Murder in Greenwich Village

by Liz Freeland

  I had to step ahead to make way for someone coming in the opposite direction on the narrow sidewalk. “How much?”

  “Three hundred dollars.”

  I almost tripped. “Three hundred? Did Ethel have insurance?”

  “No, but even if she did—three hundred dollars! I nearly fainted.”

  “You have to dicker with these people.” Otto puffed up, a savvy businessman.

  Authoritative wasn’t exactly the word that usually came to mind when I thought of Otto, but apparently he’d talked the mortuary man down to two hundred and forty dollars. That sum still astounded me.

  “I paid twenty dollars down,” Callie said. “I’ll have to ask Dora for the rest.”

  Where had she come up with the twenty dollars? I only had to look at Otto’s worshipful expression for the answer.

  When we got off the train and walked down crowded Canal Street, Otto was more like his old wide-eyed self. By Mott Street he was gaping openly at the Asian men standing in doorways, some in long jackets, loose pants, and queues of various lengths down their backs. Then he turned his attention from the men to the paper lanterns strung across the street, and the colorful banners depicting dragons and horses and rats. At least the skinned carcasses hanging in some of the restaurant windows didn’t seem to bother him. More likely it made him feel right at home.

  “It’s like being in Hong Kong.” He shook his head. “Or how I imagine it is over there.”

  “It’s a lot easier to get to, I know that,” Callie said, pulling him into the restaurant.

  There was a long menu, but none of us could read the characters it was written in, and the man who brought us tea only offered us chop suey with soup or without. We all ordered without.

  “Have you heard from Dora and Abel?” I asked Callie as I lifted my hot tea. The small cup without handles was hot to the touch, so I sipped fast. “Shouldn’t we be worried they might arrive tonight?”

  “They sent me a note,” she said. “They’ll be here tomorrow night. They’re staying at a hotel called the Seasbury. They said they’d meet us out front of their hotel Thursday morning so we can go to the cemetery together.”

  “Seems odd,” I said.

  “That was part of Otto’s bargaining—no funeral carriage for us.”

  “I meant it seems odd that they’d stay in a hotel when we can offer them a room.”

  “Maybe they didn’t want to put you to any trouble,” Otto said. “If you look at it that way, it’s kind of nice.”

  “It would have been,” Callie said, “except we already went to the trouble to clean the place up and get new bedding. Not that I wouldn’t have had to do that anyway.” She remembered something and touched Otto’s sleeve. “Otto helped me put it all together. He’s been my hero.”

  Otto nearly choked on his tea. “Hero? Gosh, after all you did for me . . .”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What did she do for you?”

  “Just helped me set up my new flat,” he said.

  I nodded, pretending I’d known about his flat and trying not to feel slighted that I hadn’t. I’d barely heard of his plans to move out of his hotel.

  “Don’t be a dope—you didn’t have anything to set up.” Callie turned her gaze to me. “Honestly. I had to take him shopping just so he’d have the basics.”

  They’d had a busy day, apparently. My mind had been so focused on other things—the police investigation, mostly, and Ford—that I’d almost forgotten about Otto.

  Now as I looked at him staring adoringly at Callie and spinning the red lacquered lazy Susan that held little jars of Chinese spices and sauces, a pang of fear for my old friend struck me. Not because of the police investigation. With the help of lawyers, I could protect him from the Muldoons of the world. But he was an innocent young optimist in New York City, and I couldn’t think of anything that would safeguard him from inevitable disillusionment. He was a toy balloon floating through a roomful of pins.

  * * *

  Though Ethel’s death had been front-page news, the same could not be said for her burial.

  On Thursday morning, we met Dora and Abel at their hotel, not far from Grand Central Station. It wasn’t much of a family reunion. As promised, the two of them were standing underneath the hotel awning, on the lookout for us. Dora I had glimpsed before, but I don’t think I’d noted how much she resembled an older, stout Ethel. She and Callie didn’t embrace, merely exchanged awkward hellos. After that, the three relatives stood mute.

  “I’m so sorry about Ethel,” I said, for lack of anything else.

  Dora’s lips dipped into a tight frown. “So are we.”

  I glanced up at Abel, who reminded me of a daguerreotype of young Abraham Lincoln—tall, with a head that was all cheekbones and ears. If it bothered him to have his wife speaking for him, he didn’t show it.

  To fill the void, I took another stab at paying tribute to Ethel. “She was such a strong woman. I doubt if I’ll ever meet anyone quite like her again.” Except you, I amended silently.

  In response to my little eulogy, Dora pivoted to Callie. “How long will it take us to get to the cemetery?”

  The answer was nearly an hour. All Faiths Cemetery was across the river, and it took a train and a horse-drawn omnibus to get us there. Saving sixty dollars didn’t feel like such a bargain when you were forced to listen to Dora’s terse griping all the way to Queens. When we arrived, not five minutes before the appointed time for the start of the graveside service, the other mourners there were Otto and Detective Muldoon. A wreath sent by Aunt Irene provided the only flowers.

  Otto I knew was there for Callie’s sake. He stood like a nervous, vertical question mark next to Muldoon, looking as if he feared he’d be hauled off to the hoosegow at any second. He clearly wished he’d stayed home.

  In this he was not alone. Although perhaps I was reading too much into Dora’s and Abel’s dour countenances. I don’t know what I’d expected of them—people more like Callie, maybe. But Dora turned out to be Ethel’s sister to her fingertips. She stood by her sister’s grave garbed in solid black from her veiled hat down to her high-button boots, yet she was dry-eyed and seemed almost impatient with the entire ceremony. God knows she looked appropriately grim and funereal, but I suspected this was simply how she looked every day of her life.

  The preacher Callie and Otto had scared up, who of course had never met Ethel, struggled against the small, unresponsive audience. After a few generalities about the deceased and then some assurances that God would soon set to work binding up the wounds of the brokenhearted, he seemed at risk of running out of steam. But then he reminded us of the gruesome circumstances of her death and launched into a sermon on the vice of the big city, the senseless waste of Ethel’s life from an earthly perspective, and the work ahead in trying to make the world clean for decent people. Once started, the man delivered a stem-winder probably not heard since Reverend Parkhurst’s crusade against crime in the 1890s.

  Those of us standing around the grave began to shift uncomfortably. My feet ached. But I knew that if anyone would have appreciated the long-winded oration, it was Ethel, who, if there was a heaven, was nodding her approval at every outraged word. I looked over at Callie, who had tears streaming down her face, and I knew she was thinking the same thing.

  She’d brought a tiny velvet bag with her but had obviously forgotten to put a handkerchief in. She patted the small pocket of her suit jacket in the hopes of finding something there. Instead, she fished out a scrap of paper and stared at it. I searched in my own black bag, which was daintier than my satchel but still a suitcase next to Callie’s. When I handed her my handkerchief, she passed me the paper, which had an appointment written on it.

  May 27, 10:30. Dr. A. 112 Lenox Ave.

  I recognized Ethel’s handwriting, but it took me longer to understand the significance of what I’d read. This was the appointment she’d had uptown. As the preacher droned on, I ran through all the places we’d visited in Harlem, trying to
place Dr. A. Then I remembered that a dentist office I’d looked into had belonged to a Dr. Albe-something. Alberink. But Dr. Alberink’s reception nurse had told me that there was no record of Ethel’s having been there. Had Ethel been unable to find the office? Or perhaps she’d changed her mind and decided not to go.

  If she’d changed her mind, why would she have put that note in Callie’s pocket? That note showed Ethel had gone to the trouble to get dressed in Callie’s best dark jacket and skirt. Why wouldn’t she have gone?

  But why hadn’t she mentioned needing to go to a dentist? Wouldn’t she have asked us to recommend someone to her?

  The preacher, finally winding down, asked us to join him in prayer. I bent my head, looked at Callie, and mouthed “the dentist.” Her frown deepened. No doubt her mind was sifting through all the same questions and coming up with as few satisfactory answers.

  We each sprinkled earth over Ethel’s coffin. Dora slung the dirt in as carelessly as one would toss a pebble into a lake. Abel wound a long, thin arm about her waist, but she stepped decidedly away from this gesture of comfort.

  After we thanked the preacher for stepping in on such short notice, our small group migrated toward the cemetery gates. “Won’t you come back to the apartment with us for a while?” Callie asked Dora and Abel, without too much enthusiasm.

  Judging from their demeanor, they only wanted to get away as fast as they could. “We’ll just return to our hotel till it’s time to catch the train,” Abel explained. “Got to get back to the farm, you know.”

  “Of course,” Callie said.

  I was incensed. Their train didn’t leave till after supper. Also, if it were my sister we’d just buried, I’d have wanted to talk to Callie and find out more about how she’d died, no matter how painful the details. I’d also want to learn if the newspaper accounts were true, and if the police were any closer to capturing the killer.

  I was not Dora, obviously.

  Dora nodded a curt good-bye to Detective Muldoon. “Very thoughtful of you to come, Detective.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” I was struck by how gentle his voice sounded then, and how earnest he seemed as he took her gloved hand. “I promise I’ll do my utmost to achieve justice for your sister.”

  Dora withdrew her hand. “The reverend said it best. Vengeance is God’s. His justice is assured.”

  And with that, she said a general good-bye and simply walked away, as if the rest of us weren’t all heading in the same direction.

  Abel turned to us. “Dora’s not herself. This has cut her up something awful.”

  His words, unfortunately, carried a vivid echo of what had befallen poor Ethel herself. He paled. “That is . . . um, what I meant to say was, she’s very sad.”

  “We know.” I felt sorrier for him than anyone, even Ethel herself. Ethel, after all, was beyond worldly cares now. Abel had to live the rest of his life with Dora.

  “I’d better go,” he mumbled. His wife was already halfway to the bus stop. He leaned in and gave Callie a quick kiss. To me, he said, “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Faulk.” He blanched again. “Or it might have been, under different circumstances. That is—”

  “Abel!” Dora thundered from down the street. “Come on!”

  He jumped. “Good-bye.” He cast a last anxious look at us and tore off after his wife.

  Muldoon’s thoughtful gaze followed him down the street. “There goes a very nervous man.”

  Now I saw his presence for what it was: detective work. Even with Max under lock and key, he was still on the lookout for suspects. I supposed I should be glad for his perseverance, but to me suspecting Abel seemed almost as preposterous as suspecting Otto, or Max.

  “They never went to your apartment?” Muldoon asked us.

  Callie also divined the direction of his thoughts and jumped to the defense of her family. “They’re farm people. They don’t know their way around New York City. Besides, they’re nervous about catching their train.”

  Their train that didn’t leave for six hours yet.

  “Really? Judging from the way they bolted out of here, they seem pretty confident about navigating their way back to Manhattan,” Otto observed.

  Callie glared at him.

  His bug-eyed gaze darted from me to Callie in what-did-I-say confusion.

  “Didn’t you mention having to get back to town right after the service?” she asked him. “You said you had that important meeting with that fellow. . . .”

  His brows knit in confusion. “What fellow?”

  “That music publishing fellow,” I said, fearing we were going to have to step on his foot or something.

  “Oh!” Finally, the actor heard his cue. “Yes! I need to get back. Right away. Shall we go?”

  “Louise and I aren’t leaving just yet,” Callie answered quickly. “But you should get back, by all means. If you hurry, maybe you could catch up with Dora and Abel. With three of you there would be less chance of getting lost.”

  “Oh. Sure.” He clearly didn’t relish making the trip back with Callie’s relatives instead of Callie herself.

  I was a little puzzled at her sending Otto away, but I assumed she’d tell me why when we were alone. Alas, even after Otto left, hands buried in his pockets, Muldoon was still with us, hovering by my side.

  “Do you know of a florist nearby, Detective?” Callie asked him. “I can’t bear leaving poor Ethel without a few more flowers. I’m not certain when we’ll be out this way again.”

  The question surprised me. When I’d asked her about flowers this morning, she’d dismissed the idea. “They’ll only die,” she’d said. “And then I’ll have to think of a bunch of dead flowers on Ethel’s lonely grave and be even more depressed.”

  She’d changed her tune now.

  Muldoon frowned in thought. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  “Never mind.” Callie bestowed her most winning smile on him. “You’ve been so much help already. Dora was right. It was so very kind of you to come out today.”

  That tough mask of his softened again. “Perhaps I should catch up with your cousin and her husband. That way I won’t get lost on the way back, either. Are you sure you won’t return, as well?”

  “No, thank you,” she said. “Flowers first, then home.”

  After Muldoon had left, Callie said, “We’ll just wait for the next bus and then go.”

  The whole florist question had been a feint. “Nothing makes a man squirm with impatience more than shopping for fabric or flowers,” she said. “Look how quickly the detective cleared out.”

  “He probably hurried off to catch up with your relatives. He seemed suspicious of them.”

  Her jaw tightened. “Oh well. Dora could stand interrogating, I guess. The woman has ice in her veins.”

  I couldn’t contradict her. “At least it frees us to go see Dr. Alberink.” I frowned. “Why would his receptionist have told me he’d never seen Ethel?”

  “Did she?” Callie shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t remember. If Ethel simply wandered in off the street, for instance.”

  I brought out the paper again. “But there’s a time written here. She had an appointment.”

  * * *

  It took us longer to get to Lenox Avenue this time because we started out from the back of beyond. I worried that the dentist might be closed by the time we got there, but his office was still open. And busy. A haggard woman with a flock of children occupied a bench along the wall of the tiny reception area, but I wasn’t in a mood to sit and wait. A drill whined somewhere down a hallway, a noise that was the equivalent of chewing metal on my nerves. The receptionist I’d spoken to last time, dressed in starchy, professional whites, squinted at me as I approached her desk in my funeral clothes.

  The woman was obviously trying to place who I was, so I helped her out. “I came by last week to inquire after someone who was a patient of Dr. Alberink.” I stepped aside so she could see Callie. “This is my friend Callie Gail.”
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br />   At that moment, Callie was turned away from the receptionist, picking up a filthy rag doll that one of the woman’s children had dropped. But the receptionist had seen enough, or perhaps it was just Callie’s name she reacted to. She jumped up from her chair. “Miss Gail, you shouldn’t have come back. Dr. Alberink told you—”

  Callie turned. The woman’s voice broke off, and her face contorted in confusion. “You’re not Miss Gail.” She glanced anxiously between Callie and me. “Who are you? What is this about?”

  “I am Callie Gail,” Callie said. “I believe Dr. Alberink saw my cousin Ethel. Ethel Gail.”

  By now I was bristling. “Why did you lie to me when I was here before?”

  To say the woman was flustered was putting it mildly. She hurried back to her post and knocked over her pencil cup with her sleeve. A great deal of fidgeting was required to put everything to rights again. “Lied? I-I don’t think that was . . .” Before she could reply, she nearly tumped over the candlestick phone. “The woman you mean, the one who came in earlier this month, gave the name Callie Gail. That’s why I was confused.”

  Callie looked at me. “She lied about her name. And wore my clothes. Why would she have done that?”

  “And why would she have come so far to see a dentist when there are several in our neighborhood?” I wondered aloud.

  “I believe she might have said something about Dr. Alberink’s being recommended to her,” the receptionist said.

  I looked at the closed office door. The drilling had stopped. “What did Dr. Alberink do for her?”

  “Nothing,” the woman piped up quickly.

  Odd. “Ethel came all this way for nothing?”

  She shrugged. “To be honest, I’m not certain what he did. Miss Gail wasn’t here long. I don’t always know what goes on between the dentist and his patient.”

  “Then may we please speak to the doctor?” I asked.

  “As you can see, young lady, the doctor’s busy today. If you have questions, perhaps you should speak to Miss Ethel Gail herself.”