Hattie Ever After by Kirby Larson Read Free Book Online Page A

skirts.
    “Union!” the grip called out, and I quickly shook off my fashion daydreams and stepped down from the cable car. In for a penny, in for a pound; I would not turn back now.
    Not ten steps from the cable car tracks, I found another gull’s feather, pure white along the shaft but deepening to the gray of Rooster Jim’s horses along the vane. I glanced up. It was almost as if someone—Uncle Chester?—was up there, scattering feathers before me like bread crumbs. With a lighter heart, I tucked the treasure into my pocketbook.
    The two- and three-story flats lining either side of Union Street looked like grand ships, with bay-window prows sailing out over the sidewalks. In several of the windows, contented felines curled up on becushioned seats. I moved at a snail’s pace as much to take in the new sights as to try to calm my nerves, but each step set my heart to skittering faster and faster. Too soon I was crossing Jones. There it was: 1074 Union. The address from which the letter in my pocketbook had been sent.
    The solid brick building and heavy entry doors furnished a dramatic contrast to my image of Ruby Danvers’ daintiness. Inside, the foyer was garlanded with faded crepe-paper streamers and the aroma of many years of onions cooking. My shoes tap-tapped across the worn tiled floor to the directory. R. DANVERS was the name next to apartment 302. Third floor.
    Too jangled to latch myself into a metal cage for an elevator ride, I opted for the stairs. With each tread, I rehearsed my introduction:
Mrs. Danvers? I am Hattie Brooks, and I bear sad news about my uncle. Mrs. Danvers? I am Hattie Brooks, and I bear—
Wait. Perhaps instead, I should say
my
late
uncle
. That way she’d know right off that Uncle Chester was gone.
    No. Too harsh. I would stick with my original script. Like the actors in the Varietals, I practiced my lines as I climbed up and up on increasingly rubbery legs.
    I found myself in front of apartment 302. I knocked. And waited. Knocked again. Waited again.
    “She’s at work,” a female voice behind me announced.
    I turned to see a tiny old woman, no taller than a fence rail. Her white braid wound around her head in a flyaway tangle.
    “I should have called ahead.” Just because I had the day off was a foolish reason to assume Ruby Danvers would be at home. “Is there somewhere I could leave a message?”
    The old lady squinted at me. “When’s your birthday?”
    What a question! But I wasn’t about to be rude to this granny. “October twenty-eighth.”
    She sucked in her ill-fitting teeth. “Who keeps an arrow in his bow and if you prod him lets it go? A fervent friend and subtle foe. It is the Scorpio.”
    “Yes. Well. I best be going.”
    “You. You’re a Scorpio. Many great writers are.”
    Now she had my interest. “Like who?” I didn’t know much about astrology except that Aunt Ivy called it unchristian.
    “Voltaire. Robert Louis Stevenson. Stephen Crane.” She chuckled. “And Marie Antoinette.”
    My hand went to my throat. “Well, three out of four isn’t bad.”
    Her head tipped back and a lion’s roar of a laugh escaped. “You’ve got wit, that you have.” She motioned me close. “Scorpios are trustworthy. Not like some as have rapped on that very door.” She jigged her white head toward apartment 302. “So I can tell you. She’s got herself a fancy job for that Mr. Stuart Wilkes. Personal assistant, mind you.” Her eyebrows waggled. “La-di-dah.”
    Was my astrologer friend in her right mind? The odds seemed against it, but what did I have to lose? “Where is Mr. Wilkes’ office?”
    “Pacific Building. Downtown.”
    It wasn’t far from the Orpheum. I recalled passing it. “Thank you. I’ll try her there.”
    “You can try her, but not as much as she will try you.” The old lady held her hand up, as a pastor might when giving a blessing. “But you’re a scorpion. You’ll manage just fine.”
    I smiled uneasily and backed away, giving my