Murder on Washington Square by Victoria Thompson

causing trouble. On the other hand, the prospect of having her accosted by a bunch of rabid reporters was enormously entertaining. Of course, there weren’t many reporters out there, only five or six. They’d probably get the worst of it, and Frank certainly had no love for the boys from Newspaper Row. Maybe he should let her go.
    Mrs. Brandt was pulling a lethal-looking pin from her hat and then removed the hat itself. She set it on the desk and hurried back to the kitchen. Frank followed more slowly, and by the time he got there, she’d taken off her jacket and was tying on an apron. At least she’d come to her senses.
    “Can you fix something to eat? Ellsworth hasn’t had anything all day, and I don’t want him fainting on me,” he said.
    She gave him one of her looks. “I’ll take care of it when I get back. Meanwhile”—she reached into the cupboard and pulled out what looked like a bottle of whiskey—“give him a shot of this.”
    It was whiskey, he realized as he took the bottle from her, and by the time that registered, she’d grabbed a teacup and was heading back to the front room. “Where are you going?”
    “To borrow a cup of sugar from my next-door neighbor,” she called back over her shoulder.
    She was out the front door before he could stop her, and when he peeked out the front window, he saw her acting very surprised and indignant at the reporters who instantly converged on her with their questions. It took her only a minute to break away from them and make it up to Mrs. Ellsworth’s front door. In another moment, she was inside. Frank shook his head in admiration. Of course, she’d have to get back again, and that might not be so easy.
    Still holding the bottle of whiskey, Frank returned to the kitchen, where he found Nelson Ellsworth still sitting exactly where he’d left him. He’d better start paying attention to his prisoner. If Ellsworth decided to escape while Frank was busy dealing with Sarah Brandt, he’d never hear the end of it. Taking Mrs. Brandt’s advice, he grabbed a glass off the shelf and poured Ellsworth two fingers’ worth.
    “Here,” he said, thrusting it into Ellsworth’s hand. “Drink it down. You’ll feel better.”
    Ellsworth looked at the glass as if he’d never seen one before. “I don’t drink spirits,” he said faintly.
    “This is the perfect time to start.”
    Ellsworth proved him wrong. He obediently, if gingerly, took a swig of the amber liquid and immediately began to choke. Frank saved him from spilling the rest of the liquor down the front of his suit and pounded him on the back until he stopped coughing.
    When he’d caught his breath, he looked up accusingly with red-rimmed eyes.
    “See, I told you you’d feel better,” Frank said unrepentantly and sat down at the table across from him. “All right, Ellsworth, tell me about Anna Blake.”
    Nelson reached up and rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I can’t believe she’s dead,” he said hoarsely.
    “Believe it. Now talk to me. How did you meet her?”
    He looked like he was going to start crying. “I can’t—”
    “Yes, you can, because I’m the only hope you’ve got, Nelson. I promised Broughan that if he let me take you home, I’d find out who really killed the girl,” he said, naming the detective who’d been assigned to solve Anna Blake’s murder. “If you don’t help me, then I’ll have to turn you back over to him, and you don’t want that. See, Broughan is a lazy drunk, and he’d rather lock up an innocent man than find the guilty one if it means he’s going to have to exert himself. You’re real easy to catch, and I don’t think he’d be able to resist the temptation. If you don’t help me, I can’t help you. Now start talking.”
    Ellsworth had gone chalk white, but he reached for the glass of whiskey and took another swallow. This time he didn’t choke, although it was a near thing. “All right,” he said, clearing his throat. “I met