the fading sunlight, and her hair looked like spun gold beneath the brim of her elaborate hat. The paint on her lips and cheeks, probably applied to make her look older and more sophisticated, actually made her look more fragile and vulnerable. Only when one looked deep into her eyes did one see the inner hardness.
That hardness flashed like steel when she looked at Sarah. “We want to find out who killed Gerda, Mrs. Brandt. If you think this’ll help, we’ll do it.”
Plainly, she didn’t think it would, but Sarah knew better. She knew she would find the killer if she just put herself in the right place.
The entrance to the hall was an outside stairway on the side of the saloon. Half a dozen men in loud, checked suits hovered near its entrance, inspecting everyone who passed, as if their approval were necessary for admittance. They were a little the worse for time spent inside the saloon.
“Hetty!” one of them called, a smarmy-looking fellow with slicked-down hair beneath his straw boater. “Who’s that with you? Did you bring your ma to chaperone?”
The others found this hilariously funny and laughed uproariously. Sarah felt her cheeks heating, but she was certain it was from anger.
“At least I know who my ma is!” Hetty replied without missing a beat, tipping up her chin haughtily.
The other men found this even more hilarious, as drunks will. Sarah quickened her step to keep up with the other girls who were scurrying up the stairs to escape the drunks below. At the top of the steps, a burly young man sat at a rickety table collecting the fifteen-cent admission fee. Sarah treated the girls, knowing they had to count their pennies and skip lunches to afford such outings.
The hall was much hotter than the street outside, and the stench of human sweat was strong. Mixed with the smell of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and the other unpleasant odors of the city, it was nearly overwhelming, but Sarah fought off a wave of dizziness and reminded herself that she could get used to anything. She’d delivered babies in enough hovels to know that after a few minutes she wouldn’t even notice the smell anymore. The heat was another matter. She’d just have to ignore it.
The band had been playing a rousing rendition of “After the Ball,” but as soon as they arrived, the music stopped with unnatural abruptness, leaving Sarah’s ears ringing in the sudden stillness. The silence lasted only a moment, however, since the hundred or so people in the room instantly took advantage of the opportunity to converse without screaming over the din of the musicians.
“Let’s find a table,” Bertha said, taking Sarah’s arm and propelling her across the dance floor to where a few empty tables stood. They claimed one crammed in between two groups of drunken young men who might have been related to the men they’d encountered downstairs, so closely did they resemble each other. Or maybe it was just that all their suits were uniformly ugly and garish and their manner equally obnoxious. They hooted at the girls, making suggestive remarks which the girls studiously ignored.
“Don’t pay no attention, Mrs. Brandt,” Lisle advised her. “They like you better if you ignore them.”
Sarah didn’t want them to like her at all, so she wondered if she should openly flirt with them to discourage their attention. That strategy seemed foolish, even if Sarah had the courage to carry it out, so she just sat down with the rest of the girls and concentrated on looking for a killer.
In no more than a few seconds, Sarah realized that Lisle had been only too right in predicting this trip was a waste of time. Easily half the people in the room were men, and all of them seemed to be dressed in tasteless plaid or checked suits. Most of them appeared to be already drunk, and the rest were on their way to it. They were all leering or jeering or both, vying for the attention of a female, any female, it seemed. To Sarah, they all looked
That hardness flashed like steel when she looked at Sarah. “We want to find out who killed Gerda, Mrs. Brandt. If you think this’ll help, we’ll do it.”
Plainly, she didn’t think it would, but Sarah knew better. She knew she would find the killer if she just put herself in the right place.
The entrance to the hall was an outside stairway on the side of the saloon. Half a dozen men in loud, checked suits hovered near its entrance, inspecting everyone who passed, as if their approval were necessary for admittance. They were a little the worse for time spent inside the saloon.
“Hetty!” one of them called, a smarmy-looking fellow with slicked-down hair beneath his straw boater. “Who’s that with you? Did you bring your ma to chaperone?”
The others found this hilariously funny and laughed uproariously. Sarah felt her cheeks heating, but she was certain it was from anger.
“At least I know who my ma is!” Hetty replied without missing a beat, tipping up her chin haughtily.
The other men found this even more hilarious, as drunks will. Sarah quickened her step to keep up with the other girls who were scurrying up the stairs to escape the drunks below. At the top of the steps, a burly young man sat at a rickety table collecting the fifteen-cent admission fee. Sarah treated the girls, knowing they had to count their pennies and skip lunches to afford such outings.
The hall was much hotter than the street outside, and the stench of human sweat was strong. Mixed with the smell of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and the other unpleasant odors of the city, it was nearly overwhelming, but Sarah fought off a wave of dizziness and reminded herself that she could get used to anything. She’d delivered babies in enough hovels to know that after a few minutes she wouldn’t even notice the smell anymore. The heat was another matter. She’d just have to ignore it.
The band had been playing a rousing rendition of “After the Ball,” but as soon as they arrived, the music stopped with unnatural abruptness, leaving Sarah’s ears ringing in the sudden stillness. The silence lasted only a moment, however, since the hundred or so people in the room instantly took advantage of the opportunity to converse without screaming over the din of the musicians.
“Let’s find a table,” Bertha said, taking Sarah’s arm and propelling her across the dance floor to where a few empty tables stood. They claimed one crammed in between two groups of drunken young men who might have been related to the men they’d encountered downstairs, so closely did they resemble each other. Or maybe it was just that all their suits were uniformly ugly and garish and their manner equally obnoxious. They hooted at the girls, making suggestive remarks which the girls studiously ignored.
“Don’t pay no attention, Mrs. Brandt,” Lisle advised her. “They like you better if you ignore them.”
Sarah didn’t want them to like her at all, so she wondered if she should openly flirt with them to discourage their attention. That strategy seemed foolish, even if Sarah had the courage to carry it out, so she just sat down with the rest of the girls and concentrated on looking for a killer.
In no more than a few seconds, Sarah realized that Lisle had been only too right in predicting this trip was a waste of time. Easily half the people in the room were men, and all of them seemed to be dressed in tasteless plaid or checked suits. Most of them appeared to be already drunk, and the rest were on their way to it. They were all leering or jeering or both, vying for the attention of a female, any female, it seemed. To Sarah, they all looked
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