Ginger Gold Mystery Box Set 2 Page 2

  “Perhaps he tired of the theatre and left to do something new?”

  “I don’t think he would do that. There are still two nights of the show remaining. He wouldn’t leave us high and dry, would he? Besides, he promised me we’d celebrate together when it ended.”

  Felicia’s voice caught, and Ginger felt a wave of sympathy. “Are there any indications of foul play?”

  “Geordie said his room had been roughed up. Apparently Angus is a tidy type of fellow. And now that I think of it, he had seemed rather tense these last few days, like he had something on his mind.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  “Yes, but they’re not taking us seriously. They think Mr. Green is just a wild sort, doing his own thing. Ginger, you have to find him.”

  “Me?”

  “Mr. Haines is moneyed. He says he’ll pay you.”

  Ginger sputtered, “I’m not a private investigator, Felicia.”

  “But you are! You’ve solved so many mysteries since coming to England. Please Ginger, take the case.”

  Ginger gaped at her sister-in-law’s plea.

  Oh, mercy.

  Chapter Two

  Making her excuses to Madame Roux, Ginger—with Boss under one arm—stepped outside in search of a taxicab. Felicia had agreed to meet her at the Abbott Theatre. Ginger had never taken on a missing person’s case before, and already regretted agreeing to take this one. She wasn’t qualified and had no idea where to even start, but thought a quick interview of Angus Green's fellow actors and stage mates wouldn’t hurt.

  Ginger hailed a black Beardmore taxicab that had a covered carriage and large wings over spoked tyres.

  “You don’t mind my dog?” she asked.

  The driver shrugged. “So long as it doesn’t make a mess.”

  Ginger placed Boss on the leather seat then sorted her long winter coat around her legs as she slipped in beside him. Underneath, she wore a blue flat-crepe dress trimmed with silver braiding and a hemline that offended Ambrosia, with its trim just below the knee.

  “The Abbott Theatre, please,” she instructed.

  “Certainly, madam.”

  January in England was usually damp and grey, and this January day was no different. A fog had settled over the city making visibility a challenge for all those who navigated Oxford Street toward the theatre district—motorcars, horses and carriages, and daring cyclists. The taxicab driver squeezed the ball of his horn every few minutes.

  When they finally arrived at the theatre, Ginger clipped Boss’s leash to his collar, paid the driver, and hurried inside. What remained of the cast of Sham was assembled on the stage. Lit only by the electric lamps high up on the wall and some stage lighting, the theatre was dark.

  Felicia rushed to greet Ginger and ushered her through the doors on stage right. The perspective from the stage differed from Ginger’s earlier view from her box seat the evening before. An empty orchestra pit gaped in front, dark and dangerous, should someone fall in. Just beyond that, the seats tiered up in a steep incline like a red-velvet cliff.

  Mr. Atkins, Mr. Haines, and a man Ginger had never met, sat on foldable wooden chairs. Ginger put the stranger in his late forties, a studious sort with slicked-back hair and a waxed moustache. He greeted Ginger with a firm handshake.

  “I’m Peter Maguire, stage manager.”

  “How do you do, Mr. Maguire?”

  He gave Boss a disapproving look before saying, “I hope you don’t mind meeting us here. I just thought it would be the most central and also the most private.” He clicked his tongue. “This situation is odious. I’ll have to cancel the show because of that bounder.”

  The stage manager obviously didn’t believe harm had come to Mr. Green if his concern was for the show. Geordie Atkins ran a hand through his thinning hair and exhaled a defeated breath. He stood when Ginger drew closer. “Thanks for coming,” was all he said.

  Matthew Haines shuffled to his feet, shoulders hunched, and shook Ginger’s hand. He was slender and fine-boned, and his palm felt distinctly narrow and soft. Acting didn’t rough up a man’s hands as physical labour would. He wore a forest-green wool-knit winter sweater—a fashion made popular by the Prince of Wales—over a white cotton shirt and brown trousers. “Nice to see you again, Lady Gold. So sorry it’s under these strange circumstances.”

  “Do you really believe Mr. Green is in some kind of danger or has suffered a mishap?” Ginger asked. “Is this sort of behaviour out of character for him?”

  “I don’t know if Angus is in harm’s way or not,” Geordie said. “But you can be sure that disappearing without a word is not something he’d do unless circumstances merited it.”

  Peter Maguire played with his moustache as he nodded in agreement. “Angus is a serious lad who’s intent on becoming a successful actor. He planned to leave for New York this summer.”

  Felicia’s eyes grew wide at the news. Clearly Angus hadn’t been completely forthcoming.

  “Who was the last to see him?” Ginger asked.

  “I believe that was me,” Felicia said softly. “We went out for drinks after the show last night. He brought me home after midnight, I believe. Wanting to be refreshed for today’s rehearsal, he was going to his flat straightaway. At least, that’s what he told me.”

  Mr. Maguire clucked his tongue again and repeated, “I’ll have to cancel the last two shows. We don’t train an understudy for short performances like these. ”

  “Oh, Mr. Maguire,” Felicia said. “I’m so disappointed. Angus is not going to hear the last of it from me once he’s found!”

  “Perhaps I should see his flat,” Ginger said. Geordie dug into his pocket and produced a set of keys. “I’ll drive you.”

  Geordie Atkins and Angus Green’s flat was in the City of London just beyond the imposing structure of St. Paul’s Cathedral and not far from St. George’s Anglican Church. From the sitting room window looking south toward the Thames, Ginger could see the square, castle-like turret that overwhelmed the rest of the stone church. If she’d driven the Daimler, she would’ve stopped in to see Reverend Oliver Hill and check in on their Child Wellness Project, a charity that aided the hungry street children.

  The actors’ flat was sparsely decorated with a lone sofa and coffee table in the living room, a wooden table and two chairs in the kitchen.

  Ginger commanded Boss to sit by the door and then scanned the flat.

  Geordie watched her take it in. “We like to travel light. You never know where the next show is going to take us.”

  The bathroom had a white claw-foot tub—its enamel cracking—a small sink and the toilet. The mirror of the medicine cabinet stood open, and Ginger examined the contents. “Does anything in here belong to Mr. Green?”

  Geordie nodded. “He has the bottom shelf. That’s his toothbrush, his shaving cream and those powders are his medicament packets.”

  Ginger doubted Angus Green would leave, no matter how short the notice, without his private toiletries. She turned to Geordie. “Is it possible Mr. Green left involuntarily?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did he have any enemies?”

  Geordie shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know the bloke all that well.”

  “As of late, did his behaviour seem odd?”

  “He did seem out of sorts. Worried about something, I’d wager.” Geordie shrugged again. “But, in this business, Lady Gold, nothing is ever what it seems.”

  Chapter Three

  The 1924 gala event at Feathers & Flair was the talk of London. Everyone who was anyone in polite society was there, and even a few who weren’t so polite, such as the Daily News reporter, Blake Brown. He stood nearly eye-to-eye with Ginger who was wearing silver silk brocade two-inch heels. His thin hair was heavily oiled and parted on the side. His small brown eyes looked bored. A leather-covered Swiss-made Sico camera was strapped over the shoulder of his suit jacket, which bulged over a round belly.

  “You certainly know how to t
hrow a party, Lady Gold,” he said. “If I remember correctly, your last blast was a ‘dead’ one.” He chuckled at his own double entendre.

  “Oh, Mr. Brown,” Ginger said with distaste. “Please don’t bring that up. I can assure you that no one is going to die tonight.”

  “I was only pulling your leg.”

  She eyed him sideways. “I’m surprised to see you. This isn’t the kind of thing you normally cover, is it?”

  “My editor insisted.” Blake Brown shrugged. “Free booze. It was the best offer I had tonight.”

  A waiter passed by with drinks on a tray. Brown emptied his glass in a quick swig and grabbed another. Ginger was tempted to slap the man’s hand away but instead smiled like a good hostess should.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she said without awaiting a response.

  The girls had done an utterly fabulous job decorating. There were bouquets of white and gold helium-filled balloons, large bouquets of white roses in crystal vases, and silk ribbons hanging from the ceiling. White-gloved waiters dressed in black suits slid between the patrons, balancing trays of champagne-filled flute glasses. In one corner, a jazz singer crooned popular tunes.

  Ginger passed the Fitzhugh mother and daughter duo, regulars at Feathers & Flair.

  “Good heavens, Meredith. Stand up straight!” Lady Fitzhugh demanded. She was certainly hard on her daughter, Ginger thought.

  The poor girl pouted and threw her doughy shoulders back. Lady Meredith hadn’t been blessed with good looks—her face too wide and her mouth too small—and an overbearing mother only added to the young lady’s blatant lack of confidence.

  “Lady Fitzhugh, Lady Meredith, such a pleasure to see you both.” Ginger offered a smile.

  “These kinds of parties aren’t really for me, but I thought it might be good for Meredith.” Lady Fitzhugh clucked. “I’d hoped for more young men to be present.”

  “Mother, please!” Meredith’s puffy face flushed red with mortification.

  Ginger tried to make light of the older lady’s insensitivity. “My shop appeals mainly to women, so I’m afraid the gentlemen are quite outnumbered. I hope you do enjoy yourselves, regardless.”

  Beyond the Fitzhughs, Ginger spotted Princess Sophia von Altenhofen from Berlin. Shopping for her spring wardrobe, Ginger hoped. She recognised the royal from a feature she’d read in the Gazette du Bon Ton, an influential French fashion magazine. It was an article from before the war, but the princess had changed little over the years.

  “Princess von Altenhofen.” Ginger greeted her formally, knowing that the new republic in Germany had abolished the status of nobility. Their titles were nothing more than an extension of their names.

  “I hope you enjoy the music,” Ginger said. “Do you like jazz?”

  “Yes, the new music is soothing, but I have not come for comfort. I have come to meet Herr Molyneux.”

  “Of course. He shall be joining us shortly.”

  In the back room with his assistant, Mr. Edward Molyneux was making last minute adjustments to his presentation. A tumbler of whisky sat on the small table next to his chair. He wanted to create anticipation, he said when asked why he refused to mingle.

  Lady Isla Lyon and her husband, Lord Robert Lyon, were chatting with Lord and Lady Whitmore. Lord Whitmore, a pinkish man with wiry, straw-coloured hair, towered over his wife and the other couple, his gaze discreetly roaming the room. Unlike most people, Ginger knew Lord Whitmore was with the secret service. When their eyes met, he nodded imperceptibly.

  Countess Andreea Balcescu had shown up for the gala as promised, and Ginger crossed the room to greet her. The countess wore a glamorous midnight-blue, sequin-studded rayon gown that dropped in a straight line from her chest. Unfortunately for her, no amount of binding could bring about the desired boyish look that was currently in fashion.

  “Countess! So good of you to come.”

  “Monsieur Molyneux is not to be missed.”

  Ginger smiled. “I agree!”

  Haley saluted Ginger when she joined them. “Nicely done,” she said with a smile and toasted her friend with a glass of champagne.

  A lady Ginger had never seen before, petite with shiny dark hair and salon-perfect Marcel waves cascading from the top of her head to her delicate chin, approached with confidence, her bejewelled hand extended.

  “Lady Gold, I’m Mrs. Emelia Reed. It’s such a pleasure to finally meet. My husband speaks very highly of you.”

  The well-dressed man beside her turned and Ginger felt the floor shift underneath her. “Basil?”

  Ginger had met Chief Inspector Basil Reed the previous summer aboard the SS Rosa. There had been an immediate attraction between them which they both resisted. He claimed he was in a troubled marriage destined for divorce, and she was still privately mourning the death of her husband, even though he’d been gone for five years.

  Basil had begrudgingly allowed her to help in solving a crime that had happened aboard ship—Ginger could be quite persuasive when she wanted—and they parted ways having gained each other’s respect.

  As it turned out, crime continued to bring them together and a proper friendship developed. Her feelings had grown more serious than mere friendship, so much so that she’d put away the photo of Daniel that had sat on her bedside table since the war. It was a tearful goodbye to her first love, but Ginger knew Daniel would want her to be happy and move on. As Daniel was prone to say during the war, “The living have to keep on living.”

  Ginger had never confessed her feelings to the chief inspector, but she was certain he was aware of them. Basil Reed knew how to read people. It was one thing that made him good at his job. Ginger thought she was good at reading people too. She had been sure Basil’s feelings for her went beyond friendship.

  Apparently she’d been wrong.

  “Hello, Lady Gold.” Basil’s hazel eyes held hers, apologetically. “My wife decided she wished to attend at the last minute. We didn’t have a chance to RSVP.”

  RSVPs weren’t required. Basil was telling her he hadn’t had a chance to warn her, to let her know his wife had returned.

  Trained during the war to keep her emotions hidden, Ginger responded as expected under the most extreme and stressful of circumstances—no matter what was at stake. In the war years, her life had depended on it.

  Now, her personal dignity did.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Reed.” Ginger pasted on a smile though it felt as if her blood had drained to her feet.

  “Basil says you’re very good at details and management, Lady Gold.” Emelia Reed waved her free hand. “Clearly you have a head for business.”

  Ginger responded with false gaiety, “Thank you.” She caught Basil’s eye. “Perhaps I could outfit you with something.”

  He ducked his smoothly shaven chin. “I think I’ll stick to Savile Row.”

  Savile Row was the area of London where the male species of polite society shopped for fine garments. Not, strictly speaking, a competitor to Feathers & Flair.

  Emelia Reed stroked Basil’s waistcoat and patted him affectionately. “I think Savile Row is the only place for you, darling.” She held Ginger’s gaze. “My husband looks smashing. Don’t you agree?”

  “I do, Mrs. Reed,” Ginger answered lightly. Were Felicia watching, she’d be astounded at Ginger’s acting skills. “I hope you both will enjoy the evening.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Emelia Reed said. “I’ve been out of town for some time.” She threaded her fingers through her husband’s hand and beamed up at Basil. Ginger was quite certain the display was for her benefit. Emelia Reed arched a dark, well-defined brow. “It’s good to get back into the swing of things.”

  “Of course,” Ginger said politely. Though tears burned at the back of her eyes, she fought to control them. She mustn’t show improper emotion. Basil hadn’t promised her anything, hadn’t done anything wrong. She’d made foolish assumptions. This new pain in her chest was her own fault.

  “Nice
to see you again, Chief Inspector,” Ginger said with false brightness. She spun away and headed for the back room. A tear escaped even as she felt Basil’s gaze burn a hole through her back. She flung the dividing curtain apart with more strength than necessary.

  “Mr. Molyneux.”

  The designer had an authoritative way about him and looked well put together in an exquisitely tailored black dinner jacket. His brown hair was combed back from a pleasant-looking face.

  “Are you quite ready?” Ginger asked.

  He stood straight and tugged on his lapels. “We are indeed.”

  The designer’s assistant, Mademoiselle Bernard, jumped to attention. “The displays are set,” she said.

  Edward Molyneux smiled at Ginger. “I’m ready. You may introduce me.”

  His accent had taken on a definite French lilt, which made Ginger smile. Though the designer’s fashion house was on a much-desired street in Paris, he had, in fact, been born in London. Ginger agreed the French persona was more persuasive.

  Ginger slipped through the dividing curtain to face her guests. She deliberately did not look at Basil Reed.

  Chapter Four

  “Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present Monsieur Molyneux!”

  Mr. Molyneux passed through the curtain with a swagger, and the guests applauded with sincere appreciation. He entranced the crowd as Mademoiselle Bernard wheeled out sketches of Molyneux’s latest designs followed by the grand finale of three mannequins dressed in never-seen-before gowns. Molyneux’s designs were modern with strong lines and limited decoration, and the exposed back and shoulders had, in the past, led some to call his dresses outrageous.

  Ginger was happy to note that her guests didn’t appear to be among those. An appreciative chorus rang out.

  “Fabulous!”

  “Outstanding!”

  “Simply divine!”

  Lady Whitmore declared loudly to her husband. “A fashionable lady turns to his designs if she wants to be absolutely right without being utterly predictable.”