Bitter Spirits (Roaring Twenties #1)(78)

Greta and Astrid stared at her. “Oh, he won’t like that,” Astrid finally said.

“I know. But I’d like to have a mirror in there for grooming, and Winter needs to stop feeling sorry for himself. Sometimes people require a little push.”

“I do not—” Greta started.

“Blame it on me,” Aida said firmly. “And while you’re at it, have someone bring the full-length dressing mirror into his bedroom. How he dresses without help is beyond me.”

“He had the dressing mirror in his closet lowered so that he only sees himself from the neck down,” Astrid volunteered.

“Astrid Margaret Magnusson!” Greta chastised.

“Well, he did. And Aida’s right. It’s time for some changes.”

Aida smiled. “Good, it’s settled then.”

“Anything else?” Greta said, her voice thick with annoyance.

Aida looked at Astrid. “You said you’ve never driven a car, not even once?”

She shook her head. “Winter won’t allow it.”

“And this coupe just sits here collecting dust? Shame, don’t you think?”

“It was my mother’s.”

“It’s lovely. Does it run?”

“All the cars run. Jonte takes them out around the block every Wednesday.”

Aida caressed the curve of the spare whitewalled wheel attached to the side of the car above the running board. “Someone taught me how to drive in Baltimore a few years ago. I think I still remember. Want to learn? My treat for everything you’ve done for me today.”

“Nej, nej!” Greta protested. “He will be very angry.”

“Just around the block,” Aida assured her. “You can stand here and watch us.”

“Really?” Astrid said, suddenly swept up in the idea of it. “Bo showed me how to shift gears once. I think I could do it.”

“Of course you can. Duck soup. Easy as pie.”

Greta mumbled a string of Swedish words under her breath.

“Greta!” Astrid said with a grin.

The housekeeper’s pink cheeks darkened. “I will not fetch the automobile key. If you are planning mutiny against your brother’s rules, you can ask Jonte to help you.”

• • •

After dropping Velma off at Gris-Gris, Winter spent the day in his Embarcadero office making calls. When dinnertime rolled around, he asked Bo to take him to Russian Hill. He hated driving by the house he’d shared with Paulina; though it had been sold more than a year ago, the sight of it still filled him with guilt and gloom. But what brought him here this time didn’t have anything to do with his past. It concerned Aida’s past, and it had taken him all day and a shameful amount of money in long-distance calls and lawyer fees to find it.

Worth every goddamn penny.

The address he was hunting ended up being down the street from his old house, two blocks from Lombard. Small world. Winter asked Bo to park the Pierce-Arrow right in front of a three-story Spanish Colonial attached home. Well kept. Cypress trees flanking the crooked steps. Shiny white Duesenberg behind an elaborate metal gate in the driveway.

“I’ll be right back. Shouldn’t take long.” Winter buttoned his coat and marched up the steps to the entrance. A bored maid answered his knock and blanched at the sight of him.

He removed his hat. “Winter Magnusson to see Mr. Emmett Lane.”

“Oh . . . yes, well, Mr. and Mrs. Lane are entertaining clients for dinner right now.”

“This will only take a second.”

“Can I tell him what this is in regards to?”

“Yes, you may. You tell your boss that we can discuss the inheritance of his deceased brother’s child alone or in front of his guests—his choice.”

The maid hesitated for a beat before opening the door wider. “Please come in, Mr. Magnusson. Drawing room is to your left. I’ll bring him straight in.”

And to her credit, she did just that, for Winter only waited a handful of seconds before a tall man with gray hair and shrewd eyes sauntered into a slice of lamplight illuminating the front room. “Mr. Magnusson, is it?”

“It is.”

“State your business. I’m engaged with a dinner party.”

Winter removed a folded telegram from his suit pocket. “Have a look at this.”

Mr. Lane’s scowl deflated as his eyes scanned the brief message.

“You’ll note that was wired to my attorney two hours ago from Baltimore. See, when Miss Palmer told me the story about her foster parents dying, something stuck with me that I didn’t quite understand. Why, I asked myself, would a well-to-do couple raise two children for ten years without ensuring the adoption paperwork was in order? After all, their will was thorough. Seems to me their lawyer would’ve made sure everything was up to snuff.”

“What business—”

“So I did some poking around. And as you see on that telegram there, the adoption was legal, and the state of Maryland is happy to provide a notarized letter stating that the documents are on file. The lawyer we’re working with in Baltimore is taking care of that tomorrow.”

Mr. Lane’s hand dropped. “It’s been ten years.”

“Eleven.”

“There’s no money left from that estate. It’s long been sold, the gains lost in the stock market.”