Page 9 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

Chase General Music Store was to Emil what quicksand was to an unlucky traveler: inescapable and suffocating.

He had no doubt Olive Becket had known precisely what she was doing when she sent him there.

How smug she must be, knowing he was stuck navigating unkempt aisles lined with gleaming horns and battered guitar cases, knowing how horrible it was to laboriously search sagging shelves of sheet music beneath a solitary, flickering gas lamp.

When the unforgiving edge of a metal music stand jabbed into his hip, he let out a startled yelp and rubbed the throbbing ache.

Damn that little troublemaker.

Despite catching her red-handed—twice—she had emerged the victor–twice. But how could he have known she’d respond to his heavy-handed tactics with a trip to a basement store hell?

“About time you bought something, wouldn’t you say, sonny?”

Emil pasted on a smile and faced the store proprietor, a wizened gargoyle perched on her stool behind the cash register. She puffed steadily on a fat cigar and watched him with unblinking eyes.

“Still looking. Are you certain any suffrage anthems would be found on this shelf?”

“I reckon.” The gargoyle shrugged. “But then, my husband’s the one who orders the music scores.”

“And do you expect him back soon?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” She exhaled, the noxious plume of smoke adding to the pervasive, metallic tang of brass polish. “He stepped out for some milk in aught seven.”

Two years ago.

“So probably not.”

“Probably not,” she agreed.

“It’s only that I was told this store would have–”

“Who told you?”

“A Miss Olive Becket. She’s a pianist, a–”

“I know her. Nice girl. Good head on her shoulders, unlike some.”

Emil ignored her pointed look and strove for patience. “She mentioned–”

“You stay away from her.”

He blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“She’s not for you.”

“I never said–”

“If you want to learn piano, you find a different instructor. Miss Becket is far too gentle. You’ll walk all over her.”

“I don’t need lessons,” he cut in before the gargoyle could insult him further. “And I treat all women with resp–”

“She has enough worries. Doesn’t need you sniffing around.”

Emil blew out a breath. He wasn’t used to being interrupted so mercilessly. But not only that, he could not fathom why everyone seemed to think Olive Becket wore a halo and could do no wrong. Had they met her?

It must be her eyes. Brown irises as common as hers should be inconsequential, especially when she rarely directed them at anyone.

Oh, but when she did…it was a punch to the chest. He still couldn’t shake the strange feeling that had overtaken him when she’d finally turned those wide, soft eyes on him.

It was like she’d briefly peeled back the layers of herself, exposing something raw, something sacred.

In that instant, he’d wanted nothing more than to hold her, protect her, do whatever she wanted.

His reaction had been all the more strange because he never noticed eyes.

“Trust me,” he finally muttered. “She’s the last person I’d be interested in.”

“Good. Now that we’ve got that settled, what would you like me to ring up?”

“I’m still looking—”

“This isn’t a library, sonny. Pay up or move along.”

Emil was on the verge of throwing his hands in the air when the bell above the entrance clattered unevenly, and a pretty young woman wrapped in a thick, checkered coat entered.

She peered into the store, perking up noticeably when she saw him.

She sauntered to the front desk, and Emil watched with interest. How would the gargoyle treat the newcomer?

“Good day, Mrs. Chase,” the woman purred. “I hope you're having a pleasant new year.”

“Miss Blount,” the gargoyle replied with a not-too-subtle harrumph.

Emil was mollified to learn he wasn’t the only one she despised.

“I’ve decided to purchase the viola, after all.

” She paused expectantly, as if she thought Mrs. Chase would be pleased, but the gargoyle only tapped her cigar on an overflowing ceramic ashtray in the shape of Beethoven’s head.

“That is,” she continued awkwardly, batting her eyes in Emil’s direction, “unless this gentleman has already claimed it.”

“That one’s all yours, miss.” Emil gave her a half smile. “I’m sure you’ll play it beautifully.”

Mrs. Chase chose that moment to cough, a horrible, hacking rasp that echoed through the basement like the final breath of a dying moose.

Emil flinched at the sound, and Miss Blount gave a gasp of alarm.

But the gargoyle didn’t seem too worried.

She merely wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and replaced the cigar.

“Apologies,” she muttered, though her eyes gleamed with twisted satisfaction.

“You should do something about that cough, Mrs. Chase,” Miss Blount said. “Why, if you opened a window or two—”

“Nothing wrong with my store.” The woman’s sharp elbows jutted out as she hunched forward to glare. “It’s all those new-fangled lights they’re putting in for the world’s fair, that’s what. The government doesn’t give a hoot about burning extra gas, making the air as thick as soup.”

“Ma’am, those new streetlamps are electric,” Emil drawled.

“Electric lights are ever so tasteful,” Miss Blount added with a glance at Emil.

Mrs. Chase’s eyes narrowed to slits, and Emil wondered if she would say something truly heinous.

But Miss Blount wasn’t finished. “Anyway. I’m on my way to a luncheon, so I’d like to have the viola delivered. Do you still have my address on file?”

Mrs. Chase’s mouth tightened around her cigar, but she flipped open a water-stained ledger and ran a finger down the page of handwritten addresses.

Emil sidled closer, feigning interest in a stack of records on the corner of the counter.

If the ledger was full of all the store’s clientele, there was a good chance it would also hold Olive Becket’s address.

He tilted his head, trying to glimpse the pages, and wondered why he cared so much.

It must be because he couldn’t make sense of Olive’s actions.

Her latest stunt hadn’t proven anything except her talent for getting under his skin.

Maybe it was just about his pride, about not letting her get the better of him.

But there was something else, too—a need to figure her out.

To understand the kind of person who could make a game out of this and leave him wanting to play along.

And he loved winning games.

“Say, Mrs. Chase,” he said abruptly. “I’d like to buy a record for my gramophone. Do you have Enrico Caruso’s latest?”

The gargoyle sniffed. “I don’t care for Italians.”

“Perhaps you’d enjoy Nelli Melba,” Miss Blount suggested. When Emil stared at her blankly, she added, “She’s an Australian soprano. Are Australians acceptable, Mrs. Chase?”

“A step above Italians,” she said grudgingly. “I may have one in the back.”

“That sounds superb. A fine suggestion, Miss Blount.”

The young woman preened, and Mrs. Chase rolled her eyes as she slid off her perch. Once she’d disappeared behind a fraying curtain, Miss Blount batted her eyelashes at him.

“It’s so nice to meet a man interested in operatic music.”

Hardly. He’d rather listen to his father’s lectures than sit through what sounded like a sack of yowling cats.

Remembering Caruso’s name at all was pure luck.

He pretended to look away with embarrassment, using the opportunity to scour the left page of the open ledger. Atkinson, Avery, Bader, Bachman…

“I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name, Mr…?

“Emil Anderson, private detective by trade.”

“Miss Gertrude Blount.” She edged closer, forcing his attention back to her. “If I may be so bold, I find myself intrigued by your line of work. It must be terribly exciting, uncovering secrets and solving mysteries.”

“I do enjoy a good chase,” he allowed, Olive Becket’s doe-eyes swimming into his head once more.

“Fascinating. I rarely have the chance to meet someone with such a unique calling.” Her voice was a purr. “Perhaps you would allow me to extend an invitation. This Sunday, my family is hosting a modest musical soirée at our residence. There will be music, conversation, and tasty tidbits.”

“No doubt it will be an elegant affair,” he hedged, glancing toward the back room. No sign of the gargoyle yet, but time was running out.

“Should you find yourself free, we would be delighted to see you. And, of course, if you feel the need for company, you are more than welcome to bring a friend whose company you trust.” She clicked open her handbag and rifled inside. “Let me give you one of my cards.”

He seized the opportunity before it could slip away.

“No need.” He yanked the ledger toward him and scoured the page. “Miss Gertrude Blount, 1409 East Aloha Street.”

And there, just above her name, was Olive Becket’s address.

He was back in the game.

He committed the address to memory, then lifted his head and gave Miss Blount his first genuine smile. The young woman’s cheeks flushed.

“My, you are a man of action.”

A slow, wet, menacing cough heralded Mrs. Chase’s return.

Emil winked at Miss Blount and rotated the ledger back to its original spot.

By the time the gargoyle had them in her sights, he was standing a few feet away from the counter, calmly flipping through what appeared to be a musical theory book for children.

Mrs. Chase clambered back onto her stool with a grunt, her bony hands gripping the edges like talons. “I’ll have the viola and the invoice delivered to your address this afternoon, Miss Blount.”

“Thank you ever so much,” Miss Blount said sweetly, and then, much louder, “Until next time.”

Emil waited for the bell above the door to stop clanging before he looked up. The gargoyle was back to staring.

“Was your hunt successful?”

In answer, she tilted her chin toward the packet on the counter before her. He set the theory book down and approached the counter. The packet was heavier than expected, and he opened it to find three cardboard sleeves inside, not one.

He raised his brows in question.

The gargoyle shrugged. “Have to clear out stock.”

Emil didn’t argue. He wasn’t dumb enough to burn a bridge he might need to cross again.

“What’s the damage?”

“Four fifty.”

“Four fifty?”

“Melba isn’t cheap, and neither is shellac. I only have a twelve inch, so that goes for three dollars. The others are older ten inchers, so I gave you a deal at seventy-five cents each.”

As if she were a damn saint.

Biting his tongue, he removed his wallet from his inner coat pocket and withdrew a crisp five-dollar bill.

The till opened with a soft clink, and Mrs. Chase shoved it among the other wrinkled bills.

Her fingers hovered over the neat row of coins, almost as if she were debating giving him his change at all.

He held out an expectant hand. She plucked out two quarters, and the metal springs of the cash drawer wheezed shut.

“Thank you for your business. And remember—” Her cold grip wrapped around his as she pressed the coins into his palm. “Leave Miss Becket be.”

“She might be capable of more than you think.”

“Of course she is,” Mrs. Chase retorted. “That’s my point.”

What spell had Olive cast over the woman?

Shaking his head, he shoved the coins in his pocket, lifted the brown paper packet, and strode for the door.

Once he was safely up the lopsided stairs and onto the sidewalk, he tucked the packet into the crook of his arm and lit a much-needed cigarette.

Inhaling deeply, he squinted in the pale daylight, almost blinding after the darkness of the basement, and pondered his next steps.

He needed to take his mind off Olive Becket and put it on the case that would influence his business long-term.

Surveillance would have to wait until tomorrow.

For now, the real work awaited—starting with a visit to the public records office.

With any luck, Harvey Gunn would prove an easier case to crack.

He stubbed out his cigarette and walked resolutely toward the nearest streetcar.