Free Hattie Ever After by Kirby Larson

anybody, I added to myself.
    “Sure.” He waved the waiter over to clear away our salad plates. “Whatever it is, you can count me in to help.”
    The conversation shifted as we enjoyed our main courses. Even though I’d tried, I had left no room for dessert. Ned had a cup of coffee, and then he paid the bill.
    “Thank you,” I said, hesitating to even give voice to the request on the tip of my tongue. Was it proper? Was it right? Would it even be news? Well, a fish certainly doesn’t jump in the skillet by itself, does it? As Ned said, I needed a hook. And it could be that I had one. I’d never know if I didn’t do some digging. “You’ve been so nice, I hate to impose further—”
    “Impose away, fair lady!” He bowed his head at me across the table.
    “Could you get me permission to use the morgue?” I ducked my eyes down. “And would you?”
    “Could and would,” he said, pulling my chair out. “You let me know when.” He took my hand in his warm firm grasp and shook it. “I look forward to it. And I look forward to seeing you around the Chronicle Building!”
    I forced a smile, imagining him catching me with a bucket of suds and a mop. Not if I can help it, I thought. Not if I can help it.

Piecing Together a New Life
    When life throws you scraps, make a quilt.
    —Anonymous
    A new act had joined the Varietals: Harry Horowitz and his Happy Hounds. The resultant increase in wear and tear on costumes (the Hounds were not Happy unless chewing holes in performers’ trousers, skirts, and an alarming assortment of other stage garb) required that my last day as wardrobe mistress be postponed until Sunday—the day before I started at the
Chronicle
.
    The deluge of doggy-related disasters had kept me from accepting either of the invitations I’d received for Fourth of July activities. Ned and Maude had invited me to a party at a friend’s home, and Ruby planned a picnic at the Presidio.I celebrated our nation’s independence by patching a hole in the seat of Mr. Lancaster’s best tuxedo pants. By Sunday afternoon, I might have still been mending costumes had Mr. Lancaster not issued an ultimatum that if he found one more tooth mark on any costume, prop, or personal effect, he would sell the Hounds to the nearest Chinese restaurant—“toot sweet.” Harry promptly produced muzzles for his pooches, and I was given leave to, well, leave.
    Miss Vera Clare had fussed a bit about my resignation. “Your timing is most inconvenient,” she said, apparently having forgotten her plan to hire a new wardrobe mistress upon our arrival here. But she did present me with a going-away gift.
    “It’s lovely!” The package contained an elegant journal, the kind I drooled over but could never afford. “Thank you so much.”
    She fussed with her hair. “Make sure you spell my name correctly when you write about me,” she said. But a wink accompanied her words.
    There were hugs and good wishes all around from the actors as they straggled in for the matinee. I took a hug from Maude, too, even though we’d still see each other at the hotel. After shopping around, I realized that what had seemed extravagant to my newly-arrived-from-Great-Falls-self was a more than reasonable rate for San Francisco, so I was keeping my lodgings at the Cortez.
    I hurried from the theater to Ruby’s apartment. She’d invited me for Sunday supper, since our picnic plans had fallen through. I’d dressed up for the occasion in my new navywalking dress, set off nicely by my new butterscotch cloche. When I arrived and stepped into the building’s lobby, I noticed a funny little egg-shaped man wearing a straw hat and an impossibly pastel summer-weight suit. My astrologer friend had him cornered, wagging her head and muttering, “The goat does scheme for fortune and fame; beware, beware his game.”
    The man nodded. “But of course. Of course.” He wiped his brow with a handkerchief, catching sight of me at that