The old maid nodded. “It’s too late, ain’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I ain’t gon’ make this easy for you.”
“Don’t fight me.”
The woman snorted. “What I’m gon’ do? I can’t fight you. But I ain’t gon’ say some bullshit like I’m ready to cross over Jordan. Girl, I ain’t. I’m a old woman but I like living. So you go ahead on. Then you go to hell.”
With her free hand, Judith undid the black silk scarf from around her waist. A silver coin had been sewn into the center of the sash in the ancient Thuggee technique. Judith whirled behind the old woman, whipping the silk tight around her throat, the coin centered over her windpipe.
“Yes, ma’am,” she whispered.
Judith gripped the scarf with both hands and leaned back, pulling hard enough to cut off oxygen. Mrs. P. struggled, she couldn’t help herself, clawing at the black wrap around her neck. She lasted only moments, then passed out, limp, eyelids down, mouth open. Her arms relaxed in her lap. When Judith let go, the rocker whined, righting itself.
Judith moved in front of the old woman, tucking the sash away. With the index fingers of both hands, she felt along the sides of Mrs. P.’s throat, for the pulse in the carotid arteries. She found it, left and right, the blood dimmed but still coursing. The woman did not stir. Judith checked the alley one more time. It remained empty and still.
She applied more pressure now, using not just her fingertips but the length of her fingers to prevent bruising, even against the dark skin. Within two minutes, Mrs. P.’s breathing ebbed and quit. The throb under Judith’s fingers stopped. The blood to the old woman’s brain had been choked off. The cause of death would be explainable, but untraceable. She’d simply been put to sleep.
Judith opened the door to Mrs. P.’s building. The hall was quiet. The coloreds in these apartments were working people; their days started early. Judith opened the door to Mrs. P.’s room. She returned to the porch and lifted the dead old woman across her shoulders. Careful to make no sound, she hefted Mrs. P. onto her bed. Judith returned to the porch for the blanket, and spread it across the woman.
Back in her own room, Judith lay awake, watching the drawn blinds for dawn.
* * * *
A man in high public office is neither husband nor father nor friend in the commonly accepted sense of the words.
—ELEANOR ROOSEVELT
* * * *
* * * *
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
April 1
Washington, D.C.
“GIMME THE SPORTS.”
Lammeck lowered the front page to rummage in the untidy pile of Sunday news next to his eggs and coffee. He handed the Sports to Dag, who tossed back the Local section badly folded, its proper creases ignored. Lammeck refolded the sloppy sheets and arranged them on the stack. He forked some egg, then spoke from behind the raised paper.
“You’re getting on my nerves.”
On the other side of the black-and-white curtain, Dag snorted. “Sorry, honey.”
Lammeck stopped reading and listened to Dag mumble over his sports. Dag cursed racehorses in Florida, spring baseball, and all the scrubs and women playing the games because of the war. He slurped his coffee and banged the cup down on the saucer. Lammeck worked his tongue in his cheek, then went back to his world news.
Patton and Montgomery had crossed the Rhine. The Pentagon was worried Hitler might head south and set up shop for a resistance movement in the mountains. Stalin and the Russians had three million men in Poland on the German border, waiting to steamroll to Berlin. Marines were poised to land on Okinawa, island-hopping and spilling blood all the way to Tojo’s backyard.
The pages spread in Lammeck’s grip rattled. Dag was tapping on them. Lammeck furled the paper. “What?”
“Let’s talk.”
“What’s the matter? Need more pin money?”
Dag stared. “You still got that gat under your arm?”
“I shower with it.”
“Good. Keep it close. That’ll help keep me from choking you.”
The two exchanged blank looks, gunfighter glares. Lammeck cracked up first; Dag laughed and looked away, shaking his head.
Lammeck gathered the newspaper and set it out of the way. He signaled the waitress for more coffee.
Dag asked, “You coming up with anything?”
Lammeck waited for the girl to pour the coffee before answering.
“Nothing. Mrs. Beach sends me a packet every few days from the President’s schedule, always three weeks old, sometimes more. I go over it and over it. The guy barely sees anyone during the course of a day. A few senators, some staff, maybe a Cabinet member. His wife when she’s around, which is rare. One of his sons when they’re in town. His daughter Anna seems to be playing hostess at the White House, and her husband John is around a lot. For some reason the crown prince and princess of Norway are living at the White House, so Roosevelt eats dinner with them once in a while. He visits the doctor’s office a bunch. He doesn’t seem to be able to work a whole lot, spends most of his time avoiding it or resting from it. A car ride twice a week. Takes the train to Hyde Park every other weekend and doesn’t lift a finger while he’s there. Most of the time he takes one or both of his old-maid cousins with him. The Canadian prime minister is a favorite pal. Three secretaries who come and go. Every one of them has got security clearance a mile deep. Whenever I do see a name with Roosevelt I don’t recognize, I check it out. False alarm every time. And that’s it. Outside of his immediate circle, almost nobody gets to see him. He’s like the damn Wizard of Oz. And Dag, you know this: The man’s sick.”
Dag listened over the warmed coffee. “You can’t find her?”
Lammeck let the question linger, feeling the sting of it. It wasn’t really a question.
“I can’t find her.” Lammeck spread all ten fingers in the air. “Poof.”
Dag finished his coffee. He gestured for the check. “I’ve been talking to Reilly about what to do with you. You’re starting to get on his nerves, too.”
“I have that effect when I’m held against my will.”
“Fair point. Anyway, with the war looking like it could wind down pretty soon, and no trace of our Persian gal anywhere, he was thinking of maybe letting you off the hook sooner rather than later.”
Lammeck tapped his thumbs on the linoleum tabletop. “Is this an April Fool’s joke?”
“Nope. And regardless of what you think of Mrs. Beach, the chief, or me, we appreciate what you’ve done. The fact is, we’ve got the situation under control. As much as it can be. And frankly, it looks like you’re out of tricks, Professor.”
Lammeck smiled, not bothered by the assessment. “I’m an old dog. When?”
“Give it another two weeks. Let Patton and MacArthur kick some more ass. That’ll definitely put the war on the downslope. That ought to spring your cage. What are you gonna do, head back to Scotland?”
“That’s where my work is. For now. I’ll have to see what happens after my book is finished.”
“Your assassins book. Yeah. Too bad our little gal isn’t going to get her own chapter.”
“I wouldn’t worry. Over the course of four thousand years of civilization, there’s no shortage of material.”
Dag looked into his empty coffee cup. “That’s fucking sad.”
When the check arrived, Lammeck said he’d take care of it. Dag stood from the booth. Lammeck stayed seated to finish the newspaper. Walking past, Dag patted Lammeck’s shoulder. His palm landed on the harness of the holster.
“Hey, Professor.”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful.”
Lammeck gestured to the hidden .38. “What, with this?”
“No.” Dag paused. He seemed to be saying more than good-bye for this morning. Oddly, his face softened. “I mean... you know, just be careful, okay?”
The agent strode off. Lammeck called at his back, “I’m just an historian, Dag. We academics ne
ver get into trouble if we can avoid it. That’s your job.”
* * * *
April 3
Aiken, South Carolina
TO WORK IS TO worship. This Muslim adage played in Judith’s head.
Suds nibbled at her elbows, her hands probing into the kitchen basin for the next dish to wash. Warm water lapped at her forearms. The open window ushered in an afternoon breeze and a robin’s warble.
On the marble counter beside her, Annette finished tucking the last crisscross of crust over a rhubarb pie. The old maid set the pie in the icebox, next to the evening’s pot roast. Potatoes waited in a colander to be peeled. Once the dishes were finished, Judith would take the spuds outside to the rear portico where the breeze was flavored by the lawn and nearby horse barns.
Annette slipped a crockery bowl and wooden spoon into the suds between Judith’s arms, then went to the dining room to fetch the last teacups and napkins. Deeper in the house, in the ballroom, a visiting neighbor played piano. Mrs. Rutherfurd stood in the backyard under a parasol, listening to the singing bird.
Annette returned with hands full. She was so stout she could not get close to the sink to place the china cups into the water without brushing against Judith’s hip. For a moment, Judith leaned into the Frenchwoman.
“You go ahead and take a nap,” she told her. “I’ll finish up and take care of the ‘taters.”
Annette stepped to the middle of the kitchen floor to consider. The marble slab needed to be cleaned of flour and dough; the dining room table had to be set for four; in an hour the roast should be put in the oven; the dishes needed to be rinsed, dried, and put away; the tile floor needed mopping.
“Chère, the kitchen is my responsibility.”
Judith pulled her hands from the sink. Bubbles clung to her knuckles.
“Annette, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be doing your job. I was just...”
“I mean you are too kind to do your work and mine also. How you can do so much is a mystery. Thank you. Yes, I will go lie down for a while. When I wake, I will find some chore of yours to do. Or I will make you a special cake all for yourself.”
Annette approached to hug Judith before leaving for her third-floor bedroom.
Judith swung back to the sink. Before she sank her hands again in the dishwater, the robin flapped to a new branch close to the window. In the yard, twirling her umbrella, Mrs. Rutherfurd followed the bird’s flight. She caught Judith’s eye. The two women lifted their chins at each other, sharing the robin’s voice. Judith listened, then dropped her hands into the water and found the bowl, swishing it with a dishrag, thumping the basin holding the other plates and glasses. Watchful Mrs. Rutherfurd smiled from the yard to hear the song of Judith’s work.
When she’d finished in the kitchen and the dining table was set, Judith strolled through the big first floor with a duster. Little presented itself for attention. All three floors of Ridgeley Hall were spotless, and had been since her arrival two weeks ago. She carried the bowl of potatoes outside to the portico. The robin took fright and winged off its branch.
With the bird gone, Mrs. Rutherfurd turned for a leisurely walk to the fence line to stroke one of her neighbor’s ponies. Judith watched her turn away. There was nothing dowdy about the woman, even in the privacy of her backyard. She wore an ankle-length skirt and long-sleeved blouse to protect her skin; she carried the parasol across her shoulder like a woman in an Impressionist painting. She was well aware of her place in the order of her home and in southern society. While at all times Mrs. Rutherfurd remained pleasant, Judith’s administration as a servant was left to Annette. Mrs. Rutherfurd made little conversation with her, even on the train south from Washington and during Judith’s first days here. Mrs. Rutherfurd had given her a tour of the home, including the dents in the floor beside Mr. Rutherfurd’s bed that the old man had made in his last days by banging his cane for attention. Most of her talk was reserved for the description of household duties. Annette was in charge of Mrs. Rutherfurd’s toilette, hair, closets and dressing room, as well as the kitchen and daily menu. Judith’s tasks were to clean, make beds, do laundry, and serve at table. Time off from chores was not discussed; the assumption was that when time was needed, it could be requested.
An age-old line was drawn in this house between servants and mistress. Judith accepted it, and judged that she was less pleasant to her own house staff in the Cairo compound. She considered that, when she returned, she, too, might hire a French maid.
Ridgeley Hall encompassed more than enough space for privacy; the three women lived well here. On the third floor, Judith and Annette occupied two of the nine bedrooms. The rest served as closets for Mrs. Rutherfurd’s outfits and the children’s memorabilia. The second floor held five bedrooms. Winthrop’s room remained as it was in his last invalid days, a morbid place to dust. Mrs. Rutherfurd had her own bedroom, and the others awaited visitors. The first floor was a maze of sitting rooms, library, ballroom, breakfast and dining rooms, porches, pantries, and halls. Across from the house, on the other side of the dirt tract called Berrie Road, lay the Palmetto Golf Club. Winty had been chairman of the grounds committee there. The few homes on their street occupied the heart of thousands of forest acres riven with riding trails for Aiken’s horse set.
The mansion’s tales were stored in Annette’s expansive breast. On several evenings, when Mrs. Rutherfurd had gone to bed after a toddy or a round of cards with friends, Annette sat with Judith at the hewn oak kitchen table. The two poured Mrs. Rutherfurd’s sherry into coffee mugs in case they were caught nipping. Annette told Judith about Mr. Winthrop. The monsieur had been twenty-nine years older than Lucy Mercer when they married. He’d been powerful and manly, a lifelong Republican, a hunter and games-man. His first wife was chronically ill, and when she passed away he turned his attentions immediately to his pretty young governess. His love for his young second wife was possessive, often smothering. Lucy raised his five children and the one child they shared. Lucy became adored, as well as restored, in this house, and on the lush estate in northern New Jersey. She’d been a loyal wife and mother. Many times, Annette made a point of Lucy’s loyalty. Not once did she mention, and nowhere in the grand house was there evidence of, Franklin Roosevelt.
* * * *
April 8
MRS. RUTHERFURD TOOK HER Sunday brunch in the breakfast room. Judith served her sweet tea and bacon-wrapped melon wedges. The room was sunny for the lady’s morning paper, facing south over rhododendrons toward the golf course. When she was finished, she asked Judith to go to the kitchen to fetch Annette, then invited both servants to take seats at the table.
“Tomorrow morning,” she began, “an old friend of mine, a portrait artist named Madame Elizabeth Shoumatoff, will arrive. She is driving down from New York City with a Mr. Nicholas Robbins, a photographer. Now, Desiree?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you recall in our first meeting when I asked if you could keep a secret?”
“I recall that very well, ma’am.”
“Excellent. I am about to tell you a secret I need you to lock away in your heart.”
Judith nodded eagerly, portraying the desire to be fully inducted into the society of this household.
“On occasion, the President of the United States allows me to pay him a visit. He and I are old friends from many years ago, long before he was president. I assume that Annette has said nothing about this to you?”
Judith assured Mrs. Rutherfurd this was the first she’d heard of it, and proclaimed it wonderful news.
“He’s a great man, Mrs. Rutherfurd. You’re lucky to have him as a friend.”
“Yes,” she said, preening, “I am blessed to know him. Anyway, now that you’ve been included in our circle of trust, you must safeguard this knowledge. Needless to say, the movements of the President during wartime are extremely hush-hush. America’s enemies would dearly love to know where he is every moment of the day. And frankly, the President’s political opponent
s here at home would love to make something of our friendship that it is not. If you understand me.”
She spoke to Judith as if to a clever child, in firm tones, unambiguous terms. No trace of the impoverished daughter of an alcoholic, the social secretary, the mistress, or the governess, remained in this woman. She’d become a dowager, a wealthy widow, the confidante of the President. Lucy Rutherfurd was uncomplicated because she’d made herself into one simple thing, a highborn woman.
Judith gave a nod. “Yes, ma’am.” Behind her solemn face she thought it odd that the one person in all her missions whom she had not completely fooled was Mrs. P., the most unrefined of them all. Lucy Rutherfurd would sit Mahalia Pettigrew down at this table and speak to her loud and clear like a pet. And Mrs. P. would walk away, do her chores, and later mumble more insight and wisdom behind her corncob pipe than a hundred of the President’s friends could ever tell him. Judith snuffed a bit of regret, knowing her mission was intact and she was safer without Mrs. P. back in Washington talking about Desiree, gossiping on the bus, worrying and wondering where the girl had gone off to. Judith suppressed the pang she felt for the crusty old cook’s killing, as gentle as she could make it. She set the distraction aside, then leaned forward to Mrs. Rutherfurd, to portray a hunger for more of this refined woman’s secrets.
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