Evie gave him the big, innocent peepers. “Well, I dreamed I was in New York, all alone….”
“Poor baby.” Sam put his arm around her shoulders.
“I walked the streets searching for people… but there was no one….”
“Terrible…” Sam was so close she could smell the musk of him.
“Suddenly, I found myself in Penn Station….” Evie paused. “And the most terrible thing happened next.”
“What’s that, doll?” Sam purred.
“Some absolute louse stole my twenty dollars.” She pushed hard against Sam’s chest. He nearly toppled backward but righted himself at the last minute.
Sam smirked. “Well, that’s a fine thank-you to the fella who just got you a spiffy wash for the ball.”
Evie gave him a little bow.
“I just came back to tell you that we’ve got a real live paying customer in the joint who wants a tour.”
“Send Jericho,” Evie said, stretching.
“This fella asked for your uncle, but I told him you were in charge, Your Highness.” Sam returned the bow.
Evie replied with an eye-roll. “Do you think you can manage to not steal anything while I’m gone?”
“The only thing I’m trying to steal is your heart, doll.” Sam smirked.
“You’re not that talented a thief, Sam Lloyd.”
Evie arrived in the foyer to find a young man in a rumpled suit standing by the front doors, twirling his hat in his hands. A notebook peeked out of his breast pocket.
“Can I help you?” Evie said, giving her friendliest smile.
The man stopped twirling his hat and stuck out his hand like a salesman. “How do you do? Harry Snyder. I’m visiting from Wisconsin. Heard about your museum and just had to take a look for myself. I can’t wait to tell the folks back home all about it.”
If Harry Snyder was from Wisconsin, Evie would eat her hat. If his name was Harry Snyder, she’d eat a second hat.
“Welcome to the Museum of American Folklore, Superstition, and the Occult, Mr. Snyder,” Evie said, stretching out his last name. “Right this way, please.”
Evie led the man from room to room, explaining the various objects, giving the historical spiel she’d heard from Will numerous times and adding a few of her own flourishes. All the while the man took notes in his notepad and looked around as if he expected some spirit to manifest at any moment.
“I hear from a friend that you folks are helping the police with that murder investigation—that Madman in Manhattan business. Sounds awful. Do you have any clues?” he asked. He picked up a rare figurine from the seventeenth century as if it were a saltshaker.
Evie took it from his hands and placed it back on the table.
“Has your uncle told you anything about it? Is the killer really carrying out a diabolical occult ritual? What’s his angle?”
“I’m afraid I’m sworn to secrecy under the orders of Detective Malloy.”
The man moved closer. “I couldn’t help noticing that the good Officer Malloy isn’t here. Say, what did the killer do with that poor girl’s peepers? Somebody said he mailed ’em to the police with a note. That true?”
Evie narrowed her eyes. “Who are you really?”
“Harry Snyder, from—”
“Dry up!” Evie snapped.
The man grinned. He wagged a finger at her playfully. “You’ve got me.” He pumped her hand in a firm shake. “I’m T. S. Woodhouse, reporter for the Daily News? I’ve been trying to get your uncle to comment on the case for us, but he’s tighter with a quote than Calvin Coolidge. But, ah, maybe I’ve been barking up the wrong family member?” T. S. Woodhouse’s pencil hovered expectantly above his notepad.
“I’m glad I took your money up front, Mr. Woodhouse. I’ll show you the way out.” She marched toward the door, her heels clicking on the marble. Mr. Woodhouse ran alongside her.
“Call me T.S., please. Come on, wouldn’t you like to see your name in the papers? Show all your friends back home? We could even put your picture in, pretty girl like you. Why, you’d be the toast of Manhattan.”
Evie paused. With all the work they were doing, why shouldn’t they get the credit and the reward? Why shouldn’t they be famous for it? Still, if Uncle Will found out, he’d be furious. She’d already promised she wouldn’t get into any more trouble. This was courting trouble for sure.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Woodhouse. I can’t.”