Viviana Valentine and the Ticking Clock by Emily J. Edwards

Author:Emily J. Edwards
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

NIGHT 7

Saturday, January 6th, 1951

“Dottie’s got a lead.” Betty was hovering at the door, waiting for Tommy and me, and was clearly shocked to find me by my lonesome. She was practically hopping back and forth in her knitted socks and pink flannel housecoat, her hair tied up in rags to get a curl. She looked just like a little kid who had a secret. Or one who needed to use the facilities.

“What kind of lead?” I managed to find a pair of slippers in the pile of shoes by the door that weren’t yet covered in mud and street gunk, and slipped them on. “Someone wanting to confess all? Please tell me it’s someone who wants to confess all.”

“Unfortunately, no,” Dottie’s voice carried in from the dining room table. “I do understand that I’m not on this case in an official capacity. But I couldn’t help but chat with Betty today about what she was working on, and I wanted to invite my friend from school, Miss Luna, to come and help.”

I followed the voice of my housemate—and the scent of chicken and dumplings—into the dining room, where a short woman with glossy black curls sat next to Dottie. They looked a pair, both in brown oxfords, tweed skirts, and cream-colored, cable-knit sweaters. But Miss Luna’s clothing was a bit better fitted, a bit closer to the body, and she somehow managed to make boring brown wool into a chic little outfit. Maybe it was the red satin neckerchief tied just so.

“Hi, I’m Rocío,” she said, standing up to shake my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too!” I said plopping into a chair. “Sorry Tommy had to bug out. We’re the private investigators with the case.”

“Such exciting work,” our guest said. “Not that watching a child unlock the secret of long division isn’t thrilling in its own way.”

“So far, I’ve found that being a private investigator mostly means walking all over the city and asking rude people questions,” I said.

“So, just like being a sixth grade math teacher,” our guest laughed.

“Pretty close.”

“Dottie said, though, that you were having a tough time with a puzzle?” she asked. “I have a way with them, you could say, so she called me and asked me to dinner, to see if I could take a look.”

“Be my guest,” I said, and Betty handed over her worksheet.

“Oh, this is something.”

Dottie pulled a pencil out of her bun and handed it to her companion, who barely looked up.

“It’s not a Caesar cipher or a double substitution,” she muttered, scribbling lines of letters along the margin.

“Boy, you seem to know a lot about codes,” I said pointedly, shoveling a bit of chicken into my mouth. “This is delicious, Mrs. K.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. K said with a smile. “Oleks, you’re barely eating.”

Her son was holding his arm up in the air, in line with his sight. “I’m timing her,” he said, motioning toward his cheap watch with a laugh, and his eyes went straight back to Rocío.

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