Tell Me No Lies Read online

  Godfrey wasn’t strolling, not like a man marking time. He seemed to know exactly where he was going and was in a hurry to get there. But where? Ahead of them, the white Egyptian stele, known as the obelisk, rose above the trees. Beyond it, a row of trees grew around the banks of the reservoir.

  Phil spent most of her walks in the south end of the park, but she had seen the obelisk on many occasions during her visits to the museum. She couldn’t imagine why Godfrey was in such a hurry, unless perhaps he was meeting someone?

  Her interest piqued, Phil studied the several paths and the surrounding trees. And saw two men walking briskly in the opposite direction. Neither of them looked familiar, not even in disguise, so she turned her attention back to Godfrey.

  He didn’t stop at the obelisk, merely slowed down and looked around him. Phil smoothly turned to look at a bush and when she surreptitiously looked back at him, he had moved on.

  Damn the man. She hurried after him and reached the obelisk just in time to see him stepping into the trees by the water. She sincerely hoped she wasn’t about to discover him relieving himself in the lake. That would be embarrassing to both of them.

  She stepped behind the obelisk, peered out in time to see another man slip out of the underbrush.

  A clandestine meeting. The temptation was just too strong to ignore.

  Phil stepped off the path, and keeping out of sight of the two men as they talked, she managed to work her way through the bushes close enough to see the back of Godfrey’s hat.

  She could only catch a glimpse of the other man, who was shorter and slight, and wearing a black suit and no overcoat.

  At first she thought he might be a bum, looking for a handout, until Godfrey grasped his shoulder. For a brief moment she got a look at the man’s face. Dark eyes, thin cheeks, hatless, with thin pomaded hair, a little mustache. No one she’d seen before.

  Surely it had to be something untoward. Or was she making too much of a coincidence? Then Godfrey reached inside his breast pocket, handed something to the man, who clapped his arm and hurried away.

  Godfrey turned to retrace his steps and Phil ducked behind the tree.

  What a dilemma. Godfrey was going back to the street. The man was moving quickly, passing behind the museum in a most furtive way. A quick decision needed to be made. She followed the furtive man. It had a nice ring to it, The Furtive Man.

  He continued along the path behind the museum, which, as far as Phil knew, went farther into the interior of the park. Not somewhere she wanted to go unaccompanied.

  She was already getting a prickly feeling up the back of her neck. She glanced behind her. No one was there. She passed beneath a bough of trees; the furtive man looked around as if he knew he was being followed, then plunged off the path and into the shrubbery.

  She was certainly not going to follow him into the woods or the water. She turned to go. A man was standing on the steps at the back of the museum. Dressed in a gray tailored overcoat and felt trilby, a trim beard of indeterminate brown, he was the epitome of fashion. And she knew who he was. It was the ironic slant of his hat that gave him away.

  He tilted his head in her direction, then turned and disappeared into the colonnaded entrance.

  It was a challenge that she couldn’t resist. She hurried after him, but of course there was no dapper gentleman waiting for her inside the gallery. Fortunately it was a free day so she wasn’t held up waiting in line for a ticket.

  She walked through the domed gallery, looking in archways, keeping alert for a familiar posture, a sudden movement. In one room, two ladies were bent over a display case of figurines. In another a young man sat on a bench studiously contemplating a painting.

  She moved on. Stopped. Came back, the student was gone.

  She moved on to the next gallery just in time to see the tail of an overcoat round the corner of the gallery door.

  The chase was on and Phil felt a thrill she seldom felt these days. She hurried after him, but not too fast. She’d never catch him, not in a straightforward way. He was much too good for that. But she might trip him up yet. With the success of her encounter with the journalist outside the foundations shop, she felt confident she could find him before he disappeared again.

  She stood in the hall considering her options. He’d been moving toward the Fifth Avenue exit and would most likely pass through the Greek sculptures to get there, but first he would have to pass several exhibits that, if she recalled correctly, were quite crowded with artifacts.

  The rooms became more populated as she neared the exit. She walked slowly but purposefully toward the gallery to her right. Just in case he was waiting, teasing her with a glimpse. For a second all she saw was oriental tapestries. Then he stepped out of a group at the far end and strolled toward the door.

  She quickened her step toward the retreating figure but as soon as he disappeared into the next room, she hurried back into the main hallway and raced toward the Greek gallery.

  A quick look around told her that she’d beaten him there. He’d have to pass through in order to get to the exit. She slipped behind a life-sized marble depiction of two wrestlers. One had fallen to the ground, his arm lifted in defense. His body gave her camouflage and an extraordinary view of his … Good heavens. She pulled her eyes from that delectable detail and peered through the legs of the standing wrestler.

  Mr. X did not make an appearance. The two ladies from the gallery she’d passed walked in, arms linked and taking their time. Phil crouched down until they passed on, then she peered out from behind the statue and scanned the gallery.

  Nothing. She was about to admit defeat when she felt a breeze behind her. She stood, turned around, right into his arms.

  “Really, my dear, you’re absolutely inspired this afternoon.”

  “You,” she said, backing away and almost sitting on the wrestlers’ plinth.

  He shook his head. “Did you really think it would work twice?”

  “Twice? What are you talking about?” She was asking questions, but she was really studying his face. Looking for any distinguishing characteristics that she might recognize when they met again. But it was impossible to tell what was really him and what was artful deceit.

  “Your encounter with the sordid character at the ladies foundations store. You were clever, but you made an amateur’s mistake.”

  “And what, pray tell, was that? I caught him off guard.”

  “You did. But you need to learn to never wield a deadly weapon if you’re not willing to use it.”

  “I would have poked him.”

  “Ah, but would you have killed him?”

  Phil swallowed. Surely she would never have to kill a foe or anyone else for that matter. She steeled her nerve.

  “I was afraid it might be you,” she said by way of explanation.

  “Really, Countess. I’m hurt that you think I would be so clumsy.”

  “If you were there, why didn’t you come to my rescue?”

  “I didn’t want to be de trop. Besides, you seemed to be well guarded.”

  “My irregulars. Do you know who the villain was?”

  “I know who he worked for.”

  She wanted to know who, but what she asked was, “Worked? He no longer works for this employer?”

  “Unfortunately his employer, as you call him, found it necessary to have him, um, dispatched.”

  Phil shuddered in spite of herself. “Not you?”

  He laughed quietly. “Not in this instance. But don’t think I’m incapable of certain, shall we say, unsavory necessities.”

  “So who did he work for and why was he following me?”

  “To the first, you’re better off not knowing. And for the second, we’re not sure.”

  “We?”

  “I’m not sure. But I would guess a mere intimidation technique. The poor fool couldn’t see his way past—and no offense meant here—a woman and a bunch of children.”

  “Are you warning me off?”

 
“God no. I love watching you work. Your method is nothing if not creative, and charming. But following this particular lead would be as fruitful as playing at thimblerig. I need you elsewhere.”

  “Why are you interested in Perry Fauks’s murder?”

  “I’m not really except that it brings us together. Other than that, it merely coincides with other interests.”

  This was the longest she’d been face-to-face with him in the light and she was quickly memorizing everything she could. As if she would easily forget any of their encounters. He was taller than she by a good six inches; she forced herself not to look at his feet in an effort to see if he was wearing lifts in his shoes. She searched for telltale signs of spirit glue along the brownish-red mustaches and muttonchops, a style that had been out of style for years. She vaguely remembered her grandfather wearing them when she was still a child.

  He stood smiling back at her, amused, knowing exactly what she was doing. Why was he being so reckless? Or was it arrogance, believing that she would never be able to identify him. He was infuriating.

  And then another thought occurred to her.

  “You aren’t even following me, are you?”

  An elderly couple passed by and cast disapproving looks at them. Well, perhaps they were standing a bit too close for museum etiquette. He took her arm and steered her to another statue, this one a nude young woman holding a water ewer over her head.

  More to his liking no doubt.

  “Actually no, but we do seem to be running in the same circles.”

  She laughed. “I feel like I’m running in circles.”

  He smiled. He had the most engaging smile, though she was under no false illusions that he would not be ruthless if need be. It made her blood rush. An altogether unsettling feeling.

  “What am I supposed to be doing?” she demanded.

  “Enjoying Manhattan with all its wonders.”

  She started to press him, but held back. What if they weren’t working for the same people? What if she wasn’t even really working for anybody? She’d never been given direct orders or any clue as to who was paying for her apartment at the Plaza.

  Not him. That would be too demoralizing. Hardly better than being a lover’s kept woman—without even the pleasure of the lover.

  “Actually, I’m rather interested in the Countess of Warwick.”

  Phil was nonplussed. And heartbroken. Well, maybe not her heart, but …

  He flicked her cheek. “Don’t be jealous.”

  “I wouldn’t bother,” Phil said at her haughtiest. “She has a good twenty years on me.”

  He laughed and was immediately hushed by a group who had just entered.

  “Make sure she gets to the house party.”

  “Will you be there?”

  “Perhaps. Now really I must run.” He kissed her hand. “And you must be more careful. That was a beginner’s mistake. Take a taxi home. Adieu.”

  He walked out of the gallery as if he had no place better to go, and she let him. She was ready for her tea, or better still, a martini.

  When Phil finally reached the Plaza, she bought a copy of the evening edition of the Post, “hot off the presses” from a grinning Just a Friend—making a mental note to have Preswick purchase him a warmer coat—and took the paper upstairs to read.

  The news was not good. The suspect may have been apprehended, but the afternoon editions had moved on. “Stocks Continue to Plummet, the Latest Victim, Fauks Copper, Coal and Steel.”

  Another headline a little lower down. “Head of Fauks Copper, Coal and Steel Missing.” Followed by this question. “Is he another victim of a killing spree, or was he an accessory to the deed? Was this a plot to corner the market?”

  And beneath that a grainy photo with the caption, “Isaac Sheffield Missing.” A grainy image of a thin-cheeked man, with dark pomaded hair and mustache. The same man Phil had seen with Godfrey Bennington not an hour before.

  17

  The Packard was brought round at nine-thirty sharp the next morning. Its yellow surface gleamed as bright as the sun on a clear crisp day. Not a blemish marred the polished windscreen. That would soon be remedied when they reached the open road.

  Better the screen than her person, thought Phil.

  She sighed with satisfaction. There was something empowering being behind the wheel of an automobile. And though in town she’d been relying on taxis rather than the Packard mostly, she was glad to be behind the wheel today.

  So much better than a carriage or the railway. And quicker. The Packard could reach speeds of fifty miles an hour on the open road, as she had reason to know. And even though she’d traveled at nearly twice that in France in the Darracq of a certain captivating race car driver, she had no need or desire to try to emulate him in any way.

  Besides, it was impossible to appreciate the scenery at that speed.

  Today, with the top pulled up, plus the lap blankets folded on the backseat and the thermoses of coffee the hotel had packed for the drive, they should be quite cozy.

  The truck had picked up her trunks and her servants’ valises, but there were still lunch baskets, makeup cases, and other packages to be packed. When at last they were all strapped to the back of the Packard, Lily adjusted the scarf around Phil’s hat, Preswick tucked his bowler under the seat, and they all climbed in and drove to the Webster Hotel on West Forty-Fifth Street.

  Daisy was waiting in the lobby. She was dressed in a day dress of navy foulard, figured in white and trimmed in Valenciennes lace. One of the narrow-brimmed hats advertised for the coming season topped her hair and a beige woolen coat with fur collar was folded over her arm.

  So much for her not having a thing to wear.

  “I’ll have Preswick take care of this,” Phil said and she slid the coat from Daisy’s arm. “We have a bit of a trip. I have to make a quick stop at the Reynolds’ horse farm. We’ll have lunch there. And then on to Foggy Acres. You’ll be better off wearing this touring coat.”

  While the bellhops strapped Daisy’s carrying cases onto the back of the Packard with the rest of the personal luggage, Lily and Phil dressed her in one of Phil’s driving coats, which almost dragged the ground, but would suffice as long as Daisy didn’t have to walk too far.

  Lily handed her a pair of goggles and wrapped a wide net shawl around her hat and affixed it with a big bow beneath her chin.

  She balked, however, when she realized Phil would be driving.

  “You don’t drive?” Phil asked. “Well, we’ll have to remedy that while you’re here.”

  “Thank you, no.” Daisy pressed her lips together, dimpling her cheeks, and let Preswick help her into the passenger seat.

  They took the bridge across the East River with Daisy clutching the seat with both hands. Soon enough they’d left the bustle of the city behind and were tooling down the country road to Holly Farm.

  They sped along fields now fallow, the harvest long since past, leaving brown stubble where a few months before lush green grasses had grown. Cows and sheep still foraged, but it wouldn’t be long before snow covered the landscape.

  Phil could feel the cold on her cheeks and hoped Daisy wasn’t too uncomfortable. She’d finally relaxed but still sat tall, looking every inch a countess, as the wind buffeted the tails of the scarf about her face.

  Phil couldn’t imagine her among the socialists, picketing and striking, and giving speeches from the back of a farm truck.

  But Phil admired her dedication and determination to make the world a better place. Phil was helping in her own little way, but she had to admit she’d much rather chase criminals than stand in a picket line.

  In their own way, they were both fighting for justice and a better life for all. She and Daisy might someday be the heroines of their own dime novel. Phil chuckled and shifted the Packard into a higher gear. It shot off down the road.

  Holly Farm looked much different than it had when she’d visited last summer. Besides the shorn grasses and the leafless trees
, the private road that led to the house and stables had been paved. She stopped the Packard at the white-framed farmhouse and was happy to see the ducks who made their home by the little pond at the front of the house running to greet them. Lily always packed breadcrumbs to feed them. They hadn’t forgotten.

  Though weren’t they supposed to fly south for the winter? She’d have to ask.

  “It’s charming,” Daisy said. “Does someone live here?”

  “Bev and—” Phil stopped; there was no “Bev and” with Reggie dead.

  “Bev uses it when she comes out to check on the training sessions,” Phil said. “It’s primitive but adequate. Why don’t you go inside with Lily and Preswick. I just need to have a word at the stables. Lily, see to her ladyship, please.”

  Lily, who had just taken the picnic basket from Preswick, handed it back to him, and curtseyed.

  “Yes, my lady.” Then shot an anguished look to Preswick.

  “I’ll bring the Countess’s cases up.”

  Daisy broke into a peal of laughter. “Is there anything more absurd than two countesses and one set of servants?” She turned a saucy look toward Phil and the twenty years between them melted away. “Though I suppose we should call you dowager?”

  “Not if you value your life,” Phil quipped back.

  “Oh Lord, how I’ve missed having fun.” Daisy turned toward the house and practically tripped away, Lily running quickly after her to open the door.

  Phil pulled off her scarf, and strode up the drive to the red painted barn and training areas, where two blanketed horses were being walked in the paddock.

  As she neared the barn she caught sight of an air balloon drifting above them and she paused to watch it soar and dip on the wind.

  “Lady Dunbridge!”

  Bobby Mullins came out of the stable, his hand raised in greeting, his unruly hair flashing red and orange in the sun. He was dressed in one of his favorite plaid suits.

  “I was just checking on our new mares,” he said, coming up to shake her hand. “Glad you could make it. I got news.”