Murder in Chelsea by Victoria Thompson Page A

behind them. “Is one of my girls in trouble?”
    “Do you know Emma Hardy?”
    “Emma?” She looked relieved. She apparently had no love for Emma Hardy. “Is that who you’re looking for?”
    “You know her?”
    “Yes, I know her. I know a lot of girls who work in the theater.”
    “You mostly rent to actresses? Chorus girls, I mean.”
    That made her grin. “Yes. I used to be in the chorus myself. Married an actor, which I don’t ever recommend. He left me, like they all do, and when I got too old for the stage, I managed to get this house. The girls don’t always pay their rent, but they keep me young. What do you want with Emma?”
    Frank pulled two letters from his pocket. “She sent these to Anne Murphy at this address.”
    “Did she? I guess Anne did get some letters while she was here.”
    “She was living here, then?”
    “For a few months. The better part of a year, I guess.”
    “When did she leave?”
    “A couple weeks, maybe. I don’t know. Time goes so fast nowadays. Oh, wait. She was here just the other day, to get her mail, she said. I thought it was a joke.” Mrs. Dugan glanced at the letters. “Is she the one in trouble?”
    “Anne Murphy is dead, Mrs. Dugan.”
    She gave a little cry, then hastily crossed herself. “Merciful Mother of God.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “You should be, coming in here like this and telling me somebody I’ve known most of my life is dead.”
    “I’m not the one who killed her.”
    The blood drained from her face. “
Killed
, did you say? Don’t tell me she was killed!”
    Frank grabbed her arm and steered her to the closest chair.
    When she was safely seated, she glared up at him. “Who killed her?”
    “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”
    “Nobody here did, I can tell you that. Everybody loved Anne.”
    “I’m sure they did, but I thought you might be able to tell me more about her so I can figure out who might have wished her harm.”
    “Not a soul on this earth.” She crossed herself again, and tears flooded her eyes. “I can’t believe it.”
    “Why did she leave here?”
    “What?”
    “You said she’d been living here for almost a year, and then she left. Did she say where she was going or why she was leaving?”
    “She . . . I don’t know. She had some story about a job, I think. She was leaving the city, she said. I don’t remember. People in the theater are always coming and going. I didn’t pay much attention. Maybe the other girls can tell you. But I guess she didn’t leave the city, did she, if she’s dead? Ingrid knew her the best.”
    “Who’s Ingrid?”
    “Ingrid Cordova. One of the girls who was just here. She can tell you what there is to know. I’ll get her.”
    In a few minutes, Mrs. Dugan was back with the pretty, dark-haired girl who’d been insulted that Frank didn’t know she was an actress. She was protesting vigorously until she reached the parlor. Then she just dug in her heels. “I don’t know what he wants to see me about. I ain’t done nothing wrong.”
    “I told you, he has to ask you some questions. About Anne.”
    “Anne? Why would he want to know anything about Anne?”
    Mrs. Dugan gave him a pleading look. Obviously, she hadn’t broken the news.
    Frank sighed. “Miss Cordova, Anne Murphy was murdered this morning.”
    Ingrid’s pretty face registered her struggle to deny his words. She turned to Mrs. Dugan, outraged. “What’s he saying?”
    “Annie’s dead, God rest her soul, and he’s trying to find out who killed her.”
    “Killed?” she said, as if she’d never heard the word before.
    This time Mrs. Dugan helped Ingrid sit down and produced a handkerchief when the girl started sobbing. They waited until she’d recovered herself. Finally, she looked up at Frank. “I just saw her the other day.” As if that proved she couldn’t be dead today.
    “Mrs. Dugan said she came by to pick up her mail.”
    “She did. It was funny, you know? None of us gets letters, but