Mood Indigo

by Ed Ifkovic

  “I can see Jackson like that, but you’re suggesting Belinda was like him—craven. Calculated.”

  “That’s my point. Yes, at first. Then—no. Again—Dougie was the reason. People change, Miss Ferber.”

  “Do they? That’s not been my experience.”

  He pointed a finger at me. “Of course, they do.”

  “Tell me something. Was Belinda going to leave Dougie?”

  He waited a while, concentrated on his syrupy pancakes, carefully cutting wedges and popping them into his mouth. “Yeah, according to Millie. A rumor she spread. Overheard conversations at the New Beacon. Backstage. Another love interest looming. Frankly, I never believed it.”

  “Why not?”

  “It was just that—talk. Dumb talk. People never got to see what Belinda was really like. I watched her with Dougie—one time. Walking arm in arm. It was—real for her. ” He looked into my face. “You know, I liked her—most of the time. Not when she was hell-bent on Broadway—ambitious. But the quiet times.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Waters, what was she like? I saw so little of who she was. It was easy for me to dismiss her as…a gold-digger. Millie suggested you had an affair with her. Maybe.”

  Chauncey laughed a long time. “Yeah, I heard that. You know, Millie flirted with me, and I turned my back on her. Then she found Jackson. Or they found each other. No, Belinda sought me out in that den of madness. Coffee up the street—like what you and I are doing right now.”

  ”No romance?”

  “Not with her.” A sloppy grin.

  “So Belinda changed.”

  “The last times she visited she flared up, battling with Jackson. She crossed Millie, and that wasn’t pretty. She was depressed. Real sad, hurt, loving Dougie but tired of him. He’s so—babyish. His behavior gave her—heartache. Jackson didn’t help, getting snotty with her, warning her. One time, the last time we saw each other, she said to me, ‘Sometimes I want to go back to Sayville, Connecticut, that dying little town. Everyone is dead there now. Everybody but me.’”

  “Did Jackson know about that?”

  He shook his head. “The times Belinda got sentimental about her childhood, Jackson stormed around, got mad. ‘Shut up about it.’ His favorite line. ‘That dump.’ It was like he wanted to forget the past. She wanted to embrace it. Like I told you—I always felt there were secrets, things unsaid.”

  “Mr. Waters, you quit the place.”

  “You know why? The day after Belinda was murdered—Lord, what a horrible day that was, all the crying, Jackson hidden in his upstairs rooms all morning, sobbing—the whispering began. Millie and Jackson. It stopped when I walked in. Or Kent. The stage crew. It was like they were afraid of something coming out. I could tell that. When I said something, Jackson snapped at me. ‘Mind your own business. You ask too many questions.’ But I never asked any questions. I kept my mouth shut. But I watched.”

  “Maybe somebody was afraid you’d get some answers.”

  He looked over my shoulder. “They’re running scared.”

  “Why are you telling me all this, Mr. Waters?”

  “Because I caught Millie and Jackson whispering about you. I heard Millie say, ‘She’s a snoop. If she finds out…’ Then she stopped. Jackson never liked Mr. Coward—even back when Dougie first introduced them. But now, after you’ve been coming around, they’re afraid.”

  That intrigued me. “But why?”

  “Because you care what happened. Because you want to know what happened. Kent told me that. And because you gotta know that Belinda’s murder started in that theater.”

  I jumped. “I…”

  “Jackson created a life for her and then she refused to live it.”

  “Mr. Waters, your words alarm me.”

  A thin smile. “They should.” He stood up. “Good-bye, Miss Ferber.” He pointed to his empty plate. “And thank you. This wasn’t the day I was supposed to eat.” He nodded sheepishly.

  “Thank you,” I told him. “Good luck.” As he walked away, I stayed in the seat, watching. I called after him, “Mr. Waters, will you ever go back to acting?”

  A wan, hesitant smile. “What do you think I’ve been doing this last hour with you.”

  ***

  Lady Maud insisted I visit her without Noel, whom she’d met once before, a meeting that left her disillusioned and unhappy. I insisted she meet him again. She balked. We compromised—Noel locked arms with me as we stepped into the foyer of her mansion on Fifth Avenue. We were shown into a fifth floor solarium that faced the East River, and we sat on creamy white wicker chairs. Lush, deep green potted plants, cascading ferns, teak wood tables and wall shelves lined with exotic orchids, deepest purple, pinks, salmons, bridal white. A wash of utter tropical color. But intoxicating, the scent of those blooms, a heavy sweetness covered the room, musky, so powerful I caught my breath. An opium den, I imagined, some forbidden narcotic bliss, this overheated room with the floor-to-ceiling glass panels facing a canopied terrace. While we waited, I caught strains of a radio playing “Stardust” in a nearby room.

  “Act two,” I mumbled to Noel. “I barely survived act one in these rooms.”

  “She plans to drug us into submission. The perfume of these lethal plants. Her slaves for life,” Noel whispered.

  I surveyed the room. “I died for beauty.”

  Noel hummed in a singsong voice, “Her blood is royal blue, not red.” Then, surprisingly nervous, “What shall we talk about?”

  At that moment Lady Maud sailed in, apologizing, though her icy glare belied her words. Dressed in a deep burgundy tea gown, cut amethysts circling her neck, she seemed herself a hothouse plant. She slipped quietly into a chair, observed us without speaking, and then she snapped her fingers. Immediately the maid entered and placed a Japanese tea service on the table, hummingbirds flitting across pale green reeds. She watched as the young woman poured tea, a sour look on her face. The servant never looked up at her—or us.

  When we were alone, she began, her voice thick with fury. “The reason I called you here today, Miss Ferber.” An arctic glance at Noel, who was smiling at her. “And Mr. Coward.”

  “The reason?” I asked. “I expected to see Dougie here.”

  She spoke over my words. “Whenever that boy is in town, he’s in trouble. I sent him with our driver to Albany for the day. Family business needing attending, which he seems loathe to do these days.” She sighed heavily. “It’s best he not be here.”

  “And why is that?” Noel asked.

  Silence, Lady Maud staring at the tea set, the filled cups no one dared touch. Arsenic, I mused, served with flowers for my funeral.

  She spoke through clenched teeth, yet purposely ignored Noel, her body slightly turned away. “Miss Ferber, the last time we sat in these rooms I told you of the pernicious nature of theater—how Dougie’s entry, his business investments there, but worse, his aimless loitering in Schubert Alley with actresses”—she paused as though she’d lost her train of thought—“would come to no good. Mark my words. I’m sure you thought me an old fool, prejudiced against that world.” A ragged cry escaped her throat. “A possible murder charge. Do you hear me? A young man who is in danger of losing everything he—or we, my dead husband, me—planned and built and dreamed of. Gone.” She waved a hand in the air. “Stupidly gone.”

  “We believe Dougie is innocent,” Noel volunteered.

  She fairly sneered. “Of course he is. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Then why…?” I began.

  “He told me that the two of you are investigating, asking questions, visiting that dreadful theater in Hell’s Kitchen.” She shuddered. “Appropriate name, wouldn’t you say? Satan’s realm, the last stop on the journey to punishment—where that evil girl hatched her plans with that no-good brother of hers. He told me he considers you—friends. He asked if you could help him.” Again,
her hand flew out in the air.

  “Is there a problem with that?” I asked.

  She pursed her lips, the dedicated schoolmarm who has failed with the class simpleton. “Frankly, yes. I asked you here today, Miss Ferber, to tell you to—stop. Stop this running around. Do you know how much attention there is on my family now? You’ll only bring more unwanted attention to the awful incident.”

  Noel burst out, “It’s more than an awful incident, Lady Maud. It’s…murder.”

  She cringed, tapped her heart. “And sleepless nights for me. My Dougie hauled off to a grimy police station like a street pickpocket or—or a shiftless ne’er-do-well. One of those…those shabby hobos selling chestnuts over a barrel up the block—chased away by the cops but back within minutes. You’ve seen them. You two are celebrated names in this ugly town. Famous, as it were. Very famous. Talked of people in the press. We are already being hounded, and I don’t mean by the police—luckily there are lawyers who can stay that chaos. I’m talking about the pesky photographers who hover outside on my sidewalk, snap photos as we leave. Lord, flash bulbs crunch underfoot as we rush to the car.”

  “They’re just doing their job.”

  She snapped at me. “Are you that naïve, Miss Ferber? They persecute. A rich man, a murderer. Playboy, late nights at El Morocco, hotsy-totsy girl singer. It’s tabloid heaven. No Maddox has ever been on the cover of the Daily News. The Daily Mirror. That guttersnipe Walter Winchell.

  “No one is following us,” Noel insisted. “We ask questions. We talk to theater people. Harmless, but maybe productive. Someone might tell us something they won’t tell to the police. A bit of information they don’t deem important, but…”

  Her hand held up in his face. “Stop. Do you really believe what comes out of your mouth, sir?” Noel’s jaw dropped. “I warned him if he got involved with theater folk”—she glared at Noel, no doubt the culprit of Dougie’s lapses and transgressions—“there’d be hell to pay. Yes, of course, his name must be cleared. All scandal minimized. Life must get back to normal. His fling on Broadway forgotten.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  Her words were clipped, fierce. “I’ve hired my own private detective, one who works with families such as ours—who need discretion. Recommended by a business associate of my late husband’s. A Vanderbilt, if you must know. Discreet, confidential, professional, he will find that murderer. We will end this nonsense, but quietly.”

  “Dougie approves of this?” asked Noel.

  She stared into his face, her dislike so apparent. “Dougie has no say in the matter. I hope he’s stuck in an upstate blizzard as we speak. Let him meditate on his errant behavior.”

  I smiled. “So we’re to back off?”

  “Exactly.” She tugged at the sleeve of her gown. “So thank you.” She looked toward the door. “Marlene will show you out.” She stood up.

  We didn’t move, which baffled her. She sank back into the cushions. “Have I not made myself clear?”

  “I’m curious,” I began. “What has the detective found out so far?”

  She seemed ready to chastise me, but decided against it. “If you must know, enough to convince me that my son was cruelly victimized by avaricious schemers. A pattern of greed and sneaky trickery. That girl’s past suggests a slew of other men anxious to kill her.”

  I caught my breath. “Like?”

  “He reported a remarkable conversation with Tommy Stuyvesant, for one—or, I should say, an attempt at conversation. One of her victims. Who, surprisingly, finally refused to talk to the detective, stopped the conversation dead in its tracks. And Cyrus Meerdom, whom I know socially, but never liked. A fawning profligate who abandoned a wife to weep over a pretty girl. He followed her, dumbstruck by her beauty. Everyone talked about it. One night the entire ballroom at the Waldorf-Astoria gossiped of nothing else but his…his dogged devotion to that awful girl. We all expressed sorrow for his poor wife, in fact. Others, probably.”

  I turned to Noel. “I’m surprised Tommy wouldn’t want to help the investigation.”

  Lady Maud ran her tongue into the corner of her mouth. “Not if he’s the real murderer. She did give him a hard time.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “What I have learned,” she went on, “is that she and her brother got off a bus from Connecticut, some hick town of grubbing farms.”

  “That’s not a secret, Lady Maud.”

  She snapped, “I’m not finished. They set up shop on that derelict avenue of beggars and malcontents, and set their sights on Broadway—and Fifth Avenue.” A confidential, smug tone. “He learned that Belinda—then a prosaic Linda Roswell—was a wild girl in that cow town. Wanton, in fact. She actually ran off with some man, eloping, only to have her father find her and drag her home. What does that tell you?”

  “She was married?” I sat up, startled. “That is news.”

  “A high-school girl. Imagine. I gather her father dashed that foolhardy plan.” She stood again. “Enough. I know you think ill of me, but I don’t care. I tell you frankly—I’m glad that girl is dead. She did nothing but wreak havoc on a stable family. She…she broke everything up into pieces.”

  “She was horribly murdered.” My icy voice cut the air.

  Her look was glacial. “But not by my son.”

  Noel was frowning. “You’ve assembled a contingent of high-priced lawyers keeping him from prison bars, no?”

  Her eyes hard, dark. “You’re a naïve man, Mr. Coward. I don’t know how things are in your country, but in America the rich are vulnerable. The hoi polloi, especially in these days of want, cry blood, want blood. Demand blood.” She glared. “I will not have my son’s blood spilt because rabble are in arms.”

  “Cocoon,” I mumbled, remembering Moss Hart’s words after Noel’s birthday party.

  She wasn’t listening. “The rich go to jail, Mr. Coward. That news might surprise you. A few years back that awful Bobby Frank case in Chicago. Leopold and Loeb, rich boys on a foolish lark, a mindless stunt, a stupid murder, and all that family money—Lord, even Clarence Darrow at his most eloquent—could not keep them from jail, where they now sit. Seconds away from the electric chair.” Her eyes got moist. “Not my Dougie.” She hissed a final line. “Good-bye. You’ll stop your snooping around.”

  “I don’t think so.” Noel half-bowed to her.

  She glared at him.

  “Maybe we’ll find out the true story,” I added.

  She opened her mouth but nothing came out. She blanched, grabbed at the amethyst necklace so tightly that I thought she’d rip the beads from her neck.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Christmas Eve: the city glowed and glistened. As I headed back to my apartment at twilight, the streets were already taking on that quiet rhythm I loved about the holiday—excited voices muffled by the bitter cold, distant strains of caroling from a church I passed, a string of multicolored lights strung over the doorway of a bakery on Lexington, a young father and his little boy dragging a bulky green fir tree down the sidewalk. But as I stepped into the foyer of my building, I glanced back at the street: depression still soured the Manhattan days. Steps from my home was a makeshift Hooverville planted in Central Park, homeless souls huddled under cardboard and burlap and corrugated tin in the cold night. The birth of Jesus celebrated in a minor chord this year.

  I’d begged off parties, though Moss Hart called twice, lying to me: “Edna, Christmas without you is empty. Who is going to help me find the star in the East?”

  I’d smiled. “Yes, dear Mossie, my acerbic commentary which no one welcomes.”

  “I do,” he’d insisted.

  Every party I was invited to was hosted by someone Jewish. That fact tickled me. But in Manhattan Christmas often had little to do with religion—it was the welcome spirit that covered you like an old familiar blanket. My ho
usekeeper Rebecca had prepared a cold dinner, left covered on my kitchen counter, as she hurried off to spend the holiday with her family in Jersey. I’d get into my favorite silk robe, prop a tray on my lap in my bed, tune the Philco to a station playing uptown jazz or maybe Paul Whitman’s Christmas music, and read a new novel by old friend Louis Bromfield. Perfect. All is calm, if not bright.

  It was not meant to be, I soon discovered. Dougie Maddox phoned minutes after I arrived home. At first, listening, I had no idea who it was because his voice was so scratchy, low, spaced with silences. Finally, a throat cleared, and Dougie mumbled, “I wanted to say hello.” A line barely articulated, stretched out, crackling.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked, alarmed.

  Silence, then: “I’m back from Albany. From one exile to another.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At Lady Maud’s. Solitary confinement.”

  I hesitated. “Dougie, are you all right?”

  A phony laugh. “Lady Maud is filling up the house with people. A Christmas Eve party. Can you believe it? Like…like she’s making believe the world is all right, that her only son is not under a cloud of suspicion. Unbelievable! There’s silver tinsel hanging everywhere, so many poinsettias I feel I’m at a Mexican funeral. A decorated tree that belongs at Rockefeller Center. A piano player is tuning up as I speak. Good God, Edna, he’s got sheet music for, I swear, ‘There’s No Depression in Love.’ Yet piles of food everywhere. Depression? It’s insane.” Another stiff laugh. “No irony, Edna. Why is it there’s no irony in this house?”

  I interrupted. “Catch a cab and come here.”

  A deep sigh, almost a rattle. “Good, I was hoping you’d say that.”

  But he didn’t arrive, and I thought he’d changed his mind. When Noel called to say hello and wish me well, I told him a miserable Dougie was wending his lonesome Christmas way to my apartment. “I guess there definitely is room at this particular inn.”

  Noel mentioned Moss Hart’s soiree, his destination that evening, then said, “I’ll stop in, Edna. All right?”