She bounced on her toes like she had to pee. “Please, mister. Just Bo. I swear. Please.”
Lammeck nodded. Mabel checked his coffee mug before hustling studied to the kitchen through a swinging door. She returned beside a tall man with a homemade cigarette stuck on his lower lip, a greasy apron, and a head topped by a beat-up mockery of a chef’s cap.
”Bo,” Lammeck nodded. “How’s that steak coming?”
The man pincered the cigarette off his lip. “Right up, sir. You bet.”
The trucker had entered the diner and arranged himself at the counter. He rotated on his stool and said, “Hey. Some java?”
Bo didn’t turn but waved a hand behind him, batting the trucker’s request back at him.
”You know the President, do you?”
”Yes.”
”Can you give him a message for me and Mabel? Just a short one?”
”Sure.”
Bo took off his hat. He held it over his heart.
”Tell him,” Bo paused to look down at his wife for her agreement. “Tell Mr. Roosevelt we’d vote for him another twenty times. He’s the greatest man America ever produced, bar none.” Bo glanced again to Mabel, to see how he’d done. “Ain’t that right?”
She bobbed her head at him, then at Lammeck.
The trucker heard this. He piped up, “That goes for me, too. The old man’s alright.”
Bo grinned at the trucker and jerked a thumb over his shoulder for Mabel to give the man his coffee. Mabel leaned close, touching Lammeck’s sleeve. Quietly, she said, “That steak’s on the house, sugar.”
Bo remained, beaming. “Mister, you mind?” The cook had lowered his voice, too, remounting his battered toque on his head. “Lemme see that gat you got in there.”
Lammeck pulled back the flap of his jacket to reveal the snugged pistol. Bo snapped his head forward, then backed away pointing both index fingers.
“Whoa! I’ll get on that steak for you,” he said.
When the meal arrived, Lammeck ate slowly, with too many miles left to be in a hurry. Mabel brought no check. Lammeck left a good tip. She pointed at him like Bo did, with two fingers. “You promised,” she reminded him. The trucker tipped his hat when Lammeck walked by.
He rode south again. Route 1 ran all the way into Aiken so he had no worry about missing turns. He cozied up behind more laden trucks lumbering south. With a full stomach, and his gladness to be out of Washington, he drove slowly, admiring pink and white dogwoods sliding past. Shrubs of quince flowered sunset red against the green of the Carolinas. Soon, dusk flattened the light and Lammeck drove on behind his headlights, thinking no more about Mrs. Beach or Reilly, but of the free steak and coffee he’d received in the name of Roosevelt. Lammeck still didn’t like the President, liked him even less with the knowledge of Lucy Rutherfurd, and how Roosevelt was going behind his wife’s back, even involving his children to do it. Nothing would change Lammeck’s mind about Czechoslovakia, or Gabčik and Kubiš, or a dozen other grudges over lost lives and liberties that America might have better defended. But, for the first time, he felt the urge not just to catch the President’s assassin and get famous for it, but to actually protect the man, admitting it was for no better reason than for people like Bo and Mabel and that unnamed trucker.
He decided to drive until ten o’clock. That would bring him close to Batesburg, where he’d take a room for the night. In the morning there’d be just twenty-five more miles to Aiken.
He’d deliver Mrs. Rutherfurd the message from the diner. Let her deliver it to the President. Then he’d go back to Washington, tell Dag or Mrs. Beach where he’d been, and get himself tossed in jail or thrown out of the country.
* * * *
The Little White House
Warm Springs, Georgia
MRS. RUTHERFURD SAT ON one of the cane chairs. Judith stood behind her, admiring the set of the woman’s shoulders, square and poised. The small bedroom was empty; Shoumatoff had gone for a walk. Judith dug her fingers into the graying hair on Mrs. Rutherfurd’s head to spread the pomade evenly.
Mrs. Rutherfurd sighed, relaxing. “You have quite strong hands, Desiree.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Was your mother a strong woman, also?”
“No, ma’am, she wasn’t.”
“Your father?”
“He threw me out, begging your pardon, ma’am.”
Mrs. Rutherfurd considered this under Judith’s kneading fingers. “That’s hard.”
“It’s alright.”
“Then you must have made yourself strong.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Rutherfurd exhaled. “That’s always best,” she mused softly. “I’m sorry for not knowing that about you, my dear. I guess I might have asked before.”
The lady dropped her chin to her chest. Judith guessed from this that she had more to say.
“I have never been a strong woman, myself. I’ve been reliant my whole life.”
Judith paused at this odd volley of candor from Mrs. Rutherfurd. The woman noted Judith’s hesitation.
“I apologize. I’m feeling a bit wistful just now. Annette and I often talk when she’s working on my hair.”
“It’s fine, ma’am. You go ahead.”
“No, I suppose I’ll be quiet and let you do your magic.”
Judith worked the perfumed cream along the woman’s temples and over her crown. She pulled a comb through the damp strands, parting the hair on the right, then sculpting waves above the ears and at the brow. She used clips to hold the hair in place until the gel could stiffen.
On Shoumatoff’s cot, Judith had laid out for Mrs. Rutherfurd a dark blue dress with white piping, a double strand of pearls, and eyeglasses linked to a gold chain. Earlier that afternoon, the President had asked Mr. Robbins to take a photograph of Lucy before dinner to match the ones taken of him. The woman had selected an outfit that would work on the opposite side of a cameo. Both the President and his sweetheart would be in dark garb and pale complexion.
“Desiree, would you mind rubbing my neck a little? It feels stiff.”
Judith peeled down the collar on Mrs. Rutherfurd’s housecoat. She worked with vigor, bringing up a sanguine flush. Mrs. Rutherfurd did not complain but lolled her head as Judith’s hands closed around her throat.
“Do you know,” the woman said, “that the President has shared with me the instructions for his funeral? He has left in his will very clear orders not to be embalmed, or seen in public in an open casket. Eleanor’s to be buried beside him after she passes. Both graves will reside in his mother’s rose garden in Hyde Park.”
Mrs. Rutherfurd let Judith massage for several more seconds, then asked, “Why do you think he would tell me something like that?”
“Sounds to me like he doesn’t want to have any secrets from you.”
The lady considered this. She shook her head, disagreeing. Judith stopped her massage.
“He’s thinking he will die soon,” Lucy Rutherfurd said.
Judith admired the healthy glow she’d worked in the woman’s neck.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Rutherfurd adjusted her terry-cloth collar. She rose from her chair. Without turning to Judith, she stared at the dark outfit arrayed for dinner.
“Treasury Secretary Morgenthau is expected to join us tonight.”
“Cook told me.”
“The Morgenthaus are very close friends of the President’s wife. They are neighbors of the Roosevelts up in Dutchess County in New York.”
Mrs. Rutherfurd moved to the small dressing table to sit before the mirror. Judith watched the handsome face gazing into her own aging eyes.
“Do you think Franklin did that on purpose?”
Judith moved behind her to remove the clips. Mrs. Rutherfurd’s hair took the curls perfectly.
“The President knows what he’s doing, ma’am. You’ve said so.”
“Bring me the pearls.”
Judith lifted the twin strands fro
m the cot. Sharing the mirror now, she lowered the necklace around Mrs. Rutherfurd’s throat.
“You didn’t know him before,” the older woman said. “He was the most vibrant man. Even after the polio hit him, though we didn’t see each other for thirty years, even while I raised another man’s family and a child of my own, Franklin has always been the center for me. You only see him now, Desiree. Not the real man. He’s changing. In front of my eyes. He’s letting go. And the world is letting go of him, you can tell from the newspapers, and all the friends who’ve gone on before. The world and he are weary of each other. But I’m not. I can’t let go.”
Mrs. Rutherfurd cupped the pearls in her hand. Her eyes fell from the mirror, away from the reflected pearls to the real orbs in her fingers.
“I’ll be down presently.”
Judith went outside into the Georgia dusk. She looked down the gentle slope at the curtained window behind which Roosevelt napped before his evening meal. She wondered at Mrs. Rutherfurd’s conjecture upstairs, about the dinner invitation to Morgenthau. Was Roosevelt really preparing to reveal the return of his old love? The old man was clearly ill. He would not face the American voters a fifth time. Who could tell him he couldn’t see Mrs. Rutherfurd? His wife? She and mother Sara had already done that years ago and it didn’t take. His staff? His children? They all approved of her. Who was there to tell the most powerful man in the world “No”?
Judith was there. She had the power in her pocket. With a sprinkle, she could deny him absolutely. Would killing Roosevelt make her more powerful than he? She had no one to ask this question, except Roosevelt himself. She projected her thoughts past the darkened window of the cottage to sit beside the old man’s bed. Am I, she asked his waking eyes, more powerful than you? No, he said. Murder is a small thing. The taking of a life is not the equal of the life itself. You’re wrong, she said. He waved a spectral hand: Do you think I couldn’t have you killed if I knew what you were going to do? Of course I could. Power isn’t killing, my dear. Power is not needing to kill and still getting what you want. Now leave me alone; I’m tired and I’ve earned my sleep. In her mind, Judith passed her hand across the President’s eyes to close them and return him to slumber. She stood beneath the sighing pines, looking away into the woods, eager to be away in that wind, hidden under it and running home, finished with questions.
Over the past two days she had studied the placement of the Secret Service sentry boxes surrounding the Little White House. She’d plotted the routes of the Marine detachment patrolling the perimeter. She knew the ways deeper into the mountain and the directions of each road leading off it. At every meal, Judith had slipped into the kitchen to help in little ways, until cook Daisy Bonner was accustomed to her presence. She’d watched the President chatting with his ladies, the two cousins and Mrs. Rutherfurd. They helped with his stamps, or knit or smoked on the veranda while he read his mail in the sun. Shoumatoff set up her easel and worked her brush slowly, squinting at Roosevelt, who could only pose for short periods. Mr. Robbins took pictures of the old man after arranging him in a blue Navy cape, having him grip a scrolled paper. The President could not hold a smile for long, until he caught sight of Mrs. Rutherfurd moving to the easel to peek. Then he beamed. Over the last forty-eight hours he appeared to gain a little weight and color, the “bounce” that Mrs. Rutherfurd predicted. He had tanned his gray cheeks on a picnic this afternoon with his two cousins at the highest spot on Pine Mountain. Judith could kill him tonight. She could poison him and flee into the woods, a shy and terrified girl screaming “The President’s dead!” In the flurry of activity that was certain to follow Roosevelt’s collapse, no one would think to run after a panicked maid.
Judith looked up the slope in the direction of the main road. A car at the gate waited for the Marines to lift the bar. The vehicle passed through and rounded the crushed stone driveway to the house. The rugged-looking driver, an agent named Reilly, got out to open the rear door. The man who emerged then to enter the house must have been Secretary Morgenthau, arriving early for dinner.
Judith held her ground. The agent drove past her toward the gate, then stopped. Reilly got out and left the engine running.
”It’s Desiree, right?”
Judith lowered her face to answer, “Yes, sir.”
The agent stopped several strides away. “Desiree what?”
“Charbonnet.”
Reilly mulled this with a cocked head. “You’re not French, too, are you? Like Annette?”
“No, sir. New Orleans Creole.”
“Uh-huh. Your people still there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lift your head, girl.”
Judith raised her eyes and put her tongue behind her lips to appear timid, and to misshape her face slightly. Reilly ran his eyes over her head to toe.
Out of the cottage behind her, the two cousins came into the dying light. They walked past, greeting Reilly. One woman asked Desiree to go tell Mrs. Rutherfurd they were gathering for dinner.
Reilly watched them head down the hill. “Desiree, I think you and me ought to sit and talk some. We haven’t had the chance to get to know you. I just have some basic questions I need answered. You understand?”
“Yes, sir. But I got to go right now. I got to fetch the missus, and help in the kitchen. I’m serving.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
Judith watched his broad back return to the car. When he pulled away, she pivoted for the cottage to deliver the cousins’ message to Mrs. Rutherfurd.
No, Agent Reilly, she thought. She listened to the sundown breeze on the mountain rustling the new leaves. Not tomorrow.
Before Judith reached the cottage door, Mrs. Rutherfurd stepped out. White skin offset the deep blue of her dress, making the pale pearls a striking contrast. The woman’s cheeks stood out, rouged and hearty. With a lively tread, she strode up to Judith.
“I’ve changed my mind. I have decided that I’m looking forward to our dinner with Mr. Morgenthau. What do you think, Desiree?”
Judith had no immediate answer. She paused to calculate. Mrs. Rutherfurd waited only a moment, then moved away, trailing a hand at Judith’s back to nudge her to come along. Judith fell in behind, the place of a servant.
At the front door, Mrs. Rutherfurd tugged open the screen. The little black terrier bounded to her ankles. Judith stepped behind and eased the door shut, In the parlor, Mr. Morgenthau stood at Mrs. Rutherfurd’s arrival, while the cousins kept their seats. Arthur wheeled the President from his bedroom into the den. Roosevelt wore a blue suit, and a starched shirt that again betrayed how he was shrinking.
The man’s sagging face brightened on seeing Mrs. Rutherfurd. She paused in the doorway, clutching the pearls to her breast. Over her shoulder, she whispered to Judith, “A strong girl can change her mind. Can’t she?”
Before turning for the kitchen, Judith touched Mrs. Rutherfurd’s arm. She leaned forward and whispered, “Sometimes.”
* * * *
April 12
Aiken, South Carolina
LAMMECK DROVE SLOWLY DOWN Laurens Street, Aiken’s main thoroughfare. The town was awake: Strollers, a few cars, and a dozen horses and riders ambled along the avenue and grassy median.
He parked at a restaurant where two horses stood tied to a hitching post. An elderly couple at a sidewalk table sipped morning coffees to the sounds of hooves on pavement and spring songbirds. Inside the restaurant he ordered coffee and eggs, and went out to sit in the morning.
Lammeck struck up a conversation. The older couple knew immediately where Lucy Mercer Rutherfurd lived, at Ridgeley Hall across from the Palmetto Golf Course on Berrie Road, just south of downtown. Lucy was quite well known, they told him. President Roosevelt used to visit when old Winthrop was still alive. The Army Signal Corps would lay lines all the way through town out to the Rutherfurd home. The Secret Service closed off the clay road leading in and out of Ridgeley Hall and the country club, causing considerable inconvenience. Lucy was w
ell liked, and the six Rutherfurd children were all respectable, though they were not known as horse people.
Lammeck drove south with directions to Berrie Road. He entered an expensive neighborhood, amazed at the residents out so early riding over trails and fields. With little trouble, he found the stately brick home opposite the golf course. Golfers and caddies drifted around the lush greens. After three months in wintry, hectic Washington, and four years in Scotland training Jedburghs, Lammeck wondered: Where in Aiken was the war?
Before knocking, he rested his right hand just inside his coat lapel, near the grip of the holstered .38. Lammeck did not want to find Judith here, but would not let himself be surprised to find her anywhere.
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