brought around, just in case. And, Miss Hope, I rarely travel with the Secret Service.” The First Lady smiled, an expression that revealed what some might consider overly large teeth but was all the more beautiful for its sincerity. “Not only do I drive myself but I have a concealed weapon permit, and I always carry a gun.”
Her normally pleasant expression turned fierce. “Franklin says I’m a crack shot.”
—
“Public Enemy Number One is off and running!” Eleanor Roosevelt sang to Maggie on their way out. “It’s J. Edgar Hoover who calls me that, actually—the Secret Service has named me Rover. Of course, Public Enemy Number One is better than Negro-loving Bitch. Have you heard that the Ku Klux Klan has a bounty on my head?”
“No, I haven’t. Would you like me to drive, ma’am?” The Secret Service had pulled up an anonymous-looking black sedan, then left it running, with the door open. It had been awhile, but Maggie was sure she could still remember how to drive on the right-hand side of the road.
“Oh, heavens, no.” Once they’d settled into the car’s leather seats, Mrs. Roosevelt pulled out of the gravel drive. “Are you comfortable, Miss Hope?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As comfortable as anyone could possibly be in this rather unusual situation.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
—
Blanche’s apartment was a faux-Tudor building on Massachusetts Avenue at Twelfth Street, now covered in cottony fog.
Mrs. Roosevelt was about to pull into the hazy circular drive that led to the main entrance when Maggie asked, “Maybe we should park on the street, ma’am?”
Mrs. Roosevelt looked surprised. “Yes, yes, of course, Miss Hope. That’s an excellent suggestion.”
They parked on Twelfth and then walked to the building, made of brick and covered in gargoyles, including one sticking out a forked tongue. A horse-drawn cart passed, the
clip-clop
of the hooves echoing in the hazy darkness, and the raw air smelled of horse and woodsmoke. Mrs. Roosevelt headed to the front door, replete with uniformed doorman, but Maggie had other ideas. “Let’s use the side door—er, if you don’t mind. Ma’am.”
Mrs. Roosevelt gave the younger woman a curious look, then nodded. They waited until one of the cleaning staff exited, then held the door and walked in. Inside was the same Tudor architecture as the exterior, and Maggie was reminded of her years in Claflin Hall at Wellesley College. “What’s her apartment number?” she asked as they stepped into the wood-paneled elevator.
“Seven fourteen.”
The elevator arrived at the seventh floor, and they walked to 714. Maggie knocked. “Miss Balfour?” Then, even louder, “Blanche Balfour? Blanche?”
Nothing.
Still in her evening gown and long gloves, Maggie plucked a hairpin from her bun. A Glaswegian safecracker, lock expert, and master criminal had once taught her how to pick a lock at spy-training camp in Scotland. Seconds later, the lock sprang open with a smart
click
.
The First Lady’s eyes widened. “You’re a woman of many talents, Miss Hope.”
You have no idea.
“Please allow me to go first, ma’am.”
The heavy oak door creaked open. Inside, the apartment was deep in shadows. Maggie, with Mrs. Roosevelt at her heels, walked past the efficiency kitchen and through the living room.
“Blanche? Blanche?” Maggie pushed open the door to what she supposed was the bedroom.
The room reeked of bourbon, and the bedclothes were tangled. A light glowed from underneath a closed door.
“Blanche?” Maggie called. She opened the bathroom door. There, in a bathtub of blood, lay a young woman. Maggie took in the scene, the girl’s staring, glassy eyes. “Oh, no…”
“What? What is it?”
Maggie turned. “I’m so sorry, ma’am, you don’t want to see—”
But Mrs. Roosevelt pushed past her. “Oh, God,” she whispered, taking in the sight. “Poor Blanche,” she murmured, putting one gloved hand to her heart. “The poor, dear
Her normally pleasant expression turned fierce. “Franklin says I’m a crack shot.”
—
“Public Enemy Number One is off and running!” Eleanor Roosevelt sang to Maggie on their way out. “It’s J. Edgar Hoover who calls me that, actually—the Secret Service has named me Rover. Of course, Public Enemy Number One is better than Negro-loving Bitch. Have you heard that the Ku Klux Klan has a bounty on my head?”
“No, I haven’t. Would you like me to drive, ma’am?” The Secret Service had pulled up an anonymous-looking black sedan, then left it running, with the door open. It had been awhile, but Maggie was sure she could still remember how to drive on the right-hand side of the road.
“Oh, heavens, no.” Once they’d settled into the car’s leather seats, Mrs. Roosevelt pulled out of the gravel drive. “Are you comfortable, Miss Hope?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As comfortable as anyone could possibly be in this rather unusual situation.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
—
Blanche’s apartment was a faux-Tudor building on Massachusetts Avenue at Twelfth Street, now covered in cottony fog.
Mrs. Roosevelt was about to pull into the hazy circular drive that led to the main entrance when Maggie asked, “Maybe we should park on the street, ma’am?”
Mrs. Roosevelt looked surprised. “Yes, yes, of course, Miss Hope. That’s an excellent suggestion.”
They parked on Twelfth and then walked to the building, made of brick and covered in gargoyles, including one sticking out a forked tongue. A horse-drawn cart passed, the
clip-clop
of the hooves echoing in the hazy darkness, and the raw air smelled of horse and woodsmoke. Mrs. Roosevelt headed to the front door, replete with uniformed doorman, but Maggie had other ideas. “Let’s use the side door—er, if you don’t mind. Ma’am.”
Mrs. Roosevelt gave the younger woman a curious look, then nodded. They waited until one of the cleaning staff exited, then held the door and walked in. Inside was the same Tudor architecture as the exterior, and Maggie was reminded of her years in Claflin Hall at Wellesley College. “What’s her apartment number?” she asked as they stepped into the wood-paneled elevator.
“Seven fourteen.”
The elevator arrived at the seventh floor, and they walked to 714. Maggie knocked. “Miss Balfour?” Then, even louder, “Blanche Balfour? Blanche?”
Nothing.
Still in her evening gown and long gloves, Maggie plucked a hairpin from her bun. A Glaswegian safecracker, lock expert, and master criminal had once taught her how to pick a lock at spy-training camp in Scotland. Seconds later, the lock sprang open with a smart
click
.
The First Lady’s eyes widened. “You’re a woman of many talents, Miss Hope.”
You have no idea.
“Please allow me to go first, ma’am.”
The heavy oak door creaked open. Inside, the apartment was deep in shadows. Maggie, with Mrs. Roosevelt at her heels, walked past the efficiency kitchen and through the living room.
“Blanche? Blanche?” Maggie pushed open the door to what she supposed was the bedroom.
The room reeked of bourbon, and the bedclothes were tangled. A light glowed from underneath a closed door.
“Blanche?” Maggie called. She opened the bathroom door. There, in a bathtub of blood, lay a young woman. Maggie took in the scene, the girl’s staring, glassy eyes. “Oh, no…”
“What? What is it?”
Maggie turned. “I’m so sorry, ma’am, you don’t want to see—”
But Mrs. Roosevelt pushed past her. “Oh, God,” she whispered, taking in the sight. “Poor Blanche,” she murmured, putting one gloved hand to her heart. “The poor, dear
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