by Radha Vatsal
“I don’t bring this up lightly,” Aimee said as the kettle in the kitchen began to whistle. “I would have liked to try for a career in pictures. Even a quarter of what Mary earns would have been enough to support us, but Hunter wouldn’t allow it.”
The whistle grew louder and more insistent. “I know I look plain in person, but that changes in front of the camera.” Aimee Cole stood. “I’ve been photographed plenty of times. But the Coles would rather have us be poor than for me to act in the ‘movies.’” She hurried off to the kitchen.
Kitty wasn’t surprised that a man from a family like Mr. Cole’s would stand in his wife’s way. Like the Vanderwell family, honor was probably all that was left to them. But poor Aimee Cole. Marriage and work didn’t sit well together. Kitty had been to a symposium at Barnard College some months ago where, barring the motion-picture producer Madame Alice Guy-Blaché, all the career women who spoke had been unmarried. Dr. Katharine Bement Davis, the city’s commissioner of corrections; Dean Virginia Gildersleeve of Barnard; the journalist, Miss Ida Tarbell. All spinsters.
Mrs. Cole returned with tea on a tray, and Kitty took advantage of the break to change the subject. “Mrs. Cole?” she began.
“Aimee.”
“Aimee,” Kitty said, relenting. “Would you mind if I asked you a delicate question about the evening Mr. Cole died?”
“So that’s why you’re here.” Aimee gave a small laugh as she stirred a spoonful of sugar into Kitty’s cup. “Of course. Ask away.”
“There is one small matter.” Kitty picked up her cup and took a sip. “It seems that a member of the staff noticed you were missing from the children’s tables for a short while.”
Aimee stiffened. “Was I?”
“That’s what he said.”
“You spoke to him yourself?”
“No, I didn’t. But a reliable source”—she was about to say “Hotchkiss” but checked herself in time—“told me.”
“Thank you for your concern, Miss Weeks.” Aimee Cole stared at her Dresden figurines. “It was, as you say, just a trivial matter.” She paused, and then said, “I’m a vain thing, and despite your kind efforts, the stain on my dress continued to trouble me. I slipped away for a few moments to give it another rinse. You can check with the attendant, if you like.” She smiled. “I’m sure she’ll vouch for me.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” As if in sympathy for what had happened to Mrs. Cole that day, Kitty’s hand shook, and tea spilled on her blouse. “Silly me.” Her laugh sounded unsteady.
She looked down to see the splash spread like ink in water on the white fabric.
“Don’t worry.” Aimee led her to the bathroom.
Kitty locked the door behind her. She held on to the sides of the porcelain sink and lowered her head. What was happening to her? Was it guilt over questioning the widow, or the strong tea on an empty stomach? Whatever the case, she felt wretched.
Kitty stared into the mirror. A hollow-eyed stranger stared back.
She opened the door to the medicine cabinet. Her reflection gave way to rows of bottles and jars, tooth powder, body powder, and various hair and body lotions. Nothing to soothe her nausea.
Hunter Cole’s things lined the shelf above: shaving soap, a razor, witch hazel, a jar of hair pomade, and a black toiletries case.
“Are you all right, Miss Weeks?” Aimee called through the closed door. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I’ll just be a minute.” Kitty stood on tiptoe and pulled down the case of toiletries. She undid the clasps and peered inside: gauze, cotton balls, and a bottle of bitters. She reached for it and felt a hard bundle wrapped in chamois beneath her fingers.
Kitty pulled out the bundle and found herself staring at six glass vials filled with clear liquid, and a hypodermic syringe. There was no needle.
“Miss Weeks?” It was Aimee again.
Kitty’s heart beat wildly. She had a moment in which to decide her next step. She dropped one of the vials into her skirt pocket, wrapped the rest away, took a swig of the bitters, and replaced the case in the cabinet. She rinsed the stain from her shirt, then dried her face and hands and joined Mrs. Cole outside, her heart still pounding.
“I’m sorry to keep calling,” Aimee apologized, “but you looked pale, and I was worried.”
Kitty couldn’t bear her own duplicity any longer and took leave of the widow.
“So soon?” Aimee seemed disappointed. She walked Kitty to the elevator.
“May I ask whether Mr. Cole had been ill recently?” Kitty broached the question while they waited for the machine.
“No. Did you hear that somewhere?”
“I probably misunderstood.” Kitty’s hand rested against the tube in her skirt pocket. Could this be why Dr. Albert wasn’t listed in the telephone book?
Chapter Twelve
The Misses Dancey, Kitty’s teachers from her Swiss boarding school, were a pair of British sisters with strict ideas about decency and decorum. Kitty knew that becoming a reporter would strain what she’d been taught and how she’d learned to conduct herself, but it wasn’t until that moment in the Coles’ apartment that the rules she followed unthinkingly for the most part were put to the test.
It was rude to snoop through other people’s belongings. Then she stole Hunter Cole’s vial. There was no other way to put it. She had taken the tube without asking his widow’s permission.
The question was what to do now that she had it.
The liquid in Kitty’s pocket seemed to get hotter with every step she took, as though it might burn a hole through the fabric. She could throw it away and pretend none of this ever happened, or she could take it to the chemist and find out what it contained.
Kitty felt awful. How would she feel if someone poked around in her medicine cabinet and took one of her potions to be analyzed? However, the truth of the matter was that she didn’t have any secrets, she assured herself.
If she heeded the dictates of her conscience, she would never amount to much as a journalist. If she didn’t, she might learn something worthwhile, but at what price?
Recently, the yellow papers—the ones that ran shocking headlines in order to sell the news—had been full of stories about Harry Thaw being a dope fiend. It was part of their bid to whet the public’s appetite for his upcoming trial, which would take place shortly, almost a decade after the initial trial that had been covered so colorfully by the Sob Sisters: A poor, pretty girl comes to New York. A powerful architect takes advantage of her. Later, she marries the millionaire Thaw who, in a fit of jealousy, shoots the architect on the rooftop of his own creation, Madison Square Garden.
There were some clear similarities between the Thaw case and the Hunter Cole shooting but also obvious differences. For one, Hunter wasn’t rich like Thaw, and it was he who had been murdered. And for another, Kitty hadn’t heard anything about Aimee Cole having been taken advantage of. Then again, with Mrs. Cole’s past, anything was possible.
Kitty walked up Broadway, one of the few avenues that didn’t follow the right-angled grid and instead cut across Manhattan on a diagonal. On the way home, she would pass Murray & Son pharmacy on Broadway and Seventieth.
Thaw’s addiction to morphine and opium and who knew what other drugs fueled his violent and unpredictable behavior. Even though Kitty had no other evidence to support such a theory, given Hunter Cole’s vials and syringe, dope addiction was a possibility worth considering. It might shed a completely different light on his murder.
Kitty passed the greengrocer and the stationery shop and paused in front of the pharmacist’s. A bell tinkled as she opened the door.
“Good morning, Miss Weeks.” Mr. Murray Sr. poured a quantity of fine white powder onto a set of scales. “I’ll be with you in a moment.” He adjusted the counterweights, tipped the powder onto a sheet of wax paper, deftly divided it into sev
en equal portions with his scraper, and wrapped each portion into individual sachets.
“One a day after breakfast, dissolved in a glass of milk or water.” He scooped the sachets into a brown paper bag, which he handed to his customer, a portly, middle-aged woman.
“Thank you, Mr. Murray. My heartburn has been giving me no end of trouble.”
“That’s what I’m here for, madam.” The pharmacist turned to Kitty. “How can I help you today, Miss Weeks?”
In addition to medicinal preparations, his shop carried a variety of household supplies, soaps, and beauty remedies, and Kitty often stopped by to pick up one thing or another.
Kitty made up a list as quickly as she could. “I’ll take phenyl, Albi-Denta tooth soap, cough syrup, and some Aspirin.”
“Good, good. Anything else?” He repeated the names of the items one by one, and from the storeroom at the back, unseen hands tossed them out to him.
“Do you have something for freckles? Not for me—it’s Grace again.”
“You tell that girl of yours that preparations with arsenic won’t do her any good.”
“I’ve tried, Mr. Murray. I’ve tried.”
“This just came in.” He scanned the shelves and pulled down a small bottle. “White Lily Face Wash.” The pharmacist put on his glasses and read from the label: “‘Guaranteed to brighten the skin and smooth out wrinkles, roughness, freckles, and imperfections. Free of lead, arsenic, and mercury.’ It’ll run you ninety-five cents for four ounces.”
“That’s fine. What’s this?” She glanced at her purchases and picked up a tiny sealed package marked with a cross and the word Bayer in bold letters.
He laughed. “The company doesn’t want us dispensing the Aspirin powder anymore, so now they make their own pills. It comes directly from their factory so that you can be sure you’re purchasing the real thing.”
“I trust you, Mr. Murray. Oh, there is one other matter.” Kitty reached into her pocket. “I found this in my medicine chest, and the label seems to have fallen off.” She placed the vial on the counter. “For the life of me, I can’t remember what it is. I was hoping that you might be able to tell me.”
The druggist held the container up to the light. “This is good quality,” he said, tapping the glass. “Top quality, as a matter of fact. Very sturdy. Did you happen to purchase it in Europe?”
“I’m not sure. Why?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” the old man replied. “I was just curious. We really don’t see this type of thing here.”
He tugged at the stopper, and a shining globule of the liquid fell on the back of his hand as the cork came free with a jerk. Kitty watched as he brought the drop to his nose and inhaled deeply. Then he put out his tongue and licked his hand.
Kitty gasped.
“Don’t you worry about me, Miss Weeks.” The pharmacist seemed amused. “Belladonna, arsenic, sulfur, lead—you name it, I’ve tasted it, and nothing has gone wrong with me yet.” He patted his belly with satisfaction. “I think I know what you have here. The scientific name for it is dihydrogen monoxide.”
“What is that?” It sounded fearsome.
“Di-hy-dro-gen mon-ox-ide,” the pharmacist repeated, clearly enunciating each syllable. “Water, Miss Weeks,” he chortled, pleased with his little joke. “It’s just water. H2O. Whoever sold it seems to have cheated you.” He was about to tip out the contents when Kitty stopped him.
“Please don’t!”
Puzzled, he returned the vial, and she tucked it away inside her purse. “I’d like to hold on to this as a reminder not to be so foolish.”
She picked up her packages and left the shop disappointed by Mr. Murray’s verdict.
Hunter Cole could have had no reason to store test tubes of water in his toiletries case. Either he had been misled about what the vials contained, or—and she thought this highly unlikely—the pharmacist didn’t know his business.
Chapter Thirteen
“Capability!” Julian Weeks yelled for Kitty as she emerged from her bedroom the next morning, still in her nightgown and robe since she didn’t have to go to work. She had hidden the dratted vial in her bureau drawer (out of sight, out of mind, she thought) and woken up early, eager to find out what the Sentinel had printed about the stable hand who allegedly murdered Hunter Cole; she then planned to begin her study of The American Girl.
But Mr. Weeks had other ideas. “Are you awake? Come to my study.”
She padded in to find him sitting at his desk, scowling and tossing his paperweight from one hand to the other.
“Have I done something wrong, Papa?” Kitty felt a frisson of anxiety. Perhaps he’d guessed that she had been in his study the other day.
“I’m not pleased,” he said finally.
“Why, Papa?”
“Take a look at this.” He pushed an envelope across the desk.
Kitty picked it up and removed two, two-by-two-inch square photographs. A hatless, expressionless man and young woman stared blankly into the camera. “That’s you and me?” she said after a moment. “I almost didn’t recognize us.”
“Exactly.” Mr. Weeks slammed the paperweight on his desk. “What’s the point of it, then?”
Kitty sighed.
“And in addition to that infernal photograph, which is no identification as far as I’m concerned, they want me to complete this.” He handed her a document. “The other side.”
She flipped it over. It was the passport form that Prentiss had partially completed. The second half required a written description of the applicant’s physical features.
“Who’s going to vouch for you?” Kitty glanced at the Proof of Identity section; the witness had to be an American citizen known to the applicant for several years. “One of your lawyers?”
“I’ll find someone.” Mr. Weeks handed her a pen. “All right, let’s begin.”
“You want to do this now?” Kitty hadn’t even had a sip of tea.
“Let’s get it over with. What’s the first one, stature? That’s easy. Six feet.” He picked up the paperweight again and rolled it between his hands as he waited for her to fill in the blank. “Next.”
“Forehead.”
“Forehead?”
“That’s right.”
“What do they care about my forehead?”
“What do you want me to fill in?” Kitty said. “Broad? High? Noble?”
“That’s not funny. Just keep it simple.”
“All right, broad. Now, eyes.”
“Brown.”
“Nose.”
“Ha! Broken.”
“Really? I would have said crooked.”
“Broken,” he repeated. “In a brawl.”
“I had no idea.”
“Well, yes. What’s next?” He leaned forward. “Mouth? Let’s put medium.”
“Chin?” Kitty said.
“Square.”
“All right. And I’ll put hair—black. Complexion—olive. And face—square again? I’m afraid I’m not very good at this.”
“You’re better than I am.”
Kitty finished writing and blotted the sheet.
“Thanks for your help.” He sounded grudging.
“You’re welcome.” She returned the paper and stood.
“It’s all a meaningless charade,” he muttered under his breath and then asked, “By the way, did I tell you a business acquaintance will be joining us for dinner tonight?”
“No, you didn’t.” They rarely had guests.
“Sorry about that. Will you see to the menu?”
Kitty went to speak to Mrs. Codd and then to breakfast. The morning’s copy of the Sentinel lay folded beside her place with a prominent headline: BERLIN SHUNS LIABILITY FOR LUSITANIA SINKING, OFFERS ALTERNATE PROPOSALS FOR THE SAFETY OF AMERICANS.
How much long
er would the president and German officials go back and forth on the subject, Kitty wondered before turning to the inside of the paper. The story she was looking for, “Country Club Shooter Arrested,” appeared below the fold on page seven.
Marcus Lupone, a twenty-one-year-old stable hand and recent arrival to New York City from Sicily, was found in a shed by the banks of the Connecticut River where he had been hiding since early Tuesday morning, following the shooting death of Mr. Hunter Cole at the Sleepy Hollow Country Club.
Prior to his employment at the country club, Mr. Lupone had worked at the Aqueduct Racetrack, which was where, police say, he first became acquainted with the victim. It is believed that he was fired from the racetrack for colluding with bookmakers and that he managed to secure his position at the country club by providing the management with forged letters of reference as well as a false name—Lipton. He also shaved off his mustache in order to avoid being identified, but while walking about the grounds, Mr. Cole recognized him nonetheless and this, in turn, led to their fatal encounter during the July Fourth fireworks.
Kitty recollected spotting the Coles strolling near the stables before the party began; she read on to learn that the police had questioned Lupone when they arrived at the club after the shooting and that he fled the scene only afterward. Because of the recent mishap at the jail in Mineola—where Mr. Morgan’s attacker had committed suicide—Lupone would be held in custody at the infamous Tombs prison in Manhattan.
Mr. Weeks joined Kitty at breakfast. “Aren’t you going to work?” He took his seat at the head of the table.
“Not today. I’m interviewing Miss Anne Morgan on Monday, so I have the day off to prepare.”
He shook out his napkin. “The Miss Anne Morgan?”
Kitty nodded.
“My, my.” His grin had a touch of amusement to it. “You are moving up in the world.”
She reached for the caddy and spread a pat of butter on her toast. Something about the police’s case against the stable hand troubled her.
On the surface, it all sounded reasonable enough—false identity, discovery, altercation—but Flanagan seemed to be pushing the Sicilian angle as though the facts alone weren’t sufficient. He concluded his article with a quote from the commissioner of corrections, Dr. Katharine Bement Davis, who said that over half of those confined in the murder cells at the Tombs had Italian names. “‘I have been in Italy,’ Dr. Davis said, ‘and especially, I have been in Sicily. Sicilians bring with them their own primitive ideas of vengeance when they migrate to this country.’”