A week had passed since the feature went to press, yet the letters and calls continued to roll in. Readers wanted to know about those poor, sweet children. As could be expected, there were those outraged by a mother’s willingness to peddle her own flesh and blood, but the vast majority expressed sympathy for the family.
For proof, Lily needed only to glance at Ellis’s desk. Among the latest donations were teddy bears, clothing, a ragged stuffed monkey, jarred preserves, pickled vegetables, and a rainbow quilt. Word had it a few letters even offered jobs and a small amount of cash. The whole lot, Lily had overheard, would be personally delivered by Ellis, citing the family’s desire for privacy.
Such a preference wasn’t a surprise, given the final photograph that went to press. A mishap with the original had apparently required him to provide images from a second roll of film. The chief had been dictating a memo to Lily that day, when Mr. Baylor interrupted with a folder of alternatives. Through the window of the chief’s door, she had glimpsed Ellis watching the exchange from afar, looking too fidgety to sit. Once more, just as in the park, she’d had the urge to offer assurance. But who knew what her fickle boss would decide?
After a quick sift through the photos, the chief had latched on to the last in the stack: one with the mother on the porch, her hand splayed and face half turned away, with her children clinging to each other in the wake of that unsettling sign.
A display of hardships had gained a potent layer of shame.
Despite the photo’s similar effect on Lily, she had managed to send Ellis a nod, relaying the chief’s approval. He had brightened with a smile so wide and genuine that she found herself smiling back. Then the sound of her name in the chief’s gruff voice had tugged her gaze from Ellis’s, her mind back to her shorthand, and she was glad for it. She didn’t need any more distractions in her life.
Never was that truer than today. In light of her imminent proposal, her show of diligence would be key. At the coffee station in the gradually filling city room, she was preparing the chief’s cup in plenty of time for his morning arrival. But as she mentally rehearsed her speech, her hand jolted. A hot splash. She had overfilled the ceramic mug, the chief’s favorite, almost dropping it onto the hard linoleum.
Focus, Lily.
She hurried to the lavatory to snatch a hand towel and went to work mopping up the puddle. She was still kneeling when greetings arose, young male reporters sounding anxious to impress.
The chief was here.
Twelve minutes early.
Lily groaned. She hadn’t yet finished her routine of ensuring his mess of a desk was tidied, his coffee set out to cool—he preferred it black and tepid—and his ashtray emptied and placed at the ready.
“Miss Palmer!” he bellowed while entering his office, per his norm.
“Yes, sir. Be there in a jiff!” She scrambled across the room to reach her desk. This time, in lieu of a pencil and steno pad, she pulled out her precious green folder.
Once she’d confirmed Clayton’s suspicions—Mr. Schiller was indeed retiring, though he had yet to make a formal announcement—she had spent every evening since, including bus rides to and from Delaware over the weekend, preparing. She had reviewed, retyped, and edited several of her past articles and had even composed new samples. While surely and regrettably not perfect, they were as ready as they would ever be.
“Miss Palmer!” The chief’s impatience was climbing.
With a fortifying breath, she proceeded into his office. Morning sunlight streamed through the window, warming the room, but still she closed the door.
The chief’s hat was balanced atop his suit jacket, which he had tossed over the visitor’s chair. It was her duty to transfer the items to the coat stand in the corner. Instead, she stood and waited before his desk. The one she had neglected to tidy.
“Good morning, Chief.”
Planted in his chair, he peered over the rims of his spectacles, looking more confused than perturbed. “Where’s my coffee?”
The coffee. Oh murder. She had forgotten.
Yet she pressed on.
“Yes, before I get to that”—as if this had been her strategy all along, as if his cup of joe would be produced only after her demands were heard—“I was hoping we could speak privately. Before the business of the day picks up.”
He began a search through documents on his desk but mumbled his agreement.
This was her moment.
“Sir, in light of Mr. Schiller’s decision to retire, I’d like to submit an idea. After all, I presume you’re going to need a new columnist by the end of next month.”
“If you got someone in mind, jot his name down. Worry about the coffee for now.” He wagged a hand toward the door as though she required directional assistance—to a destination she could find backward in the pitch-black of night.
Behind her, a rise of muffled voices indicated the city room was coming to life. Soon, the daily whirlwind would ensue and any chance of a pointed discussion would fall away.
The chief looked up, his order ignored.
Lily applied her most persuasive smile. “I’m sorry to pester, Chief, but if you could take a minute to peek at a few writing samples, I’d be terribly grateful.”
She wasn’t the type to ask for much, and the chief knew this. She saw it in his eyes before he sighed. “Fine,” he said and accepted the folder.
As he leafed through the pages, Lily had to resist fiddling with her locket. She recalled Ellis and his fidgeting, and wished he were there to reciprocate with a look of reassurance.
Then the chief bobbed his head. It was his usual sign of a satisfying read, but not a guarantee.
“Who wrote these?” He was still skimming.
A sudden lump formed in her throat. Submitting under a pen name might have been an option if the chief wasn’t a stickler for facts. In his world, there were no near truths. She forced down a swallow. “I did.”
He stopped reading. Slowly, he sat back in his chair. His thick brows were furrowed. “So, you’re not happy with your job.”
“Oh! Gosh, no, Chief. I mean, it’s just fine.” And it was, for the short term. “I thought I could write a column on the side, in addition to my normal duties.” All of which she maintained without issue. If he didn’t count today. She scrambled to remember her speech. “As you might recall, I was the editor of my high school bulletin. And several letters to editors I’ve written have appeared in various papers over the years.”
He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The mere act of deliberation prodded her to go on.
“I already have a list of possibilities, mind you. Most would offer a firsthand view of different walks of life. I’d even be willing to go undercover, to show what it’s like to be a vaudevillian or a maid at a plush hotel. If you’re interested, I could also—”
The chief flashed his palm. “Okay, I got it.”
She nodded, fearing she had said too much, hoping she had said enough. “I can do this, Chief. I know I can.”
He drew an audible breath, then let it out. “I’ve got no doubt.” The subtle lightness in his tone caused her to smile. But when he replaced his spectacles and leaned forward, elbows on his desk, she braced herself. “Even so. Our readers expect a certain kind of column, Miss Palmer. They want someone who writes about life like…well, Ed Schiller.”
The instant he finished, she forged ahead, prepared for this argument. “I know what you’re saying, sir. However, this could actually help bridge the gap between our male and female readers in a variety of ways.”
“How ’bout recipes?”
The peculiar question stalled her. “Pardon me?”
“Your folks over in Delaware. They own a deli, don’t they? You must have some nice recipes you could share for the Sunday editions.”
And then she understood. He was referring to the women’s Food section. Right beside columns about fashion faux pas and party etiquette and how to become the perfect homemaker. They were the sorts of topics that a young Nellie Bly had been limited to cover at the Pittsburgh Dispatch before she left for better opportunities, better pay.
Goals aside, a nickel or dime a recipe wasn’t worth the cost of Lily’s dignity. At least not today.
The door rattled open and Clayton blew in. “Chief! Got the scoop on Duffy.”
Tension in the room must have hung like a web because Clayton halted midstep and pulled the cigarette from his mouth. “Or…I can come back.”
“Nah, nah. We’re done,” the chief said, to which Lily pinned on a tight smile of compliance. “You find out more?” he asked.
Clayton nodded, reminded of his purpose. “Murdered in his hotel room. At the Ambassador.”
“Any suspects?”
The men scarcely took note of Lily stepping between them to retrieve her folder.
“Cops are questioning Hoff. Some of his henchmen too. But looks more like associates in the Irish Mob turned on him. Police are expecting thousands to show for the funeral. If you’re on board, I could be off to Atlantic City in an hour.”
Clayton emitted such enthusiasm that one would think Orville Wright had just revealed an aircraft that could soar to the moon and back.
Lily would leave them to their celebration.
She closed the door with more force than was prudent. Though who would notice? All of the city room was abuzz with the latest news. Philadelphia’s very own Mickey Duffy, a bootlegger and numbers runner dubbed “Prohibition’s Mr. Big,” had officially been slain the night before. No wonder the chief had come in early.
In fact, his rejection of her pitch might largely have been a matter of poor timing. Perhaps she could revisit the proposal on a better day.
Oh, whom was she fooling? Approach him again, and she would receive the same answer. Push harder, and she would be lucky to maintain her current job.
Across the room, Ellis was busy speaking to Mr. Baylor in animated fashion, surely about another feature in the works. While the achievement of his first one had emboldened her with inspiration, it now caused her a sharp twist of envy.
Just then, Ellis glanced in her direction. Lily summoned her standard composure and continued on her way. After all, she had important tasks to see to. Like bringing warm coffee to her boss.
