Today's Reading
Kay looked out of the lounge car window. Masses of people crowded the platform, pushing to get a closer look at the train. Men in business suits and fedoras, briefcases in hand. Tired-looking women in dresses and cardigans, loaded with bags. Squirming children.
Jackson's panicked shouting had caught the attention of many people in the station. Maybe most of them.
"No, Mrs. Roosevelt. I can do it." Kay needed to prove she was loyal, helpful, and good at her job. She couldn't get fired. Not again.
She pushed open the door. The crowd immediately pushed forward. She saw a line of porters trying to hold the mass of people back.
"There's been a murder on the train!" someone shouted.
"It was Mrs. Roosevelt!" another voice cried.
"Mrs. Roosevelt was murdered?"
A flashbulb went off in Kay's face.
Kay sagged. A reporter was already here. Mrs. Roosevelt's search for Susan Meyer wasn't going to be a secret anymore.
If Mrs. Roosevelt lost her position as a U.N. delegate, Kay was sure Sandiston would see that she was fired. Possibly arrested. If he could. He had been exceedingly grumpy when she'd told him she wouldn't dream of spying on Eleanor Roosevelt.
Of course, the former First Lady had been seen and recognized. Dozens of newspapers had printed the photograph of Mrs. Roosevelt holding the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Thousands of people listened to her radio program and read her daily My Day column. Mrs. Roosevelt had traveled all over the country as First Lady, meeting people face-to-face. It would be difficult to find an American who didn't recognize Eleanor Roosevelt.
Alfred Jeffers leaned out and shouted for one of the porters to come over. "James, you take care of this lady. Take her to the stationmaster's office so she can call the police."
The tallest young man Kay had ever seen nodded and held out a gloved hand to help her down the steps. Kay followed him down carefully on her spike heels.
Aunt Tommy had insisted she dress modestly while working for Mrs. Roosevelt. She had to give up her figure-flattering dresses and wear full skirts, cardigans, and sensible shoes. She agreed to the cardigan but refused to give up her heels. Now she appreciated having the extra height.
The crowd jostled one another, getting a better view of her—the first person to emerge from the train car where there had been a murder. Tall men pushed past small women. Children threaded between adult legs to see the excitement. After the war, it wasn't unusual for people to become unruly. A sale on women's stockings could provoke a riot. Soon there were so many people, it appeared some might fall off the other side of the platform, under another train.
Kay had spent most of her adult life in New York City. She could elbow her way across the platform, but when James stepped in front of her, she let him take over. He used his height to carve her a path through the crowd. Another shiver raced down Kay's back. Like Mrs. Roosevelt had said, somewhere in the mass of onlookers, a killer might be watching. Pretending to be a rubbernecker. Pretending to be innocent.
She was in the middle of the crowd, halfway to the stairs that led up to the concourse, when she caught a whiff of citrus, bergamot, and musk. For a moment, she flashed back to the image of Susan's blood-soaked body lying in the washroom.
It was that cologne. Caswell-Massey Number Six.
She knew it because the scent was almost wrapping around her.
Kay looked around desperately. Her eyes locked with those of a man in front of her.
Ice-blue eyes. Fair hair under his hat. Sculpted cheekbones. The coldest, most ruthless-looking face she had ever seen. His cheek was even 'scarred'.
And he walked toward her.
CHAPTER TWO
I have often wanted to be more effective as a woman, but I have never felt that trousers would do the trick.
—Eleanor Roosevelt, If You Ask Me, 'Ladies' Home Journal',
October 1941
"Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt found a body? That's a good one. It would have been funnier when she was the First Lady. That would have been a hoot. Stop wasting our time, young lady."
The telephone disconnected with a sharp click.
Kay glared at the telephone receiver she clutched in her hand. The desk sergeant, who had barked his name, Willis, into the phone, cut her off before she could tell him about the poor dead woman. Or about the man on the platform who smelled of Caswell-Massey Number Six.
...
