.”

She must have looked crestfallen, because she saw the glaze of pity in his eyes. He thought about it, then waved his hand. “You know what? You can have it—the one in the window.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t take that. It’s your display.” Bess turned around. The cardboard was over two feet tall.