by Ariel Lawhon
Ritzi nodded toward the stage. “Who’s the canary? She’s amazing.”
“She goes by the name Billie Holiday. Rumor has it Owney found her in Harlem turning tricks for five bucks a pop.”
Ritzi sipped her water and took a closer look at the singer. “How old is she?”
Stan seemed a little sad when he answered. “Not old enough.”
“You’re a good egg, you know that, Stan?”
“Nonsense. I’m a scamp like everyone else in here.”
She reached across the bar and patted his cheek. “A regular cad.”
“Don’t you forget it.”
“And what of your employer? What’s his mood tonight?”
“Murderous.”
“Figures.” Ritzi winced and swallowed the last of her water.
She slid down the bar and looped her hand through the arm of a stranger. He was well dressed in a self-conscious sort of way, but he’d do. Ritzi’s smile invited him to dance, and he stumbled from the barstool and onto the dance floor. Her partner—Harvey was the name—tripped over his words when he found out what she did for a living. A fan of Broadway. Always wanted to meet a real live showgirl. Damn good luck she found him at the bar. He tapped out the words like a jackhammer. Harvey had an arm around her waist, and though he moved her around the floor, Ritzi was the one who led. Such a dead hoofer, the poor guy didn’t even know when he’d lost control. She maneuvered her way to the other side of the room, and he fumbled in her wake.
“You’re a great dancer,” he shouted above the band.
They were at the farthest point from Owney’s booth when she braved her first glance in that direction. He was hidden behind a swarm of people, and she breathed deep, letting the tension slip from her body. Her back and calves relaxed, and she settled into Harvey’s arms enough to respond to his attempted leading. He prattled on, obnoxious but harmless. Ritzi nodded and smiled occasionally, but mostly ignored him.
Right when she imagined herself safe, she felt the firm grip of a hand on her elbow.
“This one’s not available,” Shorty Petak said. He wrenched her away from Harvey and shifted his grip so that her arm was pinned against his side, faux gentleman. “Enough of that.”
“Hey, the lady was dancing with me.”
Ritzi warmed at the term lady. She usually heard it in a derogatory way. Before Shorty pulled her into the crowd, she laid a palm on Harvey’s arm, gentle. “Do yourself a favor and walk away, okay?”
He sensed both her warning and her fear and hesitated long enough for Ritzi and Shorty to fold into the dance floor, swept away by the crowd. Had she even hinted, poor Harvey would have come to her aid. And it would have been the last, worst decision he ever made.
“It’s time for business.”
“I was just having a little fun.”
“Don’t be a fool, Ritz. Stop avoiding him.”
Shorty’s arm was a vise, and she knew better than to fight him. Ritzi let him guide her toward Owney’s corner booth. If it weren’t for the black eye, Owney would look dapper. But he hid it well, hat tipped low over his face. Jacket off. Tan suspenders over a white shirt. Crisp. In control.
Ritzi sucked her stomach in and relaxed her shoulders. Shorty’s grip on her arm loosened. “He lost a poker game this afternoon. Didn’t take it kindly,” he said out of the side of his mouth as they navigated through a pack of middle-aged men on the edge of the dance floor. “Beat the poor bastard bloody, but not before he took a solid left hook. Don’t stare.”
She nodded, and they stepped up to the booth. Shorty released her into Owney’s care, and she slid into the seat across from him.
“You’ve been keeping your distance.” It wasn’t a question, merely a fact he stated with displeasure.
“You’ve got me busy with two shows.” She met his gaze, smiled. Damn Scouser.
That wasn’t good enough for Owney, though. Not intimidating enough. He walked around to her side of the booth and sat next to her, a barrier between her and everyone else. To those watching, it probably looked intimate. His thigh rested against hers, and she felt the heat through the satin of her dress. She was small. Vulnerable.
Without looking around the club, she could sense that the axis of attention had shifted toward them. Whom Owney spent his evening with was always of interest here, much to the chagrin of the politicians and mobsters who beggared themselves at the altar of Club Abbey. She could feel the glances of those in the room, their awareness.
“Drawing a lot of attention to yourself lately,” Owney said.
She faked another smile. “Isn’t that my job?”
Owney moved quick, like a viper. His hand was at her face, and she flinched, anticipating the bite of his slap. But he ran a finger along her chin, deceptively sensual. “You know what I mean.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“How, exactly, do you mean?”
“I was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“What place?” His breath was hot on her ear. That hand moved from her jaw and slid down her neck, thumb caressing her pulse. “All that mess with Crater and Klein.”
“A detective paid you a visit today. What did you tell him?” His palm cupped her throat.
“Nothing he can use. That I had dinner with Crater and Klein that night. And that I haven’t seen Crater since.”
“You mention the club?”
“Of course not.”
He briefly considered this then changed the subject. “You didn’t thank me for the new gig yet.”
“I haven’t had two minutes to myself. It’s a lot to manage.”
“What’s stopping you now? Maybe you think I’m not generous?”
“No.” She swallowed. Softened her look from fear to gratitude. “You are. Very generous. Thank you.”
Owney laid an arm across the bench behind her, casual-like, and pinched the soft spot at the back of her arm. “You need to lose some weight, dollface.” He squeezed until her eyes glassed over in pain. “You’re getting fat.”
Chapter Seventeen
BELGRADE LAKES, MAINE, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1930
THE second time Detective Simon came to the cabin, he wore a look of exhaustion along with his three-piece suit. He took off his fedora as he stepped through Stella’s front door. “Good morning, Mrs. Crater.”
She looked over his wrinkled suit and puffy eyes. “Up late?”
“I took the night train.” He held a large envelope in one hand, and with the other he motioned toward the kitchen table. “May I?”
“Be my guest.”
“Can I bother you for a glass of water? The walk is rather long from the station.”
“If I’d known you were coming, I would have sent Fred to pick you up.” It would have given Fred something to do. Stella didn’t go out much these days, and he spent most of his time in the garage repeatedly washing the car.
Jude looked behind her, as though searching for something. “Short notice.”
Stella led him to the table, where Emma worked a crossword puzzle. She gave her mother a look that clearly indicated her presence was not necessary. Emma collected her pen and newspaper and retreated to the gazebo so she could keep an eye on them through the kitchen window.
Stella went to the sink and turned on the tap. She let it run for several seconds before lifting a glass from the cupboard.
For most of the year, Belgrade Lakes maintained a crisp temperature, dipping into the single digits in winter. But during the summer, the earth softened, warming the waters. In late August and early September, the lake began to turn as the upper layer of water competed for dominance with the cool underbelly. This turning created a unique taste to the water. A bit muddy. The locals had long since learned that a few cubes of ice and a slice of lemon could disguise the flavor. Stella dropped both into the glass and set it on the table. She took a seat across from him.
Jude drained half the glass in one gulp and then slid the envelope across the table. “A special
delivery.”
She didn’t open it.
“It seems you’ve been difficult to contact, Mrs. Crater.”
She set her hands in her lap but did not respond.
“Don’t worry, it’s just a questionnaire.”
“I’ll be sure to fill it out and send it back to”—she peered at the envelope and read the name—“District Attorney Thomas Crain when I have a few moments.”
Jude scratched the back of his neck. “It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. My instructions were to supervise your answers.”
“I am forty-three years old. I don’t need supervision.”
“That is a legal document. And it needs a legal witness. Seeing as how I’m an officer of the law, that means me.”
After several uneasy moments, Stella picked up the envelope. There was no postmark. No stamp. She scratched the upper right-hand corner with a thumbnail. Inside were three sheets of Crain’s letterhead. A total of twenty-nine neatly typed questions. She skimmed them quickly. The first few were questions she’d been asked already:
When was the last time you saw your husband?
Did your husband come in contact with anyone suspicious in the days leading up to his disappearance?
Did your husband indicate that he was in any sort of trouble?
But halfway down the first page, they became more salacious, and she clenched her jaw.
Did your husband have a history of infidelity?
Was your husband involved in any illicit business affairs?
Were there any large cash withdrawals from your bank account in the weeks leading up to your husband’s disappearance?
Did your husband frequent any establishments of ill repute?
Stella threw the questionnaire on the table. “What is this?”
“I didn’t write them. I’m only the messenger.”
“They’re insulting.”
Jude looked at her, his pupils large in the dim light, and steepled his fingers. “Don’t be so quick to dismiss them, Mrs. Crater. It may well be that you don’t know your husband the way you imagine.”
The tremor began in her shoulder and ran all the way to the tip of her index finger. She pointed it squarely in Jude’s face. “How dare you.”
He lifted a sheet from the pile and tapped one of the questions. “Take this, for example: ‘Who would your husband be most likely to communicate with—aside from yourself, of course—if he were in distress or in trouble?’ ”
They stared unblinking at one another.
She was stingy with her admission, offering only a halfhearted shrug.
“I have to wonder, Mrs. Crater, how well you actually know your husband if such a basic question leaves you without an answer.”
Stella’s eyes itched with tears, but she resisted the urge to rub them. When her response came, it sounded hollow and dishonest. “Joe is a good man.”
“Are you sure?” Jude slid his pen across the table.
It took some time before she had the courage to pick it up.
“I would remind you, Mrs. Crater,” he prodded gently, “that the grand jury will regard any omissions or false information as cause for legal action.”
“You threaten me in my own home?”
“Not at all. I simply mean to reinforce the seriousness of this matter.” He took another long sip of water.
Stella plucked the cap off the pen and stared at its sharp point. “I haven’t seen my husband in almost two months. Do you think that I have forgotten for one moment how serious this is?”
Jude’s expression—the flinty blue eyes and hard set of his mouth—made her realize that he was far shrewder than he let on. “I doubt very much that you have forgotten anything.”
Stella read the remaining questions, and her fury grew with each line:
Before this instance has your husband ever absented himself without letting you know his whereabouts?
Did you notice anything strange about your husband’s behavior leading up to his disappearance?
Has your husband recently suffered from memory loss?
Have you received any monies from anyone since August 5th, 1930, which may have come from Judge Crater indirectly or which were advanced to you on his account?
Who was the first person you communicated with when you suspected he had disappeared?
Will you please list the names of your husband’s most intimate social friends, along with their addresses?
On and on they went, questions about Joe’s business dealings and how he spent his spare time. Several others sought information on their bank accounts and safe-deposit box. The district attorney wanted to know who Joe’s investment banker was and about any money that may have gone unreported. It seemed no area of their lives was off-limits from intrusion.
“None of this has to do with Joe’s disappearance.” She shook the papers in Jude’s face. “It’s a waste of time.”
“Please answer them to the best of your ability,” he said.
That was the last Stella argued with him. She turned her full attention to the questionnaire. Of the twenty-nine questions, thirteen were answered with a single word. To four she responded with I don’t know. Two she replied to with flat-out lies. And one she left blank altogether. The rest she attacked with an acerbic wrath, pen imprinting the paper so deeply that it almost cut through. No sooner had she signed her name than she shoved the questionnaire across the table. “There.”
Jude collected the three sheets of paper, tapped them on the table until the corners lined up crisply, and slid them back in the envelope. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Crater.”
“I’ll thank you not to waste it again.”
Chapter Eighteen
WEST SIXTY-FOURTH STREET, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1930
RITZI woke sometime after midnight and ran for the bathroom. She barely made it to the toilet before she threw up. Her stomach knotted and clenched and purged as she heaved forward, on and off, for fifteen minutes, and then she lay on the floor, her cheek pressed to the cold tile. When the spots no longer floated in her peripheral vision, she pushed herself up and knelt before the sink, cupping water in her palms. She rinsed out her mouth and splashed her cheeks. Then she sat with her back to the wall and pulled her knees to her chest. Ritzi laid her forehead on her arms and groaned.
“How far along are you?” Vivian stood in the doorway, a crimson robe cinched around her impossibly thin waist.
“Just sick. That’s all.”
“I’m not stupid, Ritz.” Vivian stepped into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub. “You look like shit.”
“Seems to be the general consensus lately.”
“How long have you known?”
Ritzi wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Debated whether to tell the truth. Relented. “Awhile.”
“Crater?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Does he know?”
She snorted. “Yeah. He took it real well.”
Vivian’s eyes narrowed. “How about Owney?”
“He’d kill me.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized how true they were.
“You’ll have to leave the show.”
“No.” Ritzi shook her head and immediately regretted it. Spots floated at the corners of her eyes again, followed by a throb in her temples. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a long breath through her nose to quell the nausea that tugged at the back of her throat. “The show wraps December thirteenth. I can make it until then.”
“What about the next one?”
“I can hide it.”
“Unlikely.”
“I’m not showing.”
“You look green all the time. You’re dizzy. And from what I hear, you’ve been tossing your lunch in every alley and trash can around Manhattan.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not the only chorine I’ve placed, Ritz. And you’re not the hungriest, by a long shot. There’s a string of girls lining up to take your place. One
miss. That’s all it will take, and you’ll be replaced.”
“Then I won’t miss.” She forced herself up and stumbled back to her room. Vivian followed, unconvinced.
Ritzi reached for the cigarettes on her nightstand.
“How can you smoke those in your condition?” Vivian curled her lip in disgust.
She fumbled with the lighter. “Calms my nerves.”
“Every smell turned my stomach when I was pregnant. Eggs. Ashes. Pee. You name it.”
“You’ve got a kid?”
“Rose,” Vivian said, settling next to her on the bed. “She’s twelve now.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I haven’t seen her in seven years. Lost custody of her when I went to prison.”
Ritzi lowered herself to the edge of the bed. Gave Vivian such a look of disbelief that she laughed.
“An asshole cop on the vice squad got me on a trumped-up charge. I worked for Polly Adler back then.” She shrugged. “It was good money, but I like management better. Three years in a women’s prison upstate taught me the nuance of extortion. Losing Rose was the worst part of it. Felt like someone ripped my soul out. I wasn’t a perfect mom, but I did keep her away from the johns. No way I’d have let her end up like us.”
“No. I don’t guess you would.” Had it come to that? Was Ritzi in the same category as the notorious madam Vivian Gordon? Vivian, with her client list a mile long and a little black book reportedly holding the names of almost every influential man in Manhattan.
In all the time they’d lived together, Vivian had never been so forthcoming with personal information. Her face softened, was almost kind, as she looked at Ritzi’s stomach. “I’m getting Rose back, though. Soon. And when I do, I’m done with all of this. I suggest you make plans as well. It’s going to get ugly.”
“What are you talking about, Viv?”
“I’ve made an arrangement with Samuel Seabury to testify before his grand jury. Names and dates. I’m going to tell him about every bribe and every shakedown and every tip-off. The judicial scandal alone will keep him busy for months.” Vivian picked at the quilt. “That’s the trade. I tell him what I know, and he arranges for the state to return Rose to my custody.”