by Ariel Lawhon
“Are you crazy?” Ritzi hissed. “Do you want to get killed? Do you have any idea who will come after you if you testify for Seabury?”
“I’ve arranged my safety net with Seabury.” Her smile was full of sympathy. “Listen. You’re a sweet girl, Ritz. And I like you. But I don’t plan on ever seeing you again after that. Make sure you have somewhere to go.”
Ritzi took a long, shaky drag on her cigarette and closed her eyes. She set a hand on her stomach. Pulled it away quickly. “What do I do about this?”
Vivian motioned her to follow. “Come with me.” She led Ritzi down the hall and into her bedroom.
Ritzi stood in the doorway, cigarette dangling from her hand, while Vivian rummaged through a small secretary desk in the corner. She had never been in this room. It was larger than her bedroom and decorated much more simply than she would have expected. Cream bedspread. Dark furniture. A hand-braided rug in the middle of the floor. Dark curtains. Not a single picture on the walls. Vivian never brought her Johns home and made sure that Ritzi didn’t either. The apartment was a safe zone. No men allowed.
Vivian scribbled something onto a scrap of paper. “Here.” She thrust it at Ritzi.
“What’s this?”
“You’ll need a corset. It’s gonna hurt like hell. And they don’t come cheap.”
Ritzi looked at the address. “How long can I wear it?”
“If you can hold on until the end of February, I’ll help you get out of this hellhole. But you’ve got to wait until then. I can’t risk losing my chance to get Rose back.”
RENAISSANCE CASINO AND BALLROOM, HARLEM, THURSDAY, JULY 31, 1930
Ritzi had never seen anything like it. So many people in one room, laughing and gambling and huddled in groups at the bar, crowded around the craps tables cheering with each roll of the dice. She couldn’t breathe for the smoke. Liquor on the breath of everyone within a three-foot radius.
Crater grabbed a lowball glass from the tray of a passing cocktail waitress and shoved it in her hand. “Here.”
Ritzi sniffed the clear liquid. Her nostrils stung with the odor. “What is it?”
“Does it matter?”
“I’d like to know.”
Crater gave her the look he reserved for the times he thought her especially unreasonable—lips folded in on themselves, eyes pinched. But he humored her and sniffed the glass. “Moonshine. Probably.”
“It smells like piss.”
“That’s how they make it in Appalachia.”
She handed it back to him. “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”
He lifted the glass out of her hand and took a swig. Didn’t even wince. It must have gone down like pipe cleaner. “Let’s go to the craps table. I feel lucky.”
Joseph Crater was a terrible gambler. Bad with the money and mean when he lost. She, on the other hand, had remarkable skill with numbers—not that you could ever really beat the house, but all those years helping her father with the farm ledgers paid off when it came to taking a calculated risk. It was something Crater depended on her for.
“Which table?” Crater asked, waving a finger between the only two in the casino.
Each table could easily accommodate twenty-four people, with a much larger crowd gathered round if the dice were hot. That’s what the one on the right looked like—a mass of bodies shoved up against the green-felt-covered table. Cheering. Jumping. Slapping backs and congratulating one another. The other, at the far end of the room, sat nearly abandoned, its dealer, boxman, and stickman glancing across the room with envious expressions, waiting for new players able to roll something other than the dreaded seven.
“That one.” Ritzi pointed to the empty table.
Two years ago, Crater would have argued, would have said that she’d lost her mind and was intent on losing his money. But he’d learned better.
“Remember,” she said, patting his arm. “It’s always the player.”
“Looks like it could be the dice this time. Lead weighted, I’d wager.” He gave one last wistful glance at the crowded table and then led her to the open one.
“They’re broke,” she whispered. “And drunk. Now’s the time to make our luck.”
The stickman pushed the dice to the shooter and did his best to keep the tempo going. He looked grateful as Crater and Ritzi stepped up to the table.
“Comin’ out. Bet those hard ways. How about the C and E? Hot roll comin’, play the field! Any mo’ on yo?”
“Don’t forget your penny,” she reminded Crater.
He found one in his pocket and tossed it under the table for good luck. In reality, it was a wasted penny, but the point was to appear knowledgeable. Never toss both dice in the air at once—only amateurs did that. But one made you look like a pro. It was all about looking the part. Raising the bets. And, ultimately, making money. Ritzi picked his numbers, blew on his dice, and gave her sultry smile to any man who made eye contact.
Within ten minutes, Crater was up twelve dollars. A buzz built in the air around them like static. Stragglers drifted to their table. The cocktail waitresses circled, making sure the booze was plentiful.
Crater foisted another drink on her. “Maybe you’ll like the rum better.”
She smiled and brought it to her lips. Dipped her tongue in the amber liquid. “Not bad.”
Ritzi set the glass down on the edge of the table near his elbow. The next time he went to roll, it went crashing to the floor and splashed onto her feet.
“I’ll get you another. Hold on to it better, though.” He was enjoying himself too much to be angry. “Okay?”
“Sure.”
Over the next hour, he tried to force a variety of liquors on her. It was their routine, the prelude to a raucous night in a random hotel room, where she would muster a faked orgasm, and then tears after he passed out. It was a routine she’d long since wearied of.
As usual, Crater could manage his drinking, hovering somewhere between a heavy buzz and being completely soused. Until he started losing. Then the liquor and the anger competed for dominance.
He started rolling sevens ten minutes before midnight and kept going until he’d lost over half his winnings. Left with only a hundred dollars and his wounded pride, he pushed her toward the whiskey.
Ritzi humored him, plucking out the ice cubes with her fingers and crunching them between her teeth.
Crater yanked the glass out of her hand. “Why so damned uptight? Drink it already.”
Hurry up. Get drunk. Get easy. Don’t make me work for it because I’m a lazy shit and I just wanna fuck and go to sleep, she thought. That’s what you really mean.
Without giving a single thought to the consequences, she threw her answer at him. “Because, damn it, I’m pregnant!” Even though she screamed the words, they were lost in the din. He read her lips, though. And that was enough.
He waved the dealer away, stuffed his remaining winnings in his suit pocket, and grabbed her wrist. “Outside. Now.”
She stumbled after him, one hand lifting the hem of her dress and the other trying to tug free of his pincerlike grasp. They stood together in the small glass chamber of the revolving door, and for that one suspended moment she saw murder in his eyes—a flash of pure hatred and disgust. But then the door finished its rotation and they were out in the open air and there was something else hidden beneath the dark glass of his eyes. Fear. Surprise.
“Say it again.” He squeezed her tighter, fingers digging into the flesh of her arm.
“I’m pregnant.”
“How?”
Such a stupid question. She didn’t answer.
“Is it mine?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve been married for thirteen years and we don’t have children.”
Something in the air that night made her bold. “Then the fault isn’t yours.”
“I don’t care if I knocked you up. That’s not my kid.” Crater dropped her arm and stepped away. “You’ll get rid of it. Soon. Or
I’ll tell Owney.” He buttoned his dinner jacket and smoothed the lapel. “I’m going home. To my wife. Get your own cab.”
And she did. It was after one in the morning when Ritzi got home. She was exhausted and furious, and for the first time she truly understood what Stella must feel like. Profound anger sat like a flame in her belly, radiating heat throughout her body.
She knew what she had to do.
Ritzi listened at Vivian’s bedroom door to make sure she was asleep and then crept into the living room. She lifted the receiver from its cradle and asked the operator to connect her to the personal residence of George Hall.
Chapter Nineteen
BELGRADE LAKES, MAINE, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 1930
THE loons retreated before dawn. Stella lay in bed, window open, listening for their early-morning chatter: a warbling tremolo or a frantic honk, perhaps the long clucking wail. Ears strained for the sound along the shore; she imagined a small pocket of loons tucked happily into the reeds. Safe. And together. Chicks beneath their mother’s wing. Father standing guard.
She waited for the loons. But the lake was silent. The tip of her nose was numb, and she tasted autumn in the air. It was too chilly to sleep with the window open any longer. Stella pushed back the thin cotton blanket and rubbed her hands across her bare arms as she went to close it. She paused with her fingers on the frame. The lake, usually still this time of day, was peppered with dark spots. They seemed to float in the mist that hovered over the water’s surface. Gray, oblong things. Denser than shadows, but still indiscernible from this distance. Then she saw the ripples spread around them, and she recognized them for what they were. Boats. At least a dozen. Maybe more. Headed toward the small inlet where her cabin lay. Not too many minutes later, she heard the whine of a small engine buzzing in the distance. Soon she saw the poles and the nets and heard faint voices call out across the water.
A search party?
Stella grabbed her flannel robe and tore off down the stairs, slamming the kitchen door behind her. Her bare feet padded across the deck and down the pier, right to the edge. With fists planted on her hips, she stood there as the sun lifted over the horizon and turned the mist into translucent gauze. Eighteen boats crept along the shore and sifted through the inlet. First one nest of loons and then another burst into the air as searchers thrust their poles into the reeds and jabbed along the shore. The birds beat the air with long, pointed wings and squawked in outrage. Stella heard an occasional comment shouted from one boat to another as the men looked under logs and in pools of shallow water. And all the while, they crept closer to the pier, closing in like a net. Soon Stella could make out faces. Beards. Deep-set eyes and broad foreheads. The stoop of a back and the hook of a nose. The foremost boat loomed closer, the man at the helm staring at her. Stella could not meet his eyes at first, terrified that she might see suspicion. But she could feel his gaze, and finally she lifted her eyes, only to recognize a man she knew and trusted. He was just twenty feet off at that point, prodding the shallow water with a long pole while the man behind him rowed.
Her question rushed out in a quiet breath. “Irv?”
The storekeeper motioned to the rower to stop. The small boat slowed and drifted to the side, pushing a wave of water toward the pier. It hit the beams beneath her with a melancholy sigh. Irv had not shaved that morning, and his stubble gave him a glum and drowsy appearance.
He kept his greeting to a bare minimum, shifting his eyes between her feet and the cabin behind her. Anywhere but her face. “Stella.”
“What are you doing?” She pointed toward the flotilla around him.
Confusion was stressed into every syllable of Irv’s answer. “They think you killed him, Stella.”
“Who does?”
“Mr. Southard, the county attorney. And some of his friends back in New York. They’re saying Joe came back to the lake after his trip to the city. Someone says they saw him on the train. They think he died here.”
“And what do you think?”
“They asked for volunteers. I couldn’t very well refuse.”
Every head was angled her way, and the boats slowed to a drift, each of them bobbing on the surface as searchers turned to watch Stella flail her arms in anger. She should have been embarrassed or ashamed, but all she could evoke was rage.
“Well, I didn’t kill Joe. So go ahead. Search. Poke your stupid poles into every square inch of this lake. But you won’t find anything. Not a damn thing. You can come back to apologize when you’re done.”
Stella turned back to the house, and she saw Emma beckoning her from the kitchen door. Irv called out an apology, but she didn’t acknowledge him.
“There’s a man here,” her mother said before Stella could voice her outrage at the invasion. “He wants to search the house.”
“Surely you didn’t let him in?”
“Of course not.”
“Where is he?”
“At the front door.”
Stella pushed her mother aside. She tightened the belt on her robe and charged through the living room. She yanked the front door open so quickly that the man on the other side stumbled backward.
He straightened his hat. “Mrs. Crater.”
“Who are you?”
“Frank Southard.” He extended his hand, but she didn’t take it. “County attorney.”
“You sent those men?”
“I did.”
“Under whose authority?”
Frank Southard reached inside his suit and took out four sheets of paper, folded lengthwise. “District Attorney Crain asked me to look into your husband’s disappearance. He doesn’t have jurisdiction here.” He paused to give her an incredulous look. “As you well know.”
Stella glared at the papers before plucking them from his hand. By now she was quite familiar with Thomas Crain’s stationery. A letter of introduction and the same three pages of questions that Jude had given her. The letter was verbose but she skipped to the end where Crain spelled out his request:
Some of Judge Crater’s associates think that he has been the victim of foul play and that this possibility might have happened in your jurisdiction. I believe that Judge Crater disappeared after he arrived near his summer home the morning of August 7th. I would like to emphasize that any crime committed in that area would fall under your jurisdiction, and I expect that you will investigate the case with the possibility that there has been a crime.
I suggest you question Mrs. Crater concerning reports that she might have seen her husband after he left New York. A complete search of her Belgrade Lakes home would be prudent under the circumstances. In addition I’m attaching a list of questions I put to her in writing and request that you obtain more complete and definite answers than the ones she wrote for me. You may find it beneficial to question Mrs. Crater’s mother, Emma Wheeler, and her chauffeur, Fred Kahler, as they are the two individuals most familiar with her whereabouts during the days in question.
Stella folded the papers and ran the crease between two fingernails. She handed them back to Mr. Southard. “You’ve come to search my home?”
“I have.”
“I expect you brought a search warrant along with that offensive letter?”
Frank Southard rubbed beneath his nose with the edge of one finger. “I didn’t think it necessary, you being a judge’s wife and all.”
“If you intend to step one foot over this threshold, I’m afraid it is.”
“Now, Mrs. Crater—”
“Do not patronize me. I have already answered those questions in front of a witness. Thomas Crain makes serious accusations in that letter. And you want to enter my house without court approval or my attorney present?”
“It’s a simple interview and a quick search.”
“It’s a violation of my rights. Good day.”
Stella moved to shut the door, but Frank Southard propped it open with his foot. “Please be reasonable.”
“Reason has nothing to do with this. Rule of la
w does. You may remove yourself from my property until you have a court order.”
“Take a moment and consider how this looks. You’ll heap suspicion on your head by refusing.”
Stella kicked his foot out of the way, wincing as she stubbed her big toe against his dress shoe. “I am well versed in my Fourth Amendment rights … being a judge’s wife and all.”
Frank Southard took a step backward. “Very well, then. I’ll be back. With papers.”
Stella pushed the door shut so hard the glass rattled in the frame. Frank Southard stood there and they glared at one another through the pane. She waited until he retreated down the steps and got into his car before she ran up the stairs. Stella caught a brief glimpse of Emma, mouth carved into a disapproving line, as she bolted toward her bedroom. Once inside, she locked the door and crossed the room in three strides. Stella lifted one edge of her mattress, wedged a shoulder underneath, and then carefully tipped it onto the floor. In the space between mattress and box spring rested the four manila envelopes.
Had she let Frank Southard in, and had he found these papers, Joe’s shifty business relationships would be front-page news, and her knowledge of them revealed. She couldn’t allow that to happen. Not yet. She had to hide the record of those bribes until they found Joe.
Stella settled to the floor beside her bed and laid her forehead against the frame. The wood dug into her skin and offered a momentary distraction from the thoughts that tumbled through her mind. She sat there, eyes squeezed shut and hands limp in her lap, as she tried to subdue the reality that assailed her. It was no use. The townsfolk were dragging the lake for Joe’s body, and she had refused entry to an official who wanted to search her home. To the casual observer, she looked guilty as hell.
Chapter Twenty
FIFTH AVENUE, FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 26, 1930
THE letter was addressed to Amedia Christian, care of Stella Crater, 40 Fifth Avenue, and the sender was Thomas Crain, district attorney. Inside was a summons to appear before the grand jury regarding the disappearance of Joseph Crater.