Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(86)

Astrid spent the night unpacking and getting used to the sounds of the strange apartment. And though she got little sleep—having spent too much time staring out the window, fighting the urge to telephone Bo and tell him everything—she rose at a decent hour, dressed in a smart outfit, and took a taxi to Hale Brothers department store. On the sixth floor, she walked into KPO Radio’s front office, wished the receptionist a Happy New Year, and asked to speak to the station manager. Then she waited until she was ushered into his office.

“I remember you,” Mr. Giselman said when he saw her.

“Astrid Magnusson,” she said, extending her hand. “You told me you liked my voice and said to come see you if I ever I wanted a job. And, well, I do.”

“I do like a gal with gumption. Have a seat,” he said. “And tell me about yourself.”

“I’m a fast learner, I have some college education”—never mind that it was a disaster—“and if you take a look at my references here”—she handed him typed and signed letters from both Aida and Hadley—“you’ll see they’re from a director at the de Young Museum and a woman who used to do nightly performances on stage at a dinner club. She says I’m ‘gifted with a performer’s grace.’”

That was Astrid’s phrase. She was quite proud of it.

Mr. Giselman sat down behind his desk, donned a pair of eyeglasses to read the letters, and then looked her over. “Magnusson . . . Why does that name sound familiar?”

Dammit. “Maybe you’ve heard of my brother?” she said quickly. “He’s a well-known professor at Berkley.” Well-known to her, at least.

The manager shook his head, but it was enough to steer his thoughts away from the bootlegging. “Well, Miss Magnusson. I did say we’re hiring voice actors for radio melodramas—that means you do a dramatic reading from a script, following the director’s suggestions. Four hours, three days a week, and the pay is basic.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to prove myself. But I think you’ll find that my skills are best suited to situations in which I’m able to speak freely. I heard KFRC is doing more talk shows across town that appeal to female listeners. I have some ideas about how you could compete with them.”

“I’ll bet you do,” he said, a look of amusement on his face.

He glanced at her letters again, and while he did, Astrid fiddled with the knob on her wristwatch. It had never recovered after her swim in the ocean that horrid night on the yacht, but she wore it nonetheless, and continually tried to wind it to no avail. It was perpetually stuck on twelve o’clock. But now the knob moved, one turn, and another. She quickly looked at the face. Ten after three. The wrong time, but the hands were moving. A sign, she thought. A very good sign.

Stars. The station manager was saying something.

“Pardon?” she asked, looking up from her wristwatch.

“I said, how about we start out testing how you read on a melodrama and see how it goes?”

“I can read today, if you’d like,” Astrid said with a bright smile.

He folded up his eyeglasses and set them down on his desk. “Let me introduce you to the programming director and she can tell us whether you’d be a good fit.”

THIRTY-ONE

The day after Astrid left, Bo carried home three packing crates from the warehouse. Enough to hold all his things, he thought. Greta spied him before he could sneak the last one inside his room, and though he wanted to be packed and ready to walk out the door before he talked to Winter, he knew the gossip would spread through the house before he finished packing, so he left the crates and hunted down Winter, finding him upstairs in his study.

Afternoon sun beamed through the windows of the third-floor room, which, like Astrid’s turret, looked out over Pacific Heights and the Bay. The study had belonged to Winter’s father before he passed, and still housed the old man’s library, as well as a carved dragon from the front of a Viking longship. And it was here that Winter stood in his shirtsleeves, holding his infant daughter while talking in a hushed, intense voice to his wife.

Aida looked up and smiled at Bo, but her expression changed when she saw his face. Did he look that miserable? Probably. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said to Winter. “But I was hoping to talk to you.”

“I just remembered something,” Aida murmured and held out her arms. “Here, let me take her.”

Bo wished she’d leave Karin with Winter. Would be much harder for Winter to hit Bo while holding a baby. But he handed the child over, and Aida left the room in a hurry, giving Bo a pat on the arm as she passed.

“What’s on your mind?” Winter asked, gesturing to a sofa in front of the unlit fireplace.

Bo declined. He was too nervous to sit. “I need to tell you something, and you aren’t going to be happy about it.”

His boss’s brow lowered. “Well, go on, then. Don’t make me guess.”

Bo’s stomach churned and his breathing quickened. His dazed mind had retreated from reality and floated in some kind of in-between space. “I’m in love with your sister.”

Winter didn’t move.

Bo exhaled and corrected his first statement. “Astrid and I are in love,” he said, and then added, before he could stop himself, “I’ve slept with her.”