I started to stick my tongue out at him, then realized that might land me in jail as more than a visitor, like he’d just predicted. I also grasped that what he’d just done, for whatever reason, had worked.
I was actually going to see Murderess’s Row.
Chapter 35
WHENEVER MAUDE WROTE ABOUT LADIES’ LIVES IN PRISON, she always made it seem as if things were pretty nice. Sometimes she even called Murderess’s Row a “spa,” where women who committed crimes could relax and work on their appearance while they waited to go on trial.
But the place looked gloomy to me. Sure, a lot of the women we passed—most of whom greeted Maude by name—weren’t necessarily in cells. A surprising number were wandering around, busy with chores that looked less difficult than selling newspapers in the freezing cold. Some carried stacks of laundry, and some mopped the floor. Those who were behind bars were mostly occupied too, with sewing or reading. I wouldn’t have minded spending all day with a book. Still, everything was gray and ugly, and there were plenty of bars to make a person feel trapped, so I wouldn’t have called it someplace to take a vacation.
And reading a bunch of Maude’s articles certainly didn’t prepare me for what I saw when she stopped in front of a cell and said, “Hey, Colette. You’ve got two visitors today.”
The woman inside was sitting on her cot, her back to us. And when she turned slowly to face me, I couldn’t help crying out, “Miss Giddings! Holy cow!”
Chapter 36
“WHERE’D ALL THE ROSES COME FROM?” I ASKED MISS GIDDINGS after Maude and I had made ourselves kind of at home in her boquet-filled cell. It had taken me about ten minutes to reassure her that Robert was fine, and another ten to explain why I was there, visiting the most colorful spot in the jail. Compared with most of the prison Miss Giddings’s cell was hardly depressing at all, except for the spare bed and the toilet and the gray walls. Okay, maybe it was a little depressing. Still, the flowers did cheer it up. “Who sent all these?”
Miss Giddings hadn’t looked guilty when Detective Culhane questioned her about the murder, but she looked pretty uncomfortable over a simple inquiry about posies. “It seems that I have some admirers”—she glanced at Maude—“since my picture ran in the Tribune.”
I wanted to ask what kind of crazy men fell for a woman who was accused of killing her last boyfriend, but I couldn’t think of a way to pose the question that wouldn’t insult Miss Giddings. Meanwhile, Maude, leaning against the bars, notebook discreetly in her left hand, didn’t seem surprised. “It always happens,” she said with a shrug. “Every time.”
“I didn’t ask for this attention,” Miss Giddings said softly. I sensed that she was angry at Maude, but well aware that the reporter had all the power. It probably wouldn’t help, and might hurt, to fight back about being called a “slayer”—even a “pretty” one—in a newspaper before she was tried. “I don’t want these flowers.”
Maude didn’t respond, but she did make a note.
I took out my composition book too, although I wasn’t sure if something important had just been said. Nothing had seemed worth noting to me. So I wrote down how Miss Giddings looked, which had made me cry out when I first saw her.
Still pretty, but pale. Red eyes. Crying?? Too skinny! Hair not shiny, but curls still better than mine. Dress like a paper sack!!
Looking up, I realized that Miss Giddings and Maude were both watching me. “Go ahead, Isabel,” Maude urged. “Ask a question. You can’t write a story without asking questions.”
Maybe I wasn’t destined to be a great reporter after all, because the first thing that popped into my mind—and out of my mouth—was, “Hey, do you know anybody that chews that horrible Beeman’s pepsin gum?”
Miss Giddings gave me a funny look, so I added, “You know, the kind that helps calm your stomach when you wanna upchuck?”
“I know what you mean, Izzie,” Miss Giddings said, still with a strange expression on her face. “I’m just surprised by the question.”
“Yeah, me too,” I agreed. “But do you know anybody like that?”
Miss Giddings nodded. “Yes. In fact, I do.”
All of a sudden I got excited, and I poised my pencil over my notes, ready to write—which I completely forgot to do when Miss Giddings shocked both me and Maude by saying, “My husband.”
Chapter 37
I NEARLY FELL OFF THE COT WHEN MISS GIDDINGS SAID THAT this terrible man—who’d abandoned a son just because the kid had a paralyzed leg—chewed the very type of gum I’d found near a murder scene.
Maude, however, seemed mainly interested in the fact that Miss Giddings was still married. “I thought you were divorced,” she said, her pencil scribbling. I saw her glance at Miss Giddings’s ring finger, which was bare now, the big diamond missing. “And weren’t you engaged?” Maude asked. “Because bigamy is a crime too.”
She was making a joke, and needless to say, Miss Giddings didn’t laugh. I shot Maude a look, trying to tell her to cut it out. But she was focused on Miss Giddings, who clearly realized that being engaged to a mobster while still married to some other man was probably going to look bad in the next day’s newspaper. Her shoulders slumped. “Albert was just about to sign the final papers,” she said. “At least, I was trying to get him to do that.” Her cheeks got red with indignation. “You don’t know what it’s like to deal with a stubborn, mean man like Albert Rowland.” She looked at me. “That’s why he always chews that gum. He’s so bitter, it takes a toll on his stomach!” Then, though I wanted to talk more about Albert’s indigestion, Miss Giddings turned back to Maude. “I consider us divorced. I just needed to convince him that it was time to make it official—”
“By warning him that your boyfriend, Charles Bessemer, was a mobster who might get angry, and perhaps violent, if those papers weren’t signed?” Maude suggested.
Miss Giddings’s cheeks got brighter red. “No! That’s not true!” She cooled down and got quieter. “I simply told Albert that even if he couldn’t accept having a crippled son, he could at least step aside and let me marry a man who could care for Robert.”
I was just a kid, but once again I thought that seemed like a bad idea. But it wasn’t my place to say—especially since I saw how my mother struggled alone to raise me, and I was healthy—so I stayed quiet until Miss Giddings turned to me and asked, “Why did you ask that, Izzie? About the gum?”
“I was crawling around the alley, looking for clues to find the real killer, when I found a piece squished in a footprint on top of the snow—”
“Izzie . . . you did that for me?” Miss Giddings’s eyes glistened, as if she might cry out of gratitude. “Please, don’t get involved . . .”
“Oh, I’m involved,” I promised. “And Flora Bessemer’s getting in on the act too. She’s vowed to find the killer—and kill him back!”
“What’s this about Flora Bessemer?” Maude asked sharply. Suddenly I was getting interviewed. “You know her? And what’s this vow?”
“Can we focus on the gum?” I asked, afraid that I shouldn’t have mentioned Flora and her death oath. “Because it really seemed to me like somebody’d spit it out—”
“So you think Albert Rowland might’ve been jealous?” Maude asked. “Enough to hide in an alley and kill the man who was courting his wife?”
She seemed doubtful, but at least she hadn’t dismissed the idea.
“Maybe,” I said. “Maybe he even meant to shoot Miss Giddings and missed!”
Miss Giddings gasped and put her hand to her throat, her gaze darting between me and Maude. “Do you think . . .”
Maude arced a skeptical eyebrow, but I kept going. “It coulda happened that way! What if Albert Rowland realized he still loved you, Miss Giddings, and didn’t want you to marry somebody else? What if he flew into a rage? You said he was mean!”
“Those are some interesting theories, Miss Feeney,” said a voice from behind me.
Aw, horsefeathers! I looked outside the cell to find Detective C
ulhane watching me, as if I were a monkey in a zoo. I’d completely forgotten that he’d been spooking around the jail. “I can tell you don’t think they’re interesting at all,” I advised him. “I can spell, and I get sarcasm, too.”
I guess I hadn’t exactly forgiven him for the “g-u-n” comment. Then I remembered how Detective Culhane had fought in a terrible war, and lost his wife, and how he had tried to feed me, once, and I felt bad for snapping at him.
“Sorry,” I offered, without even being told to say it.
But the adults were already preoccupied. First, Maude and Detective Culhane shared a long look that erased any doubts I might’ve had about them being sweet on each other. But it was a sad look, too, like they had more than real bars between them. Then Detective Culhane spoke to Miss Giddings, who’d stood up and was nervously smoothing her baggy dress, as if she’d already learned that visits from a high-ranking cop weren’t usually good news. And she was right. He told her solemnly, “The coroner’s jury has determined that there is sufficient evidence to turn your case over for trial.”
Miss Giddings staggered backwards and rested her hand on her chest. I stood up just in time to grab her arm in case she was about to faint dead away. “No . . .” she whispered, wide-eyed. “But . . .”
“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Detective Culhane pressed, while Maude took rapid-fire notes—which I could not do, since I was holding Miss Giddings. “Anything you’d like to say? Because this could go easier—”
He wanted a confession. “Don’t let him bully you into saying something not true!” I warned Miss Giddings. “He’s trying to scare you!”
Those bars might’ve been meant to keep people in, but when I looked at Detective Culhane, I was glad he was shut out. “Are you an attorney now, Miss Feeney?” he growled. “Are you Miss Giddings’s legal counsel? Because if you are not, I strongly suggest that you—”
“I know, I know,” I said, letting go of Miss Giddings and sinking down onto the cot. “Sit down and shut up.”
“Yes,” Detective Culhane said evenly. “Until you are called to testify—”
My eyes got wide. “Me? Testify?”
He ignored the questions. “Until then . . . silence.”
The conversation was very serious, but when I looked at Maude, she was biting her lip to keep from laughing.
It looked like I’d be in the Tribune again—and not as a writer. As the butt of another joke, under the headline NEWSGIRL THINKS SHE’S ATTORNEY!
At least the moment gave Miss Giddings a chance to compose herself. “I don’t have anything to say,” she told Detective Culhane in a steady voice. “But I suppose this means I won’t be released to attend Charles’s funeral.”
That was the first time I’d thought about Mr. Bessemer getting buried. And though Miss Giddings couldn’t go—at least according to Detective Culhane, who didn’t seem too sorry to deliver that news—I started to get some very interesting ideas.
Interesting enough that I risked breaking my silence to ask, real nonchalantly, “So, just outta curiosity . . . when is this funeral, anyway?”
Chapter 38
LATER THAT DAY, I SAT IN THE ROCKING CHAIR AT ROBERT’S HOUSE, trying—and failing—to write a news story about Miss Giddings being innocent. Even though I’d read dozens of articles by Maude and had been sure I could copy her style, nothing I wrote seemed right.
Also, it wasn’t easy using paper and a pencil in a chair that kept moving.
I didn’t feel like I could get up, though, because Aunt Johnene, who was in the kitchen heating up a can of soup, apparently liked me about as much as Detective Culhane did. Or maybe she just hated everybody. Either way, I got the sense that I should make myself as small and quiet as possible, if I wanted to stay.
Robert was also scared of his aunt and was hunkered down under his blanket, grimacing every time she walked into the room—like she did right then. Carrying, I noticed, only one bowl.
Really?
“Here you go, Robert,” she said, setting the soup on the coffee table, a little bit out of easy reach, so he had to scooch around and struggle to get it. It was hard to watch, since he was having one of his bad nights. But his aunt hardly seemed to care that her nephew was fighting for air and his skin was bluish. She glanced at me and finally offered, grudgingly, “Do you want any?”
I knew the right answer to that question, and although my mouth started watering when I caught a whiff of chicken and broth, I said, “No. Thanks, anyhow.”
Aunt Johnene—who smelled distinctively unappetizing, like mothballs and cabbage—put her hands on her hips, which were quite a bit broader than Miss Giddings’s, and peered closely at me. “What did you say you’re doing here, again?”
Gosh, in some ways, the two sisters looked alike, but they couldn’t have been more different. Miss Giddings was bubbly and sweet, while her sister was just . . . horrible. Aunt Johnene wasn’t quite as pretty as Miss Giddings either. Her hair wasn’t as shiny, and her mouth didn’t have the bowlike quality that made Miss Giddings look like a movie star.
And did I mention the odor that clung to Aunt Johnene?
“Did you say that you and Robert are friends?” she asked, so I realized I’d been staring too long and hadn’t answered her first question.
“Yeah, we’re friends,” I confirmed, with a glance at Robert, who kept his eyes downcast, fixed on his supper. “I’m here so he can help me write a story about Miss . . . about your sister,” I added. “To try to get her out of jail.”
Johnene Giddings didn’t even ask how a story written by a kid might aid in getting an adult out of prison. She rolled her eyes, apparently assuming it was a dumb idea on my part and not worth bothering with. “If you knew anything about Robert’s mother, you wouldn’t waste your time,” she advised me. “Colette created this mess. She needs to get herself out of it. If she can.”
I reared back in my chair and forgot that I was half afraid of Mean Johnene. “You don’t really think your own sister is guilty of murder, do you?”
“I didn’t say that,” she replied, pursing her lips. That was how she talked, which made her seem snippy and superior. “But I will say that I tried to warn Colette about Charles Bessemer, with his fancy cars and that big diamond he bought her. I knew he was no good, from the moment he tried to approach me, at Marshall Field’s!”
I looked at Robert again, to see what he thought of his aunt’s obvious jealousy, but he still had his nose buried in his bowl, as if he wanted to avoid the whole discussion. He’d probably heard it all before, a thousand times. I was curious, though. “You work at Marshall Field’s too?” I asked Aunt Johnene. “Just like Miss Giddings?”
“Worked,” she clarified. She puffed out her chest and lifted her chin. “I’m taking a secretarial course now. Making something of myself, unlike every other clerk in Fine Menswear, who hopes her next husband will walk through the door needing a suit and a bride!”
I admired ladies who made their own way, and I planned to be one of them someday. But I also suspected that given half a chance—unlike Maude Collier, who I honestly believed loved her independence—Johnene Giddings would’ve been happy to rely on somebody else’s cash. In fact, I was pretty sure that she wasn’t the one who’d turned down Mr. Bessemer. I had a feeling that once he’d seen Colette Giddings, any flirting he’d done with Johnene had come to a very quick end.
I started to mention that Miss Giddings had a lot of admirers, even in jail, but I knew that would just be rubbing salt in old wounds. Besides, Aunt Johnene wasn’t even looking at me. She raised her chin higher and surveyed the cozy little room. “Someday soon I’ll have a house just like this one,” she muttered. “And I’ll pay for it myself!” She seemed to forget that Robert and I—especially Robert—were even there, her gaze continuing to greedily gobble up the furniture. “Maybe even this house, if Colette stays in jail and needs to sell it . . .”
“Hey!” I cried, glancing with horror at Robert, who was fro
zen, wide-eyed, his hand wrapped around his spoon. “Don’t say that!” Then I tried to reassure my friend. “You won’t lose your house!”
Aunt Johnene seemed to realize she’d gone too far, but she didn’t apologize.
“I’m leaving now, Robert,” she informed her nephew as she swept across the room to get her coat. “If you need anything more, please telephone me.” She buttoned up, making herself appear even more prim and self-righteous. “But don’t abuse the privilege, because the other boarders need the telephone too.”
I could just imagine how she lived, crowded into a small place with other single girls who were trying to get by in the city—and living on cheap food, like cabbage. It was a common arrangement, but nowhere near as nice as Miss Giddings having her own snug house—thanks, at least in part, to the prettier sister having snagged another man earlier.
All at once I was struck by a thought, and the second the door slammed shut behind Aunt Johnene, I turned to silent Robert, who was clutching his empty bowl.
“Do you think your horrible aunt is jealous and greedy enough to commit murder?”
Chapter 39
“I DON’T KNOW . . .” ROBERT MUSED, SLIDING HIS BOWL ACROSS the coffee table, so that the spoon clattered. He took a labored breath, then managed, “She . . . is bitter . . .”
“Awful!” I agreed. “Nasty and terrible! She practically made you crawl for your dinner.” I frowned at what was left of the soup—which was nothing. Not a drop. “And she could’ve just given me some, without asking. Of course I wanted a bowl!”
Robert’s cheeks actually got pinkish. “Sorry. I guess I should’ve saved you some.”
“Yeah. I guess,” I agreed. I didn’t want to make him feel too bad, though. He’d just been told he might lose his home, and I, of all people, knew what that was like. Our landlady was always knocking on the door, threatening to toss us out. I also knew what it was like to be so hungry that you slurped down whatever was in front of you without even thinking. I changed the subject back to his aunt. “Do you really think she might’ve been so jealous that she’d take a gun and shoot Mr. Bessemer rather than let your mom marry a rich man?” I hated to bring up a bad subject, but I had to venture, “And maybe frame your mother so she could get this house, too?” My eyes got wide. “Or maybe she meant to kill your mother outright, and she missed in the dark!”
Isabel Feeney, Star Reporter Page 8