Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(25)

“I do, indeed. Say, you wouldn’t happen to have Mrs. Cushing’s address on file, would you?”

Her voice fell to a whisper. “We’re not supposed to give it out, but I can probably get back into records after my shift. Won’t be until after nine A.M., though.”

“Would you? I’d owe you an awfully big favor.”

“I like the sound of that,” she teased. “Oh, I just remembered something. My coworker told me that she had someone come by earlier today and ask about Miss Magnusson. Wanted to know her name.”

“Oh really? Who was this person?”

“The man didn’t say. But don’t worry, she wasn’t stupid enough to give out your address.” It didn’t really matter; the entire city knew where to find the Magnussons and therefore Bo.

“Please let me know if anyone else asks about Miss Magnusson. And in the meantime, if you can get your hands on Mrs. Cushing’s address, leave me a message at Pier 26, no matter the hour. And I’ll be happy to have someone drop off a little thank-you gift for your effort.”

“I am rather fond of gin . . .”

“Your wish is my command, Nurse Sue. Consider it done.”

TEN

It took a long time for Astrid to fall asleep that night. The potent combination of Greta’s poorly timed interruption and Velma’s herbal tea were enough to give any sane person nightmares, and after she’d left the kitchen, Astrid had lain wide awake in bed, replaying every moment in the pantry with Bo.

The things he said. How close he’d been. The way he made her feel, all raw and jumbled up. Anxious. Out of control.

Let’s—

Let’s what? Let’s throw caution to the wind and run away together? Let’s end this all now? Let’s cool down and discuss this later?

When it came to Bo, she’d done her share of hoping that he might share her feelings—every day, for weeks and months and years. But before last night, she had hoped in a blind sort of way, taking whatever crumbs Bo dropped and fashioning them into some sort of shaky shelter that only partially kept out the bad weather. Now he’d given her more than crumbs. He’d handed over a few pieces of lumber, and her former lean-to was now transformed into a shack: still leaky, but a strong gust of wind might not instantly blow it over.

She’d fallen asleep beneath that shelter, wanting him more than ever. And more fearful that if it did fall, she’d be crushed under the weight of it.

No sense in being so nervous, she told herself the next morning. It was only Bo. No matter what happened between them, they were friends, and they would handle it with grace and good humor. Everything was fixable.

And today Astrid aimed to fix two problems at once.

After bathing and dressing, she took the birdcage elevator down and found the house abuzz with good cheer. In the foyer, Greta stood on a tall ladder surrounded with giggling maids who were helping to put up Christmas greenery. And even though everyone had already eaten breakfast—except Aida, who was still pale, still possibly pregnant, still trying to hide it from Winter—Astrid was happy to dine alone, and gulped down strong coffee with a slice of rye toast and a soft-boiled egg. Then she went hunting.

Bo was not on the main floor. And Winter, who carried baby Karin around the foyer to witness the hubbub of the holiday decorating, informed Astrid that his captain hadn’t yet left for work.

“Think he’s going in later, after a couple of errands,” Winter said.

Excellent. Even better, Bo hadn’t seemed to have informed her brother about their bad night at Gris-Gris. While Winter bounced his smiling daughter in the crook of his big arm, Astrid slipped away and took the servants’ staircase downstairs.

Halfway down, she came to an abrupt stop. She’d nearly plowed straight into Bo.

Her heart pinged.

“Good morning,” she said, slightly breathless and nervous. Her gaze flitted over a striking lapis blue suit, expertly tailored to hug lean muscle, with a crisp white collar and cuffs peeking out from the jacket. “Don’t believe I’ve seen that suit before.”

“You know me. Vain and frivolous.” A lie. Proud and confident was more like it. His gaze flicked to her wristwatch for a moment—ping! went her heart again—and then he smiled up at her like everything was normal, and they hadn’t done all that confessing in the butler’s pantry. Like she hadn’t cried in front of him.

All right. Fine. She could act normal. She pasted on a smile.

He scratched the back of his neck.

She shifted her feet and brushed invisible lint off the front of her dress.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. “Did you drink the tea after Greta—”

“Booted you out?” she supplied.

He leaned a shoulder against the stairwell wall. “She probably fantasizes about cracking a whip at my feet while I retreat down here in the dungeon. She’d put bars on my door if she could.”

“Your door? After you left, she practically accused me of being a manipulative hussy.” Astrid did her best Greta imitation, shaking a finger. “Stop bothering that boy, flicka. You should be in bed right now. What is this strange tea? You cannot drink this! Velma Toussaint is bride of devil!”

Bo laughed. The low, velvety sound surrounded her like an embrace and sent flutters through her stomach. “Everyone is ‘bride of devil’ to Greta. Was the tea awful?”