by Ed Ifkovic
Noel was enjoying this. “But he did talk?”
“Of course. My old-style news wiles, painfully honed on the dusty streets of Appleton, Wisconsin. It also was in my favor that he knew who I was. After those pleasantries were done with, I mentioned the murder of Belinda Ross.”
“His reaction?”
“None. Silence, then, ‘I don’t know a Belinda Ross.’ Of course, that floored me until I realized that Belinda’s fame was newfound. A contemporary Broadway sensation.”
“But he never made the connection? Articles in the press?”
“No reason to, I gather. Not in Chicago. His sister was Linda Roswell. ‘She got herself killed?’ he asked, almost matter-of-factly, like a passing comment on the weather. More silence. Then, ‘Why are you calling me? I didn’t do it.’ He made a point of saying he has no interest in Broadway theater, despises Manhattan, indeed, most of the East Coast, and spends his time organizing the accounting books of a movie house that is floundering under economic depression. A five-minute harangue about Hoover that segued into a harangue about Roosevelt.”
“Doesn’t he watch the Movietone newsreels his movie house shows?”
“I think he sits in his counting house, bent over like disgruntled Uriah Heap sifting through his pennies.” I sat back in my seat. “But I did learn some things about the Roswell family. Yes, he was the oldest, probably the meanest. ‘Those two were wild, out-of-control brats.’ His words. ‘Spoiled up-to-no-good brats. Linda moody, impossible some days.’ I asked him why he said that, but he didn’t answer. Finally he wanted to know my interest, and I told him a friend of mine was suspected of strangling his sister.”
Noel’s eyes got wide. “He didn’t slam down the phone?”
“To the contrary. He said, ‘Is he being rewarded by the city?’”
“They said he was cruel.”
“Yes, but—my God, heartless has a new name in Chicago.”
“When was the last time he saw them?”
“His story is different from theirs. He claims they left first. They were the ones who robbed the family treasury and beat it out of town. He was left with a dying mother. Penniless. A mortgage they couldn’t afford. So he left.”
“Each one blames the other.” Noel was nodding to himself.
“He was surprised at something else. About Jackson, a despised brother who was always sickly. Consumptive, most likely, a boy who spent his winters under covers in the farmhouse. ‘I’m surprised he’s still alive,’ he said. ‘But then, orneriness can make a person live forever.’”
“I like that,” Noel broke in. “You and I, I suppose, will live forever then.”
“And then probably occupy the same room in hell.”
Noel held my eye. “I get to pick the furnishings, dear Edna. Your taste is so…”
“Sensible?”
“You need more gossamer in your life, Edna.”
I pursed my lips. “You need more—burlap.” I glanced around the restaurant. “He did make an interesting observation about his sister. It seems Jackson bears most of his wrath—a petty schemer, liar, brute. But Linda, he said, was soft. That was his word. And, he added, gullible. He thought her a little simple-minded. He finished by saying she was Trilby to her brother’s Svengali. In fact, Russell did show a modicum of concern for the dead beautiful sister.”
“What did he say?”
“He said Linda’s tragic flaw was that she sometimes betrayed kindness.”
“Good God,” Noel said, “hang the woman!”
“Not a likable man, this Russell.”
“So he had no interest in her murder? Or who did it?”
I shook my head. “He was in a hurry to get off the phone, kept cutting off my sentences. I started to say something about keeping in touch because…I never got any further. He put his mouth close to the receiver and seethed, ‘Don’t call me again, Miss Ferber. That chapter of my life is over. For good.’ He slammed down the phone.”
Noel chuckled softly. “And none of this has to do with the murderer.”
I shrugged. “Maybe not.”
He tapped my wrist. “Poor Edna, a wasted chat with a lout.”
“I’m sure it won’t be the last time I find myself confronting a lout.”
He looked at his watch. “Things to do, Edna, before our little Dougie taxies down to Beekman Place.”
We walked out of the restaurant and headed back to my apartment.
“There,” I pointed. “Look, Noel.”
Up ahead, strolling casually, Corey Boynton stopped to gaze in the window of a tobacco shop. Hatless, cashmere overcoat unbuttoned, a cigarette bobbing in the corner of his mouth, he looked—jaunty. At one point, tossing down the cigarette butt and stomping on it, he twisted around and spotted Noel and me on the corner, headed in his direction. His head flicked back and forth for a second, then, agitated, he started to rush away, stepping in front of an old man and woman.
“He’s avoiding us,” I told Noel.
He grumbled, “Why would anyone do that? People seek us out.”
“Maybe you,” I said, laughing.
Noel yelled over the heads of strollers. “Mr. Boynton. Corey. Wait.”
Reluctantly he paused, waited for us to catch up. Watching our faces, he lit a cigarette, then immediately changed his mind, tossing it into the street.
“A surprise.” He grinned at us.
“I’ll bet,” I told him.
Corey stammered as he stepped away. “I was headed…”
I spoke over his words. “You haven’t been around much. Dougie tells me you’ve become a stranger.”
Corey looked over my shoulder as if expecting Dougie to appear out of the shadows, a child’s wind-up jack-in-the-box, wagging a censorious finger. “I’ve been busy.”
“We’re all busy.” I stared into his face.
“Why haven’t you seen Dougie lately?” Noel asked Corey bluntly. The young man started to say something but then became quiet. “Friends?” Noel sniped.
Corey shook his head, once again scanning the street. A light changed and I expected him to dart away, weave madly through cabs and buses. Resigned, he rocked on his heels. “He moved out of the Stanhope, as you probably know. He’s back with Lady Maud. It’s easier for him.”
I rolled my tongue into the corner of my mouth. “And, I guess, for you, as well. I don’t know about living with Lady Maud. That can be a trial. He has nowhere to run to.”
Corey’s voice had an edge. “But c’mon, folks. It got to be easier there—like hiding away in a mansion—than enduring the hostile looks of people accusing you of murder.”
“True,” Noel added, “but Dougie feels abandoned by his friends.”
Corey shivered from the cold, his coat still unbuttoned. Strangely, beads of sweat dotted his brow. “I haven’t abandoned him,” he said hotly.
“That’s not how he sees it,” I went on.
He crossed his arms defiantly, then dug both hands into his pockets, hunching up his shoulders. “You know, right after the…the murder, I stopped in at the mansion. Lady Maud refused to see me, even to allow me upstairs. I did try to be a friend. Sort of. I don’t even know if Dougie was home then.”
That surprised me. “Good for you then. A point in your favor.”
He locked eyes with mine. “But, Miss Ferber, I’m uncomfortable with the whole—with the murder thing. I have to tell you that.”
“So you think he’s a murderer?” I asked quickly. A gust of wind buried my words, but I could see he understood. “I believe you told me folks like you didn’t commit murder.”
“I don’t want to answer that.” Then, his voice high and thin, “Sometimes I believe he did it. A jealous rage. Maybe.” He backed up. “Belinda didn’t deserve to die like that.”
I watched him closely. “I agree with that. We
all agree with that. But a friend of yours stands accused…”
He stopped me. “I can’t follow what’s going on here,” he stammered. “Frankly, I don’t know what to say to him. I can’t find the words.” He arched his head back. “In prep school they don’t teach you how to be civil to those heading to jail.”
“Given the corruption with high-placed politicians and top-of-the-heap executives these days,” I seethed, “I would think such a course would be mandatory for the future leaders of America in your Ivy League warrens.”
Silence, Corey debating what to do. Then he confided, “Kitty is moving to Hollywood.” He actually laughed out loud. “Movies. Musicals. Busby Berkeley. She wants to get herself into that world. New York is too cold and heartless.”
“And Hollywood is utopia?” I asked.
“Sunshine makes even bad people look good.”
“When is she leaving?”
“She hasn’t decided.”
Noel probed, “You going with her?”
That startled him. “Lord, no. We are not a couple, Mr. Coward. Are you out of your mind?” He sucked in his breath. “My father, scrimping and whining these days, says I have to leave the Stanhope.”
“Where will you go?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “The family homestead in Scarsdale.” He shrugged. “God must really hate the wealthy class of America.”
“Yes,” I told him, “he picks on them all the time.”
He stared into my face. “Look, I’m sorry about Dougie. I really am. An old college friend, yes, but never close…” He took a step away. “I really have to leave.” He shuffled his feet.
Noel reached out and touched his sleeve. “It might be good for you to see Dougie, Mr. Boynton. For one night. Edna and I are taking him out to dinner at Chambord’s tonight. An eight o’clock reservation. You’re a man who likes fancy restaurants, no? Why don’t you join us? Come to my place. Drinks first. Six o’clock. Our treat.” He looked at me. “Actually, Edna’s treat. Expense is no object. After all, she wrote Show Boat and has a boatload of money. The only woman to survive the Crash. My apartment on Beekman.” Noel slipped a card from his breast pocket. “My address. Join us, Corey. We’ll share a cab to Chambord’s.”
“No, I don’t think so.” He waved goodbye and rushed across the street, against the light. A cab swerved, a horn blared.
“That’s a sad story.” Noel watched his retreating back. “I don’t understand who he is.”
“I do. Maybe. A craggy barnacle on a pleasure boat that sank.”
Noel laughed. “You don’t like him, do you?”
“I don’t suffer fools, Noel.” I raised my voice. “And neither do you.”
“Actually I find some fools diverting.”
“That’s where you and I differ then, Noel, my dear.”
He narrowed his eyes, amused. “Yes, darling Edna, the only wrinkle in our friendship.”
For some reason, perhaps unsettled by the encounter with Corey, we decided to wander, enjoying the cold, arm in arm, companionable. We strolled through Times Square, idling, drifting, caught by the hoot and howl of tourists jostling one another. Noel whispered lines from his Bitter Sweet: “Though there may be beauty in this land of yours, skies are very often dull and gray.”
“Don’t try to cheer me up, Noel.”
An itinerant drummer stood on the corner of Forty-second Street hawking gigantic New Year’s Eve hats. Red, white, and blue, with streamers. Happy New Year 1933. He kept honking a flimsy paper horn.
“Buy you a gift, Edna?” Noel said.
“Can you give me a happy new year? Let’s welcome 1933 with whistles and horns.”
“At least you Americans will be able to drink without the law breathing down your neck. Maybe, if FDR has his way.”
I laughed. “And when did we ever stop drinking, Noel?”
Lazy, enjoying each other’s company, we lingered in a booth at Child’s, too many cups of coffee. We watched snow showers drift against the window. “Edna, you bring out the worst in me,” Noel said. “Indolence. The pure joy of it.”
It didn’t matter—we were content.
It was snowing as the cab approached Beekman Place. Idling at a light, the cabbie grunted and pointed at a policeman who was shooing a man off an upturned soapbox. Through the wispy snow, I discerned a disheveled, bearded man shivering in a spring jacket and perched atop the wooden crate. In the darkness, lit only by a snow-shrouded streetlight, he was waving a cardboard sign. I barely made out his message: “Unite Workers. End Slavery.” The burly cop would have none of it, jostling the man, pulling him off the box, boxing his ears. An amazing sight, this lone protestor who’d chosen the quiet, privileged neighborhood on this cold night. As we watched, he stumbled out of sight, his makeshift sign dragging behind him. Irritated, the cop kicked the soapbox and it splintered into pieces.
“He should be in Union Square with the other protestors,” Noel said.
“No,” I said, “this is exactly where he belongs.”
“At the entrance to my rarefied kingdom?”
“Exactly.”
The light changed. The cab sputtered forward.
“Gonna be a snowy night,” the cabbie said, craning his head back to look at us. A thick accent, Russian. “Might be a blizzard, they’re saying. Bad for business.”
“Look, Noel.”
A taxi had pulled up in front of Noel’s apartment. As we watched, Dougie stepped out, looked up and down the street. Bundled up against the cold, he wrapped his arms around his chest, bent into the wind. Then, looking in our direction, he waved his hands in the air as he danced an exaggerated two-step.
“He’s assuming we’re in the cab,” Noel laughed. “Otherwise his song and dance is lost on strangers.”
A sudden blast of icy wind from the East River, a belt of fierce snow smacking the windshield. I shivered. Looking up into the streetlights, I watched the thick snow swirling and dipping.
“Edna.” Noel’s voice broke.
I looked.
A dark figure lumbered from between two parked cars, hunched over, stumbling, turned from the wind. Dougie didn’t notice as the creeping figure approached his back. He was still dancing for us.
Suddenly in the still night a shot rang out. Then another. Boom boom. Both shots sounded like cannon fire as they echoed off the buildings.
I screamed out, “Dougie.”
Dougie swiveled around, banged into a parked car, careened into a pole, then slipped to the icy ground, his face buried in a snow bank. The dark figure leaned over the fallen Dougie, seemed to be reaching for something, then disappeared back into the dark night, shielded by the pelting snow and a line of parked cars.
Springing out of the cab, Noel and I reached him just as we heard a horrid gurgle and watched the snow turn dark crimson. Under the awful streetlight, a deep red halo circled his head. Noel reached down to touch him, but I staggered back, my mind reeling. I closed my eyes.
From a faraway place I heard Noel’s wretched voice. “The boy is dead.”
Chapter Seventeen
Lady Maud sat in my living room, her back stiff in the chair, her jeweled hands folded decorously in her lap. Her face a grim mask, she was staring at me.
“Tell me who killed my son, Edna.”
I’d spent the morning working on a short story, hidden in my workroom, exhausted, craving a forbidden cigarette. Dougie’s horrible death two days earlier had drained me. My typewriter was a feeble refuge in my Spartan workroom with the eighteenth-century writing desk I cherished. Work always my salvation. My three-finger pecking at the keys. Scribbled hieroglyphics. Meetings with police, late-night coffee with Noel, who was shattered, my own troubled sleep. My snow-covered terrace. Shadows on my midnight wall. My only therapy: work. Work. My lonely rooms.
A quiet rap on my closed
door, something Rebecca knew I frowned upon when working.
Impatient, I’d called out, “Rebecca, what? You know…”
The door cracked open, and Rebecca discreetly nodded her head back to the living room. “You have a guest.”
Haggard, hair askew, nails bitten, I balked. “Impossible. Tell whoever it is to go away. Why would you let in…”
She cleared her throat. “Lady Maud.” She backed up, twisted her head to the side, a look that suggested visiting royalty.
Lady Maud sat stiffly in the red moiré armchair by the piano. She didn’t move as I approached and sat down quietly in a chair opposite her. “Lady Maud, my deepest condolences. Dougie was…”
She held up her hand. Her lips thin, pale. “Tell me who murdered my son, Edna.” The voice stentorian, fierce.
I fumbled. “Lady Maud, I don’t know. The police are…”
“Are simpletons in the pay of shantytown rabble.”
“I can’t tell you anything. I don’t know.”
Behind her, stealthy like a house cat, Rebecca mouthed the word “coffee” with a question mark. A barely perceptible nod from me: yes. Now. Right now. She disappeared into the kitchen.
“You were looking into the murder of that saloon singer. You must have learned about enemies or love affairs or…” She stopped. “What?”
I sucked in my breath. “You told me to stop.”
No smile, those lips in a razor-thin line. Then, a nod. “I doubt if a woman like you would take orders from anyone.”
She interlocked her fingers, for a moment carrying them to her chin, her fingertips a pyramid.
“Would you like to take off your coat?”
She didn’t answer me. In my hot apartment, her floor-length mink was draped over her shoulders like a luxurious cloak. Dressed in a black satin dress, a black silk scarf around her neck, a choker of pearls slightly visible, and a pillbox black hat with the veil thrown back, she looked frightfully funereal. A contrast to the brilliant gleam and shine of the ostentatious rings on her old fingers. A silver filigreed hairclip embedded with diamonds caught the overhead light. A marvel, this grande dame. John Singer Sargent’s mysterious and compelling Madame X perhaps, had that lovely and regal image aged a good forty years—and wore a face shattered by grief. Here was a woman used to being looked at—but from a cool and respectful distance.