Beatrice followed her through the round doorway to a red curtain. Shirley pulled it aside, and Beatrice could see it hid a tiny room. The booth contained nothing but a table, a chair, and a small desk lamp. She placed the box on the table.

“I’ll give you some privacy.” With that, she pulled the curtain closed.

Alone with the metal box, Beatrice sat staring at the lid.

CHAPTER 53

Beatrice returned to the reception desk with the closed box in her hands. It was heavy. She placed it on the counter, and Shirley looked up.

“Did you find what you needed, dear?”

Beatrice nodded, afraid to trust her voice. She hadn’t known what to expect and didn’t know what to make of what she’d found. There were more questions than answers, and the weight of them bore down on her shoulders. Shirley must have noticed.

“I hope your aunt feels better soon.” Then she leaned in and lowered her voice. “Whatever you do, don’t lose that key.”

“Pardon me?”

“The key—don’t lose it. There’s no other way into the box without a police warrant and escort. We used to have ways to open the box discreetly with the right paperwork, but not anymore.” Shirley began sorting through papers on the counter as if she was trying to look busy.

“Discreetly,” Beatrice repeated, not quite sure what Shirley was getting at.

“Privately. With a master key. Sometimes things get lost, especially when people die . . .”

Beatrice lowered her eyes out of respect for Doris.

Shirley cleared her throat. “Sometimes boxes contain sensitive materials.”

“Money,” Beatrice said flatly. She’d seen the rolls and rolls of quarters and bundled dollar bills in the back of her aunt’s box.

“Sometimes.” Shirley leaned in closer. “Your aunt worked her fingers to the bone. I’d hate to see the IRS get ahold of what she worked so hard to save.”

The IRS, police, money—Beatrice began to understand. Her aunt came in every week; that’s what Shirley had said. Her aunt came in every week with her tips and deposited them into a box for safekeeping. Beatrice had no idea why she didn’t just use a coffee can or a cookie jar like everybody else. Either way, Aunt Doris was hiding her tips from the IRS. But that was the least of her concerns.

Shirley seemed content to leave it at that. She lifted the box and carried it from behind the counter and toward the vault entrance. Beatrice followed her and watched her slide the steel container through the open door in the vault. The door snapped closed, and the clerk locked it with Doris’s key. Shirley’s leather pumps padded swiftly back to her counter.

“You and Doris will be in my prayers.”

Beatrice knew this was her cue to leave, but she paused and studied Shirley. “What happened to the master key?”

Shirley looked up and pressed her lips together. “I heard it disappeared.” She glanced toward the security guard in the corner and then back to her papers.

“When?”

“Oh, before I started. I’m not sure. Doris is the one who told me about it. Please send her my best. I’ll be praying for her. I’ve got to get back to my work now, dear.”

Beatrice nodded apologetically. “Thank you for your help.”

Doris and Shirley occupied her thoughts all the way back to her desk. Shirley had broken the rules to help her—well, to help Doris. She may have even broken the law by giving her access to the box. Doris must have been a dear friend indeed.

The master key went missing years ago. Mr. Thompson was raiding safe deposit boxes, but he couldn’t possibly have the keys to boxes owned by complete strangers. He must have it. It was the only logical explanation. But a nagging voice in her head told her there was more to the story. There was Jim and Teddy and their late-night conferences about bribing officials. There was Randy in the vault last night. Then there was what she found in Box 547. She rubbed her forehead.

“Headache?” a voice next to her asked. It was Francine.

Beatrice blinked in surprise and turned to look at the neighboring desk for the first time in days. Francine was like a piece of office equipment the way she kept her head down hour after hour. Then she remembered Francine and the rest of the secretarial pool had heard Randy’s outburst that morning. Her face reddened.

“It’s been a rough day,” she admitted.

“Don’t mind Mr. Halloran. No one pays any attention to him.”

Beatrice smiled weakly, surprised at her candor. She opened her mouth to respond, but Francine had already returned to her typewriter. The moment had passed, but they were the first kind words Beatrice had heard at work in days.

CHAPTER 54

At 5:00 p.m. Beatrice filed out of the building like everyone else. She headed straight to the Theatrical Grille for her meeting with Tony. The bar was nearly full with the happy-hour crowd when she ducked through the door. She scanned the room anxiously for familiar faces. Seeing none, she found the only empty booth and sat down.

A four-piece band was setting up its instruments at the far end of the bar. Beatrice welcomed the distraction and watched the young men polish their brass horns and tune a humungous bass. She didn’t notice Carmichael until he was at her side.

“Bella! How are you today?” He was carrying a tray of drinks for another table. “I’ll be right back.”

He returned shortly with a glass of water for Beatrice. “You hungry tonight?”

She nodded eagerly.

“Excellent! I recommend the meatloaf. You need something to stick to those ribs! You are wasting away!”

She blushed in embarrassment but couldn’t argue with him. Her clothes were hanging off of her after weeks of inconsistent meals. “Okay.”

“Say, how’s my Maxie? Haven’t seen her in such a long time!”

“I think she’s still on vacation. I’ll tell her to come by next time I see her.” The story seemed to satisfy him for the time being, and he disappeared with her order.

Beatrice went back to watching the musicians and tried to clear her head before Detective McDonnell arrived. There was so much to tell, and she had to sort the secrets and lies from the truth. She was reaching into her bag of notes when she heard a woman muttering in the booth behind her.

“Figures he’s lookin’. That Carmichael always was a sucker for Maxie.”

Beatrice was too startled to turn around. Some strange woman had been listening to her conversation with the bartender.

“Used to get on my nerves.” The voice coughed, then lowered to a near whisper. “Don’t be fooled by his jive. If she’s really on vacation, she better stay there. Lots of people lookin’. You tell her that!”

Beatrice scowled and snapped her head toward the voice, but the seat behind hers was empty. There was a finished drink and two dollars on the table. She stood up and searched the room for a woman with a husky voice. A crush of people were laughing at the bar while the ice in their glasses tinkled merrily. But there was no sign of a woman who wasn’t already wrapped up in conversation. She surveyed the room again and caught a flash of gold lamé, bronze skin, and a puff of black hair slipping out the door.

Not two minutes later, Carmichael came, grinning, with the meatloaf and mashed potatoes. “Anything else? Wine?”

Still speechless, Beatrice nodded.

He was back with the wine before she’d even considered what she’d ordered. She sipped the red liquid anyway, hoping it might settle her nerves. The food calmed her stomach, and once she’d finished both, her brain began to catch up. The voice of the dark woman replayed in her mind. People were looking for Max, and complete strangers seemed to know more about it than she did.