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“Yes, I did.”
“Did?” she asked, heart sinking.
“I do. But people are nervous, what with first those Pentacle Murders and then that sleeping sickness. And now this talk of some people seeing ghosts in the city! Sarah takes away that nervousness. She reassures our citizens, makes them feel that a higher power is looking out for them.”
“Well, maybe people should be nervous about the ghosts. Maybe Sarah’s not doing them any favors at all!”
Mr. Phillips frowned. “Now, Evie. That’s unbecoming.”
Evie’s cheeks burned with everything she wanted to say back to Mr. Phillips but knew she couldn’t. Not if she wanted to keep her radio show.
“Frankly, Pears soap got spooked when you read that fella’s comb and… started screaming at him, asking where he got it. It was a frightening display.”
Bob Bateman. He’d lied to her about that comb. But she couldn’t tell Mr. Phillips what she’d seen or why it was so upsetting to her.
“I reported exactly what I saw,” Evie said, and wished she didn’t sound so defensive.
“Oh, say, now, Evie. People have short memories. This nonsense can be forgotten. Why don’t you start getting yourself in good with Harriet and her readers?”
Evie would rather eat glass.
“Listen here: Why don’t you clean yourself up a bit, eh? Show Pears and the people of New York what a good girl you are,” Mr. Phillips said, as if he were delivering a pep speech to a losing football team heading into their last quarter. “When you read objects, keep it all on the happy side—tell them more about what they want to hear and nothing too alarming. Keep it entertaining! Do a bit of charity work! Make yourself a little more like, well, like Sarah.”
Evie imagined pummeling her boss with a basket full of Pears soap.
Still clutching the newspaper, a thoroughly unhappy Evie left Mr. Phillips’s office. Around her, WGI’s Art Deco hallways buzzed with activity and ambition. Evie passed two comics honing their patter, a jazz orchestra tuning up, and a soprano decked out in a velvet evening gown practicing roller-coaster vocal scales just outside the ladies’ lounge. Everybody wanted to be heard on the radio these days. Everybody wanted to become famous.
Staying famous was harder.
Earsplitting screams drew Evie back to WGI’s golden doors. Sarah Snow had arrived and was shaking hands with the many fans crowding around her, desperate for her to notice them. With her hair set in a fresh permanent wave and an orchid corsage pinned to her white dress—her signature look—Sarah gleamed like a modern angel, a saint with jazz-age flair. A month ago, she’d been a struggling radio evangelist. Now she was WGI’s rising star. And if the crowds outside were any sign, she was rising right past Evie.
A newsman’s camera flashed. It bounced off the glass and hurt Evie’s eyes.
“You seem to be awfully chummy with Jake Marlowe, Miss Snow. Any truth to the rumor that you might become Mrs. Marlowe?” a woman in a turban asked. Harriet Henderson, the scandal-sheet snake herself.
“Mr. Marlowe is a wonderful man. I’m pleased to be his friend,” Sarah said, smiling for the cameras.
But you didn’t deny it, you crafty little crusader, Evie thought, not without admiration.
With a last wave of her white-gloved hand and a bright smile, Sarah walked toward WGI’s golden doors, and Evie tried to sneak away.
“Good evening, Miss O’Neill,” Sarah called, catching Evie mid-tiptoe.
Evie turned around with a pasted-on smile. “Good evening, Miss Snow. My, you sure do have a lot of fans!”
“I’m simply the Lord’s vessel,” Sarah said, opening her arms wide.
“Like the Titanic?” Evie muttered under her breath.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, it’s terrific!”
“Why, thank you.” Sarah’s expression was all wincing sympathy. “I was sorry to hear about your broken engagement.”
I’ll bet.
“Must be especially hard after the way Sam so gallantly saved your life from that poor man who tried to shoot you. What was his name?”
