by Fiona Davis
She continued on. “Anyway, the story’s been killed, unfortunately, but we wanted to thank you for your time. We heard you were performing and had to come. You were terrific.”
“Well, I appreciate that.”
The other man slammed his hand down on the table and they all jumped. “What story? You need all the publicity you can get, old man.”
Rose explained. “It wasn’t about music, really, more about something that happened back in 1952 at the Barbizon Hotel for Women.”
The other man stared at her with cloudy eyes. “The Barbizon?”
Malcolm touched his arm. “Now, don’t get all excited.” He turned to Jason and Rose. “I’d like you to meet my brother, Sam Buckley.”
Rose stared, trying to match the man’s lined face and thinning gray hair with the image she had in her head of Sam as a young man. He was thinner than his brother, as if he’d been ever so slightly deflated. The purple dress shirt he wore was crisp and pressed but one size too large. His strong features hadn’t been softened by age, his chin charmingly dimpled.
“You’re Sam. And you’re in town,” Rose managed to stammer out.
“I am indeed, on both counts.”
“We’ve been looking for you,” said Jason. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“We thought you were unreachable,” added Rose, looking over at Malcolm.
“Now, who told you that?”
Malcolm crossed his arms. “His stepdaughter, Jessica, had been taking care of him out in San Francisco, and last year she got transferred to New York and brought him along. My brother’s been through a lot, and I didn’t think he’d be interested in your questions.”
“What questions? For God’s sake, I can still hear what you say, little brother. I’ve got glaucoma. I’m not deaf.” Sam picked up the cane resting against his chair and banged it on the floor a couple of times. “My sight’s not what it used to be, but I can smack you with this cane easy. I’m going back to California if you think I’m such a fragile flower.”
“Fine; talk, then. I’ll leave the three of you to it.”
Malcolm got up and was immediately surrounded by well-wishers.
Sam smiled. “My brother is protective of me. What’s this story about, exactly?”
Rose filled him in on the background, about meeting her mysterious neighbor and the interviews with the women of the fourth floor.
“But the woman disappeared before I could interview her.”
“Who?”
Rose got the impression he was testing her. “Esme, who we think assumed Darby McLaughlin’s identity after the fall on the roof.”
He stiffened. “And how do you know about that?”
“We saw the letter you wrote to her; she saved your reply.”
“She showed it to you?”
Jason stepped in. “We’ve also seen the book of spices. It’s phenomenal, and we were wondering what you ended up doing out West, if you were able to put your recipes to use.”
“The book of spices. I can’t believe it’s still around.” He scratched his jaw. “I showed up at my brother’s hotel room, on the run, and tried to forget about that damn book. Got a job in a Vietnamese restaurant and eventually married the owner’s daughter, a widow. Not a bad life, until she passed away and my eyes started to go. But Jessica takes good care of me.”
“I’m glad to hear that. We found the book intriguing, to say the least.”
“Well, thanks. It’s funny to think Esme’s saved it all these years. I figured she’d tossed it in the trash.”
“Maybe you can meet her, and she’ll give it back to you. It is yours, after all.”
He cleared his throat. “I don’t want to stir up trouble. I have nothing to say to her.” A fleeting look of pain crossed his face.
Rose threw a warning glance to Jason. “We don’t want to upset you in any way, Mr. Buckley. But we know about Mr. Kalai and the drug ring; we were hoping you could fill us in on some of the details we’re missing.”
“You want to know what happened that day?”
“Well, we don’t want to pressure you. But yes, we’d love to get your perspective. To try to put the pieces together.”
Malcolm returned to the table. “We’ve got to go, Sam.”
Rose pressed her card into Sam’s hand. “My cell number is on there; feel free to call anytime you want to talk.”
“I’ll think about it.” He reached for his cane and stood. “It was a pleasure meeting you both.”
The two men shuffled out of the club.
Rose and Jason took the elevator down to the ground level and walked out into the night. She grabbed him by the arm and pointed. Malcolm and Sam stood by the line of taxis, arguing. Sam spoke rapidly, but he was too far away to be understood.
“He wants to talk to us. We should go to him.”
Jason sighed. “No. Let them work it out; we don’t need to cause any more problems than we already have.”
She couldn’t resist. She ran over and touched his arm. “Sam, let’s go get a drink; there’s a pub across the street. Please.”
Malcolm leaned into Sam. “I’m telling you, you’ve got to watch what you say.”
“Please, Sam. One drink.”
“One drink,” he agreed. “Maybe it’s time to let go of some ghosts.”
Malcolm pulled Rose aside as they crossed the street. “Take it easy on him, that’s all I ask. He was a mess when he turned up in San Francisco all those years ago. His life was going one way, and then it suddenly took a sharp turn. It took him a long time to recover.”
Rose nodded. “I understand, believe me. We won’t push him.”
They sat at a table in the back of the empty bar, where Frank Sinatra crooned gently over the sound system.
Sam sat next to Malcolm and began to speak, staring out over their shoulders and into the past.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
New York City, 2016
Darby and I had fallen hard for each other by then,” said Sam. “Or at least I had fallen hard for her. She was a combination of smart and innocent, not like most of the girls who hung around at the club.”
“I heard a recording of Darby and Esme,” said Rose. “Darby did the harmonies, but it was gorgeous.”
“Darby’s voice was pure as snow. You see, when she sang, it wasn’t about showmanship or glitter but about the song and the words. You were captivated when she opened her mouth. And she had no idea. Sometimes she’d put herself down, like she was some dowdy girl from the Midwest, but she was much more than that.”
“What was Esme like?” asked Rose.
“That girl was ambitious, always had been. I knew she was working for Kalai; a lot of people were; it was how the system worked. But the minute she got paid to squeal, she was asking for trouble.”
“What happened the last day you saw Darby?” asked Jason.
“My father showed me the article in the paper, where Esme ratted out the musicians and Kalai. Kalai was furious, of course, and word on the street was that he was after me and Esme, both. He and his sons figured I was a snitch, too.”
“But you weren’t.”
“Didn’t matter. I convinced Darby to leave with me; we were going to go to California together. By then she’d been kicked out of school. I went downtown to pack and as I was pulling my stuff together, I heard Kalai’s guys come into the club downstairs. I was trapped. So I wrote a message in the spice book and tossed it out the window to one of the busboys, told him to bring it to the Barbizon for Darby.” A tiny muscle in his jaw twitched. “I was taken to Kalai, where they beat the hell out of me and held me for several days.”
Rose shook her head. “I’m so sorry.”
“They had no mercy, none. I was locked in a room in the back of the spice shop. That’s what kept me going hour to hour, trying to take my mind
off the pain by figuring out what spices I could identify by smell. Until my nose became too bloody to breathe through.”
She couldn’t imagine the terror. “Your father must’ve known where you were. Couldn’t he tell the cops?”
“Kalai controlled the neighborhood, and he controlled my father. When it came to a choice between the club or his son, my father chose the club. But Kalai loved me better than that in his own way. He wanted his men to punish me, but he didn’t want them to actually kill me. Once he figured I had learned my lesson, he released me to my father with a warning to leave town. That same evening, my father took me to the bus depot and sent me across the country, to my brother. By then, my mind wasn’t right.
“After a few months, I pulled myself together. I sent Darby a letter, explaining what had happened to me, and asked her to join me. Esme wrote back and told me that Darby had died, that she was living at the hotel now and I should move on.”
“Did she tell you what happened, about the accident?”
He didn’t respond to the question. “What do you know?”
Rose had to be careful; he’d been through enough. “We think there was some kind of skirmish up on the terrace. We don’t know exactly what happened, but we think Esme got slashed badly on the face, and Darby fell to her death. From that letter, along with some other pieces of evidence, we assume Esme took on Darby’s identity.”
“That way she’d avoid Kalai looking for her.”
Rose nodded.
“They were the same size, had similar builds,” recalled Sam. “Strange, to think she could get away with it for so many years.”
“The letter you received must’ve given you quite a shock.”
“It did. I had imagined her going to the club and my father telling her I’d gone away and wouldn’t be coming back, not giving her any further details. The thought made me sick. So I was thrilled when I got a letter back with the Barbizon Hotel on the return address. I was sure this would be a new beginning for us. The news of Darby’s death hit me hard. I never forgot her, or what we might have done together.” He took a long sip of his drink. “Esme said never to contact her again; that much was easy.”
“Do you think Darby slashed Esme with a knife?”
Sam shook his head. “She wasn’t like that. Only if she was being attacked. Otherwise, it doesn’t make sense to me.”
So many unanswered questions. And in the meantime, Sam and Darby’s love had been subsumed by something dark and ugly.
“Well, I’m glad we were able to talk, as it helps us understand most of what happened,” said Rose.
Outside, they said their good-byes and Rose and Jason promised to stay in touch.
Sam held Rose’s hand tightly in his. “It was all so long ago, but what’s funny is I still dream of Darby. Just last night, in fact, I dreamed of her. That she was singing at the club and it was as if she was only singing to me. That’s what it was like, watching her. Like you were the only man in the world.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
New York City, 2016
Rose asked Jason to help her move her things to Maddy’s after their talk with Sam; she didn’t want to wait until morning. As they climbed the back stairs for the last time, she was hit by a wave of nostalgia. She was connected to the building like no other in Manhattan, even her West Village studio, even the town house she’d grown up in. Knowing that hundreds of women had walked the halls—it was a history she was pleased to have been part of, even if it was only for a few months.
She opened the door to the fourth-floor hallway. “Thanks for helping me out.”
“Of course.”
She put the key into the lock and opened the door.
The figure of a woman stood less than two feet away.
Rose jumped backward and let out a screech.
Esme.
Her figure was cast into silhouette by a bright light behind her, making her seem more like a dark ghost instead of a human being. When she spoke, her scratchy voice echoed in the small hallway. “Well, well, well. Looks like Goldilocks has returned.”
Rose’s heart pounded in her chest and her mouth went dry. “You’re back.”
“Indeed, I am.” She studied Rose and Jason through a brown hat and veil that sat slightly askew, as if she’d quickly planted it on her head. She stepped aside and waved them in.
Rose cautiously led the way, hoping at the very least that Bird would jump into her arms, happy to see her. But he remained on the couch, panting like a lunatic, as if he were curious to see how this all played out.
Her suitcases were stacked beside the coffee table, the throw she’d used as a blanket these past few weeks neatly folded on top of the pillow she’d borrowed from the bedroom.
“You’ve made yourself right at home in my absence, it appears. Sleeping in my bed, drinking my coffee.”
“I wasn’t sleeping in your bed. Just on your couch.” As if that helped.
“Are you being impertinent?”
“No, not at all. I’m so sorry about this.”
“So tell me.” Esme crossed her arms. “Why are your belongings in my apartment?”
“You see, Miss Conover—”
Esme cut her off before she could go on. “Yes, Stella tells me you walked Bird while I was away. And I thank you for that. But you don’t need suitcases to walk a dog.”
“You remember I lived right above you? Well, I had to leave my apartment.”
“And why was that my problem?”
“I had to move out, but I didn’t want to leave Bird. No one else on the floor offered to take him in.”
“Bunch of hermit crabs. Not surprised at that.”
Encouraged, Rose carried on. “So you see, I decided to stay here until you returned. Miss Conover said you wouldn’t be back until Monday.”
“Were you planning to make a quick escape before I came home?”
Not being able to see Esme’s eyes made it difficult to connect with her, to gauge what she was feeling. “To be honest, yes. I felt horrible, doing this, but it was an emergency, because Miss Conover had to go to the hospital.”
“I ought to call the police on you. I know exactly what you were up to. You wanted to find out more about what happened to me, so you made yourself right at home and went through my things.” Her voice rose. “This is a complete invasion of privacy.”
Jason stepped forward. “Rose’s father just passed away. She lost her job, her father died, and taking care of Bird became very important to her. She was out of line, that’s true, but she didn’t mean to do you any harm.”
“Who are you?”
“Sorry, Esme, this is Jason Wolf. He’s a journalist as well.”
“Jason Wolf. Quite the name.” She looked him up and down before turning back to Rose. “Why did you call me Esme?”
She’d blown it. But considering there was no way this woman would ever grant them an interview, the truth might as well come out.
Rose pointed to the bookcase. “One night I took out your copy of Romeo and Juliet. It caught my eye, the binding was so old. It’s a gorgeous edition.” She paused. “And a letter dropped out.”
“And you read it, of course.”
The awfulness of what Rose had done hit home. This poor woman wanted nothing more than to live in peace, not have to relive what must have been the most horrific few moments of her life. No matter what she’d done in 1952 to Sam and Darby, decades had since passed. “I apologize. I wasn’t thinking straight. I never should have read it. Or come in here at all.”
“You got that right.”
“Esme, I know what happened at the club, about the drugs, and Sam, and I wanted to know more. I couldn’t help myself. Maybe it’s because I’m a journalist. But it’s also because I’m a woman in a tough spot, not totally unlike the one you and Darby were in. No one’s here to blame anyone.”
“How dare you talk to me of blame?” Waves of anger emanated from her body.
She was blowing it. “Please, for Sam’s sake. He should know the truth as well.” Rose was taking a risk. Either Esme would rise to the bait, or she’d close them off forever.
Esme opened her lips, but no sound came out for a moment, all of her bluster faded away. “Sam?”
“He’s in town. We saw him a few hours ago. I’m sorry if that’s a shock.”
“A shock. Yes, you could say that.”
“Can I get you some water?”
“Yes, please.” Esme lowered herself into the armchair. Rose grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen and by the time she’d returned, Jason had draped the throw over Esme’s shoulders. Her fierceness was gone, replaced by an overwhelming melancholy.
Rose knelt at her feet and looked up. “Please. What can I do to make this up to you?”
“Put on my record.”
She knew the one Esme was referring to. She walked over to the small record player, turned it on, and, with a shaking hand, lifted the needle and placed it carefully on the edge of the revolving vinyl. The familiar recording of the two women’s voices began, Esme and Darby, singing, followed by the tiny giggle at the very end.
Rose couldn’t help but smile. “I heard you playing this the day we met in the elevator. It’s beautiful. And intriguing. Your voices are remarkable together.”
“I’m so pleased you think so. And now it is time for you to get the hell out of my apartment.” Esme’s mouth was set in a firm line, her cheeks slightly flushed.
“Okay, we’ll go. I’m sorry it all came crashing down. I only started asking questions because I was worried about you. Being all alone—I get that. I’m alone now. No family, no job. I have to start again from the ground up. I’ll be the first to admit my behavior here was suspect. But it’s because I need to know how to do this. How to start again.”
“Don’t compare our situations.” Esme pointed a long, crooked finger at Rose and slowly rose back to her feet. “Maybe I could have had a different life; we’ll never know. Once I was marked, scarred, it was all over. I was only a shell after that, working in the back room of a button company, balancing books and paying bills, staying away from people who felt sorry for me or wanted to find out the lurid details.” She paused, breathing heavily. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? Do you want to see it for yourself? Me as a freak?”