Where the Light Enters

by Sara Donati

  “You may be,” she said, plopping down on the sofa. “But I’m not. They’ve been fed and bathed and noodled but they won’t go to sleep. They egg each other on, I swear it.”

  Oscar inclined his head and shoulders. “If you would trust us for just a moment—” He plucked up one of the twins to thrust him at Jack, then took the other one and tucked him into the crook of his arm. The silence was sudden and absolute. Just that quickly Mrs. Gillespie’s expression of surprise and disquiet gave way to relief.

  “I should be outraged, but I can’t even pretend. Thank you.”

  “Divide and conquer,” Jack said. The baby on his arm was caught between insult at such cavalier treatment and intrigue with a new face, but he was also blinking sleepily.

  “I can see I need two nannies. Or even better, I need my mother.” Minnie Gillespie swallowed visibly. Her folded hands were clenched so tightly that the knuckles went white. “I take it you aren’t here with good news.”

  “We don’t have bad news either,” Jack said. “Take heart from that.”

  “But where is she? Where could she be? I just don’t understand.”

  “We’re giving this all our attention,” Oscar said. “If you could answer a few questions—”

  Mrs. Gillespie seemed a sensible young woman, very much like her grandmother. Now she sat up a little straighter, a student ready to recite in front of the class. All her concern was for her mother, and that said more about her than any verbal declarations of devotion.

  The simple truth—known to them all—was that even if Mrs. Louden was living alone in a respectable hotel someplace nearby with an unimpeachable companion to protect her reputation, the gossips would make a feast of her. This daughter knew that even the best outcome might mean social ruin for the entire family, and she didn’t care.

  Oscar started with the easiest questions. “Can you tell us about your mother’s daily routine?”

  Normally Jack would be taking notes, but that would mean putting the baby down, which would certainly distract his mother, and right now Oscar needed all her attention. So Jack listened, and considered the sleeping boy he was holding: a sturdy child, well padded, full-cheeked, his skull as rounded and naked as a melon. Beneath lids as thin as silk tissue his eyes moved rapidly, as if a story were playing out in front of him and he must take in every nuance. The most fortunate of children.

  Oscar was leading Minnie Gillespie through her mother’s life and habits, step by step. He was good at this kind of interview, far better than Jack, who made younger women nervous, no matter how polite or deferential he was. People were nervous around Italians, and he could be mistaken for nothing else. When he explained this to Anna, she had laughed at him. In her view of things, if women were nervous in his company, it didn’t mean his looks frightened them. Just the opposite.

  “So you’re saying that all this time I could have had the choice of any woman who ever smiled at me?”

  She had pinched him, and that was the beginning of a very different conversation.

  “Mama doesn’t have rivalries the way other women do,” Minnie Gillespie was telling Oscar. “I see it all the time—my sisters-in-law are always in some kind of battle of wills with each other or their mothers or somebody in their crowd. My mother doesn’t argue. If she is upset with you, you are invisible. It is very effective.”

  “And your brothers, they are all on good terms with her?”

  Her brow drew down sharply, the first sign she’d given of irritation. “They adore her. Charles is away on a business trip or her disappearance would have been brought to your attention immediately. Father might not think about her while she’s spending the weekend with my grandmother, but Charles always stops by to visit with them both. Anderson and James are away at school, or they would have noticed as well. If I hadn’t been so distracted with my boys—” She broke off, shaking her head.

  “I’m sorry to upset you,” Oscar said. “But the more information we have, the better our chances of locating her quickly.”

  She swallowed convulsively. “I understand. Go on with your questions.”

  “Who are her closest friends, would you say?”

  Another small hesitation. “She used to be fond of saying that as soon as my younger brothers were out of the house, she would have time for friends. Except now we are all grown, and she hasn’t yet changed her routine. You know, I didn’t understand what she meant about being free, until about four months ago.” Her gaze rested on the baby in Oscar’s arms, something of both pride and weariness softening her expression. “And I’ve only got two of them.”

  “And your father, do they get along?”

  She paused, gathering her thoughts. “I think it’s fair to say that they are at ease with each other. She is concerned about his comfort, and he is protective of her. I have never heard them arguing, but they don’t spend a lot of time together, either.”

  Jack cleared his throat to capture her attention. “Do you understand why we ask?”

  “You fear for my mother’s life and wonder if someone might have done her harm. If that’s the case, it wasn’t my father. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. I’m sure of it.”

  Oscar made comforting noises that promised nothing. “Is there anyone else we should talk to who might be able to speak to her state of mind?”

  She brushed a bit of lint from her skirt and then looked up. “Leontine. Leontine has been with Mama since she married. Nobody knows her better.”

  “We’re told that Mrs. Reed is away visiting her sister,” Jack said. “Would you happen to have an address for her there?”

  Frown lines creased a smooth brow. “No, I don’t. But my father will know. Or better said, his office staff will know, I’m certain.”

  Little by little Oscar worked down the list of questions. Minnie Gillespie could not remember her mother ever being ill. She had a deep distrust of doctors and liked lawyers even less; she attended church without fail every Sunday, drank wine at dinner sometimes but had no particular love of alcohol, and was active in the suffrage movement.

  “Really,” Oscar said. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

  “It surprises most people,” she said. “But not anyone who really knows her.”

  They heard the front door open and close and then quick little steps running along the hall until a woman appeared, gasping for breath. One cheek was terribly swollen. “Mrs. Gillespie,” she lisped. “I’m so sorry, there was such a wait at the dentist—”

  She pulled up short, taking in the two strange men who sat in the parlor holding her charges.

  “It’s all right, Tess. You see the boys are sleeping. Let’s take them upstairs and try to get them settled, shall we?” To Jack and Oscar she said, “Anything I can do to help, do not hesitate to call. At any time.”

  * * *

  • • •

  ON BROADWAY THEY got one block before traffic came to a stop. The cause could hardly be overlooked: a draft wagon with Steinway painted in scrolling letters along the side was being hauled through the intersection by six Clydesdales. The crate tied down to the wagon bed was at least twelve feet long and six wide. It was draped with red, white, and blue bunting that matched the ribbons braided into the horses’ manes.

  “What do you guess?” Oscar asked.

  Jack took stock. “Grand pianos must weigh a good ton even without packing and the crate. Maybe six miles an hour.”

  “I wish you were a betting man,” Oscar said. “Because I’d have your next pay packet.”

  Oscar was an inveterate gambler, with a particular fondness for horse races. He was better at it than most, too.

  With a sudden shift in mood he said, “What do you make of the business with the lady’s maid?”

  Jack took off his hat to scratch a spot above his right temple and put it back on. “Doesn’t feel right.”

  Oscar
huffed his agreement. “So now we’ve got a maid to find on top of everything else.” The intersection cleared, and the traffic started to move, slowly.

  “And the husband to interview.”

  “If he ever shows his face.” Oscar’s cheeks inflated and then he let his breath go with a pop. “But you’re right. Let’s go by his office now. See what there is to see.”

  * * *

  • • •

  CHATHAM NATIONAL BANK sat in a prominent spot on Union Square in a fashionable building that spoke to financial stability. The guard at the door was a former copper and nodded to Jack and Oscar in passing as he pointed them to the office of the president and vice presidents.

  Louden wasn’t in, but his assistant seemed to have been expecting them. He was the kind of serious, anxious young man who would do anything to please—and even more to placate—authority. Two detective sergeants were almost more than he could fathom.

  Without discussion Jack and Oscar crowded in close to his desk. Another intimidation tactic, but a very useful one. James Patterson’s mild brown eyes blinked up at them, magnified by his spectacles.

  “Where exactly is Mr. Louden?” Oscar’s smile was calculated to unsettle.

  “At a meeting.” The young man swallowed visibly. “In White Plains. The details—”

  His hands began to mill around the papers on his desk, turning order into chaos. When he found what he was looking for, he looked up again.

  “He met with the board of directors yesterday. That would be Alexander Cronkite, Chairman; Michael Becker, Jr.; Benjamin Nelson; Theodore Kleinschmidt. Then he left for White Plains.”

  “Fine,” Oscar barked. “When does his train come in?”

  Patterson blanched. “He didn’t say.”

  “What would you guess?”

  “Guess?”

  “What is his habit?”

  “Um. I couldn’t say. He doesn’t tell me about such things.”

  “Do you know Mrs. Louden?”

  He seemed to be relieved to be asked a question that he could answer easily. “Yes, I have met Mrs. Louden. Three times, always just before Christmas when the office staff are invited to tea—”

  Jack said, “What about her maid, Leontine Reed? Have you met her?”

  “No.” He looked back and forth between them. “Should I have?”

  “You don’t know anything about her.”

  “I do not. But—” He hesitated.

  “But?”

  “In the accounting office they would know. They do the household bookkeeping, the pay envelopes, all of that.”

  Oscar clapped his hands together. “Off with you then. Back here in five minutes with everything there is to know about this Mrs. Reed. Everything.”

  When Patterson had skittered away, Jack shook his head at his partner. “You really can’t resist it, can you, making the nervous ones shake in their boots.”

  Oscar hunched one shoulder and bit back his grin. “A man’s got to have a hobby.”

  And he was right, in one way. They had a long slog ahead of them, chasing down Charlotte Louden’s maid. Unless her husband coughed up an address. Something he might not want to do, for all kinds of reasons.

  * * *

  • • •

  TO JACK’S SURPRISE, Louden was waiting for them in one of the interrogation rooms when they got back to Mulberry Street.

  Oscar found it an interesting move, and wondered if Louden had sent word that he wasn’t available to be interviewed so that he could show up unannounced and surprise them.

  “He means it to be disarming. The question is, is he stupid, or cunning?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  Louden had brought his attorney along. Jack didn’t recognize the man, who sat, plump and complacent, making notes in a leather-bound day-book. Apparently entirely unconcerned with his client, who was much the worse for wear. Unshaven, his thinning gray hair standing on end and as nervous as a cat, he kept pulling at the sleeves of a very expensive but poorly used suit. He needed no prompting to tell his story, which might mean that he had worked hard to put one together, or that he was truly as distraught as he seemed.

  He paced the small room as he recounted the details: his bank was embroiled in a scandal, the president accused of embezzlement, the board of directors up in arms and ready to call in the police. And it was up to him alone to save the day and sort it out.

  “And to do that I had to go to White Plains to bring Mr. King back to face the accusations against him. The bank president, Angus King?” He seemed to believe they must know of this Angus King. Jack didn’t know the name. Oscar might, but he would never say so; he wasn’t about to make things easier on Louden. Who seemed to think they needed a detailed accounting of Mr. King’s situation.

  “Surely you have to see there was no other way. There are a hundred employees to think about and investors—”

  “The mayor,” Jack offered. “Your close friend.”

  A nerve fluttered in Louden’s cheek, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead he sat down and made a visible effort to school his expression.

  “I wanted to be here, believe me. But I had no choice.”

  Oscar wasn’t buying any of it; Jack could see that by the way his mouth pursed.

  “So now that you’ve saved the bank, you have time to worry about your wife, is that your story?”

  The attorney looked up from his notes, seemed to contemplate speaking, and then dropped his gaze again.

  Louden’s hands fisted on the table. “You would see it that way. I’m desperately worried about her, whether you believe it or not.”

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” Jack said in a studiously conciliatory tone. “Tell us about last week leading up to the day Mrs. Louden left the house to go to her mother’s.”

  “I could send for my calendar—”

  Oscar leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his middle. “Hold on there. It’s Mrs. Louden’s week we’re wanting to hear about, not your meetings. Anything out of the ordinary at home? Were there disagreements, differences of opinion, squabbles? With anyone, not just you.”

  His brow furrowed. “You mean, trouble in the household?”

  “I mean any kind of trouble at all. Trouble with her sisters, her friends, the other ladies in her congregation—where would that be, by the way?”

  “St. George’s, on Stuyvesant Square.”

  Jack went on. “Trouble with the servants, an argument with the fishmonger, if that’s all there was. Anything she might have mentioned to you.”

  “Well, no.” Louden drew in a shuddering breath. “She didn’t tell me anything like that. She wouldn’t, would she? It wouldn’t occur to her to recite the little things she dealt with day by day.”

  Jack put aside his notebook, leaned forward, and looked Louden directly in the eye. “Why not?”

  The corner of Louden’s mouth twitched with irritation. “Why not what?”

  “Why didn’t she talk to you about her day? Was she afraid of you? Ever hit your wife, Mr. Louden?”

  The lawyer looked up.

  “No,” Louden said firmly. “Never.”

  “Does she have admirers who pay attention to her while you’re busy at work?”

  Dark color shot into his face. “How dare you.”

  Oscar looked at Jack, shrugged a shoulder. “The man pays more attention to the shine on his shoes than he does to his wife. He can’t tell us anything useful.”

  Louden stood. “I beg your pardon.”

  The lawyer cleared his throat. “Mr. Louden.”

  “But did you hear—”

  “Mr. Louden, leave this to me. That’s what I’m here for. Now, Detective Sergeants, are you going to charge my client with a crime?”

  “No,” Oscar said.


  “Not yet,” Jack amended.

  “That is outlandish.” Louden ran his hands through his hair. “Ridiculous. Why haven’t you talked to her maid about all this? Leontine won’t hesitate to give you her opinion of me, but she wouldn’t accuse me of—of—what you’re thinking.”

  “This Leontine,” Oscar said in a deceptively calm tone. “Interesting that you should bring her name up. Did you realize she’s missing, too?”

  Louden blinked. “What?”

  Jack said, “It’s a common turn of phrase. Nobody we’ve talked to—your household staff, your daughter, your mother-in-law, nobody knows where Mrs. Reed is. We even asked your payroll office clerk. There is no address on file for your wife’s maid other than your own home.”

  “That doesn’t mean she’s missing,” Louden snapped. “She visits family every year, and my wife insists on giving her two full weeks. I didn’t realize she had gone already, that’s all.”

  “She’s been with your wife since your marriage,” Oscar said. “Except nobody knows anything about the sister, not her name or where she lives. This Mrs. Reed could be rafting the Amazon River for all we know. Unless you can enlighten us?”

  Louden was the kind of man who should never sit down at a poker table, that was clear. He couldn’t bluff his way out of a paper bag, which meant that a crime of this magnitude was beyond him. Unless he had had help.

  “So that’s a no,” Jack said. “No idea where Mrs. Reed might be found.”

  “No.” Louden swallowed visibly. “That’s not the kind of thing that concerns me, so this line of questioning is fruitless.”

  “Well, never mind,” Oscar told him. “We’ve got lots of other questions. Let’s start, shall we, with your finances. As your mother-in-law explained to us, you were penniless when you married. Would you say that’s accurate?”

  * * *

  • • •

  LATER THEY TOSSED theories back and forth.

  “They could be together someplace,” Oscar said. “Charlotte Louden and this Leontine Reed.”