It was astonishing how easily the plan was coming together. Allene secretly thanked Florence for getting herself killed. She hadn’t felt this alive in ages.
“We gather information. All three of us were upstairs when the deed was done. We need to find out what people saw. Maybe you can ask Andrew who else was with Florence last night.” When Birdie hesitated, she added, “I can have Andrew escort you home. It’ll get him out of my hair, and you can ask him what he might know about Florence. He spoke with her last night when we were, er, upstairs. Since you don’t know each other, it will be more natural if you ask a million questions.”
“All right.”
“How about I drop by tomorrow and see what you’ve learned?”
“Tomorrow is Monday. I have to work, Allene.”
“That’s a fact.” Allene furrowed her eyebrows and then snapped her fingers. “I’ll go with you!”
“Excuse me?”
“To work! We can spend the day together.”
Birdie stared at her like she was slightly mad. Which was appropriate. Allene felt slightly unhinged, and it was wonderful.
“For Pete’s sake, Allene. It’s a factory, not a carnival. What will I tell my boss?”
“We’ll figure that part out later. I’ll see you first thing in the morning. I need to get dressed.” She hugged Birdie, who was so slight in her billowing nightgown, she almost seemed to wince at Allene’s enthusiasm. But this was nothing new. She’d always dragged Birdie into her childhood scrapes and plans. Bending the rules wasn’t fun unless her good sense told her that she was, in fact, being naughty. And Birdie had always been that good sense. Why, without Birdie, she’d been senseless! She laughed quietly and washed up in the bathroom, splashing the porcelain that gleamed around her.
Lucy was waiting for her in her bedroom, her drawers, brassiere, and long corset laid out. The maid enveloped her in layer upon layer, lacing and tightening until Allene’s soft, rounded figure was molded tightly under whalebone stays and silk ribbons. A frock of pale-green gauze over darker green went on over her head, and Allene perched straight spined in front of her vanity. Lucy clasped a beaded jet necklace around her throat (it was so funerary, but perhaps that was appropriate) and began brushing out her long hair. Allene watched in the mirror but looked down after being disappointed, once again, that she wasn’t as beautiful as Mary Pickford and had none of the mysterious, arresting presence of Theda Bara. “Well looking” never seemed reasonable compensation for not being heartbreakingly beautiful.
“This silk poplin becomes you,” Lucy said, smoothing out the seams of her dress. She always let her accent show more around Allene, who didn’t correct her the way her father did.
“Hmm.” Allene wasn’t really listening, but she spoke to be polite. “Yes. Poplin. Such an odd word.”
“It comes from papeline. The French used it to dress the pope in the fifteenth century.” Lucy laughed a little, showing crooked but white teeth. “Pope or not, it washes well.”
Allene stared at Lucy’s reflection in the mirror. She rarely laughed; it was such a pleasant change. “How did you know that?”
“I know lots of things, Miss Allene.” Lucy’s smile faded. “I know you’re happy to have your friends back,” she said, braiding so swiftly it jerked Allene out of her thoughts. “I remember how you three were. I have a feeling I won’t see you as much now. I miss you already.”
“Oh, Lucy!” Allene turned to throw her arms around the maid, who smelled as she always did, like newly baked bread and honey. Her olive-brown cheek was soft and forgiving. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. Don’t talk like that.”
She wanted to say that Birdie was more like a sister, only she wasn’t. And she wanted to say that Lucy was like a mother, only Mother was in Saratoga and Father paid Lucy to be nice to her, so that didn’t seem right either. Lucy was too young to be like her mother and too old to be a friend. She didn’t know exactly what Lucy was, except that she needed her.
“I will take care of you,” Lucy said. “I have since you were a child, and I will until I die—whether or not Miss Birdie is here.”
Allene stiffened and pulled away. Her words sounded vaguely like a threat, though the maid’s face was kindness itself. So she smiled.
“Thank you, Lucy. For everything.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Tell Andrew I’ll be down in a minute.”
Lucy nodded and left. Allene spun around and checked herself in the mirror one last time, then opened up her vanity drawer. She pulled out a tiny cigarette lighter. It was a dandy little thing, a Ronson Wonderliter, ever so much nicer than a boring box of matches. The tiny silver case resembled a miniature flask. She unscrewed the little top and pulled out the metal wand, hollow but for a wick soaked in naphtha, and struck the wand against the rough ridge along the bottom of the flask.
And there was fire. The transformation of the ordinary into the extraordinary—light and energy and new molecules. She blew it out quickly, replaced the wand, and hid the contraption in a pocket she’d had Lucy sew into a seam of all of her dresses. Allene had once heard her mother say, “A woman’s heart is full of secrets.” If Father knew she’d bought the lighter, he’d have a fit. Andrew might too. She patted her pocket and smiled.
Allene swept through the door to meet her fate downstairs. Andrew was comfortably seated in one of the watered silk wing chairs of the salon, as if he belonged there. As if he already owned the furniture, the house, even the air. His legs were crossed, and he set his cigarette in a powder-blue Wedgwood ashtray when he saw her.
“Darling.” He always said the word as if he were speaking of good wine or new spats. He reached out his hands.
Allene accepted them as she always did. “You shouldn’t have come, Andrew. Really, it’s quite unnecessary.”
“You had quite a fright last night. I had to know you were well.”
“There are such things as telephones,” she said. It sounded peevish, almost saucy. She put on a smile to counter the tone of her voice. “But I am glad you’ve come. I need a favor. It’s Birdie Dreyer.”
“Birdie.” Andrew let go of her hands. He turned to retrieve his cigarette, inhaling deeply.
“You remember her. My old friend, from the party last night? She spent the night, and she needs an escort home. Last night gave her quite a scare.”
“Oh.” He regarded her a little too long. Soon, his face was obscured in a cloud of smoke. “If you think it’s best—”
Birdie’s foot squeaked at the top of the stairs, and they exited the room to watch her descend. Andrew barely even acknowledged her. He picked a fleck of tobacco off his lip instead.
“Andrew will make sure you get home safely, Birdie. Won’t you, dear?”