T. S. Woodhouse cradled his hat to his chest. “Listen, I’m going to level with you, Miss O’Neill. I need this story. This could be my ticket to the big time. Did you ever want something that badly?”
T. S. Woodhouse reminded Evie of an overgrown, wayward schoolboy. He was tall and skinny, full of a palpable coiled energy; his face was sharp-planed but freckled, and beneath his mop of unruly brown hair and straight brows, his narrow blue eyes seemed to be constantly observing, recording. But there was a determination in those eyes that Evie understood all too well.
“That isn’t my concern.”
“It could be.” Those blue eyes focused directly on her. “What do you want? Name it. You want to be written up in all the gossip pages? You want column inches saying that millionaires are fighting to marry you? I can make that happen.”
“You can’t even make this story happen, Mr. Woodhouse. How will you help me?”
“I hit it big with this story, give the Daily News some exclusive dope, I’ll be in a position to give you what you need. A favor for a favor. On the level—a square deal.”
He stuck out his hand again. Evie ignored it.
“Pretty quiet around here,” Mr. Woodhouse said, and there was no mistaking the implication.
“It’s just an afternoon lull.”
T. S. Woodhouse reshaped his hat as if doing so were his only concern. “From what I hear, there’s a lot of lull time. In fact, I hear the city might shut this place down come spring. Unless, of course, it starts turning a profit.”
Evie bit her lip, thinking it over. She’d been wondering how they could make the museum a big deal, and now the opportunity had just fallen into her lap. Will was a genius, but he wasn’t much of a businessman. It was clear that if someone was going to save the joint, it was going to have to be Evie. She’d help the museum—and if she helped herself along the way, well, what was the matter with that?
“I’ll make a deal with you, Mr. Woodhouse. We need bodies in this joint. I’ll tell you what I know—as an anonymous source—and you keep writing about how swell the museum is, how everybody who’s anybody comes here. Of course, you can mention that Uncle Will is being helped in the investigation of these heinous murders by his niece, Miss Evie O’Neill. And if my picture just happened to make it into the papers, too, well, I couldn’t help that, could I?”
“No. Of course not.” Mr. Woodhouse smiled broadly and dropped his hat onto the back of his head. “It’s a known fact that newspapers sell better when pretty girls grace their pages.”
“We have a deal, then?”
“We have a deal.” They shook on it. T. S. Woodhouse’s pencil hovered over his notepad once again. “Ready when you are. We know the killer leaves occult symbols. What are they?”
“It’s a pentacle surrounded by a snake that’s eating its tail. The killer brands it onto their bodies. And he leaves religious notes. Unc thinks it might have to do with the Book of Revelation.”
T. S. Woodhouse’s pencil scribbled across the notepad. “That’s good. Revelations Killer! I like it.”
“We don’t know if that’s true yet….”
“Doesn’t matter.” T. S. Woodhouse’s expression was all grim determination. “I’m the press. I’ll make it true. What else?”
“That’s all for now. I’ll expect that story, Mr. Woodhouse.”
T. S. Woodhouse stuck his pencil behind his ear, shoved the notepad into his suit pocket, and pumped Evie’s hand again. “You’ve been swell, Evie. Don’t worry—I always keep my promises.”
Evie hoped that was true. If Will couldn’t make the museum into a destination, perhaps she could. And if she wanted to stay in Manhattan when her three months were up, she needed to start making a place and a name for herself now. Having a friend like T. S. Woodhouse could be very helpful.
FUNNY HOW THINGS WORK OUT
Henry woke from his dream with a gasp. He’d gone in with the hope of finding Louis. Instead, he’d seen Evie—and she had clearly seen him. That was odd, and Henry knew from odd. He’d been walking in dreams for two years now, and that had never happened.
Henry went to the cracked washstand. He slapped water on his face from the bowl and smoothed his hair back with his wet hands. Then he put the old straw boater back on his head and stared at his pale reflection in the mirror. He rested his forehead against the glass and closed his eyes.
“Louis, where are you?” he asked the empty room, not expecting an answer.