Front Page Affair

by Radha Vatsal

  He pulled up at Mrs. Basshor’s a few minutes later. Kitty hunted in her purse for the fare and added a tip. The very sidewalks seemed to radiate heat as she stepped out into the muggy summer air, and the cool interior of Mrs. Basshor’s building provided welcome relief. A uniformed caretaker buffed the marble floors, while a liveried doorman ushered her to an elevator, which whisked her up to the hostess’s fifth-floor triplex.

  Kitty rang the doorbell. A maid answered the door and asked her to wait in the vestibule—an octagonal room papered in silver-leaf wallpaper painted with herons, lily pads, and bridges in an Oriental theme.

  A tall vase of irises stood on a table in the center. The last home Kitty had visited in this part of town belonged to her friend Amanda Vanderwell’s family. Their slender brownstone stood in the Seventies between Park and Madison Avenues. Mrs. Vanderwell liked to call apartments “tenements” and declared that they were only for Johnny-come-latelies. Looking around her, Kitty suspected her claim might be fueled by envy. The Vanderwells were among the last of the old guard to jump ship from points further south in Manhattan, which was why, when it came time to buy, they couldn’t afford much. Kitty guessed that Mrs. Basshor’s opulent apartment might have cost more than the Vanderwells’ freestanding house.

  Footsteps clicked down the hall, and a few moments later, Hotchkiss appeared with a poppy in his lapel. His youthful, handsome face looked haggard.

  “Miss Weeks.” If the secretary was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it. He asked Kitty to follow him to an anteroom where he drew back heavy velvet curtains to let in the light.

  “You will understand, of course,” he said, adjusting his sleeves, “that Mrs. Basshor is quite overcome and as such is unavailable to members of the press. We are all shocked and dismayed by what took place yesterday and offer our sincerest condolences to the Cole family.” His words sounded mechanical, and only a slight tremor of his long-fingered hands betrayed his agitation. “If there’s anything you need, I will be happy to assist. My employer has asked me to make myself available for questions. Is there anything in particular that you’d like to inquire about, Miss Weeks?”

  Kitty didn’t know how to begin, how to get past the secretary and to Mrs. Basshor.

  “I’m shocked too,” she said, trying to buy some time. “That something so terrible should have happened…and it must be much worse for you. You knew Mr. Cole, and you had been preparing for the party for ages.”

  “I gave it everything I have, Miss Weeks,” the secretary said. “Mrs. Basshor is a true patriot, and this event is the most important in her calendar. As you say, we prepare well in advance. Those fellows who did the fireworks—they didn’t just trot up from Chinatown. No, I found the best in the business; we paid for their passage from Japan.”

  Hotchkiss removed a doily covering a jug. “Will you have some water?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He poured himself a drink.

  “The fireworks were wonderful,” Kitty said to keep the conversation going. “Really spectacular. I hadn’t seen anything quite like them.”

  “Mrs. Basshor wanted something that would be novelty for her guests, and given that crowd, I can tell you, it wasn’t an easy order. I had hoped to take a short vacation afterward. Nothing elaborate, just a trip to the coast to recover from the strain. But I can’t, not after what’s happened. To be honest, Miss Weeks”—his lower lip trembled—“it’s hit both Mrs. Basshor and myself very hard indeed.”

  “How could it not, Mr. Hotchkiss? And that’s why you must let me speak to her.” Now that Kitty had stumbled onto her ploy, the words came out in a rush. “All the other papers are going to print something about what happened last night. And they have no scruples. They’ll say anything to sell an extra copy. But together, you and I can help her. With your assistance, she can share her perspective with our readers. I’m sure she will want her side of the story faithfully represented to the public.”

  “And why should I trust you over the others, Miss Weeks?” Hotchkiss replied. “They’ve been calling, you know, since eight this morning.”

  “You forget that Mrs. Eichendorff, our publisher’s wife, is a friend of Mrs. Basshor’s.”

  The secretary blinked. “That’s right. Yes.”

  “And that’s exactly why you must trust me, Mr. Hotchkiss. Our paper would never allow anything to be printed that might do Mrs. Basshor an injustice.” Kitty hoped she wasn’t telling a lie.

  • • •

  “Hunter Cole was the black sheep of a good family,” Elizabeth Basshor said, sounding neither out of sorts nor devastated. She lay on a pale silk-covered chaise in her morning room with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a light throw draped across her legs. “He was a bit of a bore and a show-off, but I invited him for his parents’ sake.”

  She held out her teacup, to which Hotchkiss added an extra squeeze of lemon. “Do take that poppy off,” she commanded as he bent over her. “You know the smell makes me quite faint.”

  Her secretary turned to a wastebasket in the corner.

  “No, not here! Outside.” She returned her attention to Kitty. “So, yes, it’s Hunter’s marriage to that girl that was his undoing. Not that Dr. and Mrs. Cole ever complained about it. They’re far too well-bred for that. But the wedding, in Connecticut, was much smaller than it ought to have been—no one but the closest family and friends were invited. I remember it as though it was yesterday. Had the circumstances been different, they’d have done things on a much grander scale.”

  “You were at the wedding?”

  “Naturally. And then I had to telephone last night to break the news. Quite terrible to have to tell parents that their own son has been killed. But between you and me”—Mrs. Basshor leaned in conspiratorially—“I always thought Hunter would come to a bad end. Not like this, of course. It’s just that his marriage was the last straw. He never settled, if you know what I mean. Never occupied himself with any one pursuit. Always skulked around on the fringes of things.

  “I couldn’t say that to Dr. Cole, of course. I just told him that it must have been a tragic mistake. Hunter must have gone off to take a look at the horses, and some deranged madman mistook him for someone else.”

  “That’s what you believe?”

  “I don’t know what to believe.”

  “Did Mr. Cole have a special fondness for horses?”

  “He loved them. It’s the one thing one really knew about him. An avid horseman, and always at the races. But there was talk, you know.” She paused.

  “What kind of talk, Mrs. Basshor?” Kitty asked, pleased with the flow of the conversation. She hadn’t anticipated that conducting an interview would be so straightforward.

  “Hunter lived beyond his means,” Elizabeth Basshor said. “Spent far too much money gambling. It’s true, but it’s sad that he should be killed for it. A gentleman makes mistakes, my dear, but if there’s one thing he has, it’s his word. If Hunter said he’d pay his debts, then he would. There was no need to come after him with pistols loaded.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Basshor, are you suggesting—”

  “It had to have been his bookmakers or someone else from the racetracks,” the hostess declared with certainty. “Why else would he have been killed there? You agree with me, Hotchkiss?”

  “I beg your pardon, madam?” The secretary came back, sans the offending bloom.

  “Don’t you agree that Hunter was killed because of his gambling?”

  “It’s possible, Mrs. Basshor.” Hotchkiss stared at his feet.

  “Either that or some Germans mistook him for someone else and did him in.” She finished her tea and handed her man the empty cup. “One thing I know without a doubt is that none of my guests had anything to do with it. Please make sure you put that in your article, young lady. I want all my friends to be quite certain that they are completely above
suspicion.”

  “I’ll let Mr. Flanagan know,” Kitty replied. “He will write the final story.”

  “That’s a nice dress you have on.” Elizabeth Basshor took a moment to rearrange her shawl. “I liked your frock yesterday too. What did you say your name is again?”

  “Capability Weeks,” Hotchkiss replied before Kitty could answer.

  “Capability?” Mrs. Basshor’s eyes widened. “As in Capability Brown?”

  “You’re familiar with his work?” Kitty hadn’t expected the hostess to recognize her name’s origins. Mr. Brown was England’s most famous designer of landscapes, but an eighteenth-century gardener nonetheless.

  “He’s a man!”

  “Yes, but the name isn’t very common, so most people don’t realize—”

  “I’ve seen examples of Mr. Brown’s brilliance in parks all over Britain,” Mrs. Basshor cut in coldly, “particularly at the grounds of Blenheim Palace. The Duchess of Marlborough, whom I’ve known from when she was just little Consuelo Vanderbilt, is a great friend of mine. It’s not done to give a girl a man’s name. And your surname is ‘Weeks’?” The hostess waved a dismissive hand. “Never heard of it.”

  Kitty’s head spun with the speed at which Mrs. Basshor jumped between topics.

  “Allow me to tell you something for your own sake, my dear,” she went on. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. You will never marry if you continue in this vein.”

  The pronouncement caught Kitty off guard. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Basshor?”

  “I have no quarrel with women who do what they need to in order to take care of themselves. But girls like you who don’t need to work but do so anyway? That’s intolerable. It’s showing off. What does your mother have to say about it?”

  “My mother has passed away, madam.” Kitty had lost control of the conversation and didn’t know what she had done to prompt the change.

  “Well, that explains it. And your father hasn’t remarried?”

  Kitty’s ears burned. “No, he has not. But perhaps we might return to the matter at hand?”

  “In a moment, my dear. Given your situation, I feel it is my duty to warn you that your problem will be—if it isn’t already—that you will never fit in. You’re obviously much too well-off to have working friends, and you work too much for the rich ones. You can’t be in two worlds at once. If you try, you end up in neither. I know. I learned that the hard way. Today’s young men don’t have the courage of their convictions. They may flirt with a girl who seems different, but they’ll never marry her. Aren’t I right, Hotchkiss?”

  Kitty had heard enough. “Well, thank you, Mrs. Basshor. I’ll try to keep your advice in mind.” She stood.

  “Are we finished then?” The hostess sounded disappointed.

  “Yes, we are.” Kitty kept her voice carefully neutral.

  “I hope you haven’t taken any offense, my dear. I may have my faults, but varnishing the truth is not one of them.”

  As she left the room, Kitty heard Mrs. Basshor call, “Mark my words, you will benefit more from scrutinizing your own life than from any amount of inquiry into Hunter Cole’s murder.”

  Chapter Six

  By the time Kitty was seated at Tipton’s tea shop on Madison Avenue, she had calmed down a bit. She pressed the glass of ice-cold water that the waitress served her against her forehead. She couldn’t fathom Mrs. Basshor’s behavior. Mark my words indeed. What was she, a punching bag for the older woman to beat about as she pleased?

  “What will you have to eat, miss?” asked the young waitress in her starched cap and white apron. Kitty ordered a roast beef sandwich. At the tables around her, women in small groups laughed and chatted easily to one another.

  It occurred to Kitty that there might be another reason Mrs. Basshor didn’t want her poking around in the circumstances surrounding Hunter Cole’s death. The hostess might be protecting someone. But whom? One of her guests? Hotchkiss?

  She recalled the secretary’s remark about Hunter Cole being a bully.

  Perhaps, Kitty thought, Mrs. Basshor was worried that Kitty had seen or heard something incriminating during the party, and that’s why she had deflected the attention away from Mr. Cole.

  Kitty took a bite of the salad that came with her sandwich and looked around at the smiling, laughing faces. Young or old, not one of them sat alone. All the ladies had come out with company. Perhaps Mrs. Basshor was correct.

  She reached into her purse for a pencil and pulled out a postcard advertising The Romance of Elaine, the new series featuring her favorite motion-picture actress Pearl White. “Fearless, Peerless Pearl” had been set loose in a hot-air balloon, kidnapped by bandits, and regularly faced all sorts of perils. She would never allow any setbacks to deter her—let alone one middle-aged woman’s disparaging comments.

  Kitty put away the postcard, taking solace in the fact that Pearl and the intrepid characters she played probably had occasion to eat alone in tea shops and hotels. That was the price they paid for their independence. She finished her sandwich and left a dollar bill on the table.

  Mrs. Basshor’s stinging attack could have been nothing more than the older woman’s attempt to protect herself or someone close to her—but she, Capability Weeks, had seen through it.

  • • •

  The smell of frying onions wafted through the sixth-floor landing. Kitty hadn’t expected the Coles to live in such a modest place. The building was on a noisy side street in the Fifties, just west of Broadway. The stairwell looked like it hadn’t been painted in years, and the elevator creaked and shuddered all the way up. Kitty was quite relieved when the operator—who also doubled as the building’s doorman—shut the metal grille behind her with a clang, and she stepped out to safety on the landing.

  A small, hard-faced woman peered out from behind the Coles’ door when Kitty knocked.

  “From the Sentinel?” she asked after Kitty introduced herself.

  “Let her in, Mama,” a girlish voice called from within.

  Kitty entered the flat with trepidation. It was small and compact: a simple foyer opened into a living room, which was connected by French doors to a dining room.

  Aimee Cole sat in an overstuffed brown sofa beside an army of fragile porcelain shepherdesses. Her skin looked sallow, and her dull hair hung uncombed around her shoulders.

  “It’s so kind of you to come.” She introduced Kitty to her mother, Mrs. Henderson, who mustered a grim smile. “It’s so nice for me to have a friend here.”

  Kitty thought it odd that Aimee Cole thought of her as a friend when they had only met the day before and under such strange circumstances. Then she wondered whether the widow hadn’t realized that Kitty had come as a representative of the paper.

  “Have one.” Mrs. Henderson held out a plate of brightly wrapped bonbons in a cut-glass serving bowl.

  Kitty demurred. She found the atmosphere in the apartment oppressive and would have liked to open the windows to let in some fresh air. More Dresden shepherdesses filled the sideboard in the dining room. Aimee must have a real fondness for them.

  “Go on, take one,” Mrs. Henderson insisted.

  Kitty unwrapped a chocolate and put it into her mouth. It tasted dusty and dry like some her father had once sent her from Russia. She swallowed quickly and offered both daughter and mother her condolences.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, but I’m afraid I’m here on business.”

  “I know all about business,” Aimee Cole managed with a laugh. “How can I help you?”

  “I’ll leave you young ladies to yourselves.” Mrs. Henderson withdrew to the adjacent dining room, where she busied herself dusting the porcelain figurines. Another girl peeked in, only to scurry away when Aimee’s mother flashed her a warning glare.

  Kitty asked Mrs. Cole whether she would mind talking about her husband so that the Sentine
l could print an accurate, respectful report of the tragic occurrence.

  “I’d be happy to.” Aimee twisted the fringes of the throw draped over the sofa around her finger. “You know, we haven’t had any visitors so far. The police were here earlier this morning, and other than that, it’s just been me, Mama, and Alice, my sister.”

  “The Learys brought cake,” her mother spoke up from the other room.

  “That’s right. The Learys are our downstairs neighbors. Hunter’s parents called on the telephone but decided to remain in Connecticut.”

  “It must be dreadful for you.” Kitty perched on the far edge of the sofa, leaving the cushion between her and Aimee vacant.

  “I’ve been up all night, asking myself why we went to that party.”

  “Was it Mr. Cole’s idea to attend?” Kitty felt like a vulture circling for a tidbit, but she reassured herself that the public ought to know more about the man who had been killed.

  “We went every year for the three years we’ve been married. It’s just something we did,” Aimee replied. “Although Hunter never enjoyed it.”

  “He wasn’t one for society?”

  “My husband despised Mrs. Basshor and her friends. But he liked to get dressed up and appreciated good food and drink…Hunter had been jittery ever since he heard about the Morgan shooting on Sunday,” she added in a quiet voice, “which is why he decided to bring his pistol with him. The police told me this morning that they’re certain he was killed with it.”

  “That’s terrible.” Kitty paused for a moment. “And you arrived early to the party?” She phrased it as a question, but of course she’d seen them strolling about.

  “Hunter hated to be late. But I didn’t want to be a nuisance, so we walked around the grounds.”

  “Do you recall who Mr. Cole spoke to during the party and what kind of mood he was in?” Kitty asked.

  “Well, let me see. Things weren’t any different than usual. Hunter seemed content once we arrived. He said hello to Mrs. Basshor and some of the men, and we both spoke to Mrs. Clements. She’s always been very kind to me. As you’ve probably gathered by now, Miss Weeks”—Aimee Cole’s pale skin flushed red—“even though I married Hunter, the others have never let me forget that I’m not one of them.”