Perfect Timing: Those Were the Days / Pistols at Dawn / Time After Time. Nancy Warren

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СКАЧАТЬ getting Jonathan and Blythe together, even in jest. The extent of Jonathan’s admiration for Blythe was no secret. Nor, unfortunately, was Blythe’s stout refusal to be wooed by the man. “He may be a neighbor,” she’d told Tucker, “but I don’t like him.” No explanation, no second chances. And that, quite simply, was that.

      Tucker cleared his throat. “Been two weeks since the Strangler last attacked,” he said in an effort to change the subject. “I expect there will be another incident soon.”

      Jonathan eyed him curiously. “Do you?”

      “Seems like a reasonable guess to me,” Tucker said. “Like you said, the bastard’s getting no press. And my guess is he craves attention. From the world, and from the women he attacks.”

      “Careful there, Greene. You’re turning into your Detective Goodnight.”

      “I think not,” Tucker said. “But the conclusions don’t seem out of sorts, do you think? All of his victims have been women with a certain breeding. More, they’ve all been the types of young women you might see described in the Tattletale’s column. Not young women studying abroad or living in a convent.”

      “Flappers,” Jonathan said agreeably. “Women who share our gin. And our beds. Loose women,” he added. “Or that’s what my father would say, anyway.”

      Tucker looked at him sharply. “And do you agree?”

      Jonathan waved the question away as if it were smoke. “That stuffed shirt? The man has ticker tape where his blood should be. But his attitude does suggest a question. What did the victims do to attract the Strangler’s attention?”

      “Figure that out, and we can bait the bastard,” Tucker said.

      “Tell me you’re not serious.”

      “I’m not,” Tucker said, though in truth he wished he did have the wherewithal to see such a plan through. That a man was so vilely and violently violating and then murdering Beverly Hills women…well, it made his blood burn.

      He’d seen horrors during the war, of course, but those horrors spoke to an ideal. Even though he had been conscripted, and would not care to repeat the experience, he understood and agreed with President Wilson’s motives for joining the Allies in the conflict. The vindication of human right, the President had said. And Tucker agreed. To now hear tales of women torn about in the manner of the men he’d crouched with in the French trenches—men less fortunate than he, who had not come home—well, the horror made him ill.

      “Speaking of loose women,” Jonathan said, unaware that Tucker’s mind had wandered. “Isn’t that Talia Calvert?” He pointed toward an older woman in orange with an overly large ostrich feather protruding from her head scarf.

      Talia Calvert—also known in the gossip magazines as the woman who shared home and hearth with motion picture director R. J. Calvert—tossed her head back in response to something her companion was saying and laughed with delight. She opened her eyes, saw Tucker and waved. Then she aimed her cigarette at him and mouthed, Don’t move.

      Ten minutes later she’d worked her way through the room and up the stairs, flirting and laughing and generally beaming at every male within a fifty-foot radius. She pressed a kiss to each of his cheeks. “Tucker, darling, I’m paralyzed with happiness to see you. And who is your absolutely delicious friend?” she asked, turning to Jonathan.

      After Tucker made the introductions, Jonathan pressed a kiss to Talia’s hand, sparking a delighted tinkle of laughter. She hooked an arm around his waist and scooted close, apparently claiming Jonathan as hers for the evening. “Have you thought any more about R.J.’s offer?” she asked, tossing her husband’s name into the mix even while her hand slid down to knead Jonathan’s ass.

      Tucker tried to keep a straight face, pointedly looking at Talia’s eyes and not the direction of travel of her nimble fingers. “R.J. and I have had this conversation, Talia. I’m not leaving radio to move into film. I’m leaving radio to take the helm of my father’s empire.”

      “Empire,” she said with a laugh and a wave of her hand. “Darling, the war is over, or hadn’t you heard? Leave the munitions as your father’s legacy and move on.”

      “He’s diversified,” Tucker said, forcing his voice to stay calm and reasonable even though he wanted to scream at her to drop the damn subject. He had no interest in stepping in to fill his father’s shoes. But what choice did he have? He’d been born to this life and, as his father had said, it was his obligation to protect it and the family. Just as it had been his obligation to fight for his country in the war. He’d pursued his own dream for the past four years, writing radio plays. Now it was time to look to duty.

      “Diversified?” Talia asked.

      “Most of my father’s days now are spent overseeing his portfolio.”

      At that, Talia actually snorted her gin, which had the side effect of forcing her to remove her hand from Jonathan’s tush so that she could dab at the front of her dress. Jonathan, always a gentleman, pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed it over Talia’s breasts.

      “You?” Talia said, pressing her hand over Jonathan’s to stop his dabbing, and forcing him to cup her left breast. “Darling, I really can’t imagine you spending the day in a dreary room reading a ticker tape.”

      “I hardly expect you to imagine me at all, Talia,” Tucker said, pointedly dropping his gaze to her chest. “I should think you’d have many other things to fantasize about.”

      “Indeed,” she said, apparently knowing when to end a conversation. Or, perhaps, simply ready to find a dark corner. “Too bad, though. You have such talent. R.J. will be disappointed.”

      Tucker looked at Jonathan. “Yes. I imagine he will.”

      “Tucker!” They all looked up as Blythe rushed toward them, causing curious guests to turn in her direction as she sped past.

      “Darling, what is it?” Tucker asked as his sister clutched his arm, her chest heaving.

      “There’s a woman on the floor in the drawing room,” she said. “I think she may be dead!”

      CHAPTER THREE

      “THE STRANGLER?” Tucker asked as he ran down the stairs, breathless, behind his sister.

      “I don’t know. She’s just…lying there.”

      “I can’t imagine the Strangler would hit now,” Jonathan said. “Too many people. He’s never been that bold before.”

      “Just hurry,” Blythe said.

      They rounded the corner, moving farther away from the grand ballroom and the rear veranda and rushing down the hall toward the front door and the thick, carved oak doorway that led into the drawing room.

      The doors were closed, and Tucker shot a questioning glance toward his sister. The room was usually kept open, and during their fetes, the room often saw the still-sober crowd, smoking and discussing philosophy or jazz from the comfort of the oiled-and-rubbed leather furniture.

      “I didn’t want anyone wandering in,” Blythe said. “I left СКАЧАТЬ