Lair of Dreams
Evie gave the reporter a tight smile. “I think it’s swell, Mr. Woodhouse.”
T. S. Woodhouse raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”
Evie fixed him with a stare. “Sure. Perhaps we’ll start our own nightclub—hoofers and hocus-pocus. If you’re nice, we’ll even let you in.”
“Maybe you’ll have your own union,” another reporter joked.
“There are some folks who say the Diviners are no better than circus freaks. That they’re dangerous. Un-American,” T. S. Woodhouse pressed.
“I’m as American as apple pie and bribery,” Evie cooed to more laughter.
“Love this Sheba,” the second reporter murmured, jotting it down. “She makes my job easy.”
Woodhouse wasn’t giving up. “Sarah Snow, who shares the radio with you, called Diviners ‘a symptom of a nation that’s turned away from God and American values.’ What do you say to that, Miss O’Neill?”
Sarah Snow. That small-time, Blue Nose pain in the neck, always looking down at Diviners in general and Evie in particular. She’d like to give that two-bit Bible thumper a kick in the backside. But that kind of publicity Evie didn’t need. And she wasn’t about to give it to Sarah Snow for free by starting a war.
“Oh, does Sarah Snow have a radio show? I hadn’t noticed,” Evie said, batting her lashes. “Come to think of it, no one else has, either.”
As Evie bounded up the steps, T. S. Woodhouse sidled up next to her. “You went after me a little hard there, Woody,” Evie sniffed.
“Keeps things interesting, Sheba. Also keeps anybody from suspecting our arrangement. Speaking of, my wallet’s feeling a little light these days, if you catch my drift.”
With a careful glance at the other reporters, Evie slipped Woodhouse a dollar. Woodhouse held the bill up to the light.
“Just making sure you’re not printing your own these days,” he said. Satisfied, he pocketed the bill and tipped his hat. “Pleasure doing business with you, Sweetheart Seer.”
“Be a good boy, Woody, and go type something swell about me, will ya?” Evie said.
The lobby of the Grant Hotel was festive chaos. Partygoers of all sorts—flappers, hoofers, gold diggers, Wall Street boys, and aspiring movie stars—draped themselves over every available inch of furniture while baffled hotel guests wondered if they’d wandered into a traveling circus by mistake. On the far side of the lobby, the angry hotel manager wiggled his fingers up high, trying to get Evie’s attention.
“Horsefeathers!” Evie hissed. Turning the other way, she squeezed through the tourniquet of revelers on her way toward the Overland Room, where she spied Henry and Theta in a corner. As she shimmied sideways through the swells, past a sad-eyed accordion player singing something doleful in Italian, people turned and pressed closer to her.
“Say, I’ve got to talk with you, sweetheart,” a good-looking boy in a cowboy hat purred. “See, there’s a little interest in an oil speculation out in Oklahoma, and I want to know if it’s going to pay off.…”
“I can’t see the future, only the past,” Evie demurred, pushing on.
“Evie, DAAAARLING!” drawled a redhead in a long silver cape trimmed in peacock feathers. Evie had never seen the woman before in her life. “We simply MUST talk! It’s URGENT, my dove.”
“Why, then, I’d best go put on my urgent shoes,” Evie called back without stopping, bumping headlong into someone. “Pardon me, I…” Evie’s eyes narrowed. “Sam Lloyd.”
“Hiya, Baby Vamp,” he said, ever-ready smirk in place. “Miss me?”
Evie put her hands on her hips. “What crime have I committed that has landed you on my doorstep?”
“Just lucky, I guess.” He stole a canape from a passing waiter’s tray and shoved it in his mouth, rolling his eyes in rapture. “Caviar. Boy, do I love caviar.”
Evie tried to go around Sam, but he moved with her.
“Could you step aside, please?” she asked.
“Aww, doll. Are you still sore because I told the Daily News that my sleuthing helped you catch the Pentacle Killer and that the reason you never come to the Creepy Crawly is that you’re so crazy about me you have to stay away?”
Evie put her hands on her hips. “Yes, Sam. I am sore about that.”
Sam spread his arms wide in a gesture of apology. “It was a charitable act!”