She used her good hand to raise her cup to her lips and took a sip. A slight look of dissatisfaction flickered across her face. She lowered the cup to the saucer with care. Her right hand had a slight tremor that underscored the utter stillness of her left.
“All those jewels … gone. All those people, blaming me. But to be honest, I didn’t care. At the time, I really didn’t care about them. I didn’t miss those people’s company, either. It was Esther I missed—Esther and her music. All that talent … wasted.”
She was silent, staring into her cup. I waited, hoping she’d say more. A few seconds passed and she shook her head.
“I don’t see the point of a new article. I don’t want new publicity about that time in my life. It was very painful. What good would it do me?”
“It might prove that you were right. Right to trust Esther, right to believe in her. It might prove that the others were all wrong.”
She gave a snort. “What do I care what others think?”
But she did care. It was in her eyes. She cared very much. For a moment, despite her denials, I saw the thoughtful gleam in her eye and was hopeful.
“No,” she said. “It’s too dangerous for me. I don’t want the whole thing raked up again. I want my peace.”
“Is this really the kind of peace you want?” I glanced pointedly around the room. “The peace of an expensive mausoleum?”
She gave another paralytic smile. “You’re very blunt, aren’t you?”
“Listen, you don’t have to do this for yourself. You can do it for someone else.”
“Like who?”
“Esther’s son.”
“Don’t tell me you care about that child. You’re only interested in selling papers.”
“That’s right. I am. I want to sell papers, lots of them, and I aim to write a fantastic story, one that lots of people will read, and talk about. A story that’ll make people remember Esther, and come forward.”
She regarded me with pity. “I did everything a person could do. I pushed the police to investigate. Put out a reward. Even hired a private detective. None of it helped. The cops didn’t turn up anything. The reward didn’t make anyone come forward. And the private investigator found nothing. What makes you think you’ll succeed? You’re just a columnist at a small Negro newspaper. How many people actually read it? How many who might make a difference?”
That was a slap. I thought of all the donations she’d given to black publications. Was it all a pretense? Had she no faith in the cause she supposedly supported? I guess the Todd case and the heist had really done her in. What would the folks about to grant her an award say if they could hear her now? Or did they already know? Did they even care, as long as they got her money?
“Sometimes, all it takes is one person to start a landslide,” I said, “One thread to unravel the Gordian knot.”
“Hmph. That’s the kind of thing my daughter would’ve said.” Her gaze shifted to Elizabeth’s photograph. “They were so similar. Both young and talented and …” She paused. “Dependable.” Her eyes met mine. “Esther never would’ve stolen from me. Never.”
The room was silent, except for the crackling of the flames.
“All right. I’ll talk to you—but on one condition: Whatever you learn, you bring it to me first, before you print it.”
I’d felt a moment of hope, but at that, I shook my head. “No.”
“I think it’s reasonable. I’ve been burned by too many reporters in my time. Why, when I think of that other one, that Carter fellow. The charges he made! The questions! Reporters. When it comes to them, I’ve learned that trust is wonderful, but control is better.”
“I’m not Carter, whoever he is.”
“No, you’re not. But you are one of them, a reporter.”
I put my notepad back into my purse and stood up. I took in her shrunken face and the outline of her withered legs under the blanket and felt sorry for her. In spite of all the grief and agony she’d known—and still knew—she hadn’t learned to empathize with the pain of others.
“Mrs. Goodfellowe, only one person gets to look over my shoulder, and that’s my editor. However, I will do you the courtesy of telling you this. My column will be about Esther, not you. To the extent that it mentions you at all, it’ll state that you refused to comment.”
“That’s all?”
I nodded. “That’s all. Of course, it could also say that you referred to prior bad publicity. That you showed concern—no, fear—that renewed attention to Esther’s disappearance would hurt you. Then some readers might infer that you’re more concerned about your reputation than Esther’s fate. Or that you have something to hide. If I were a certain type of reporter—the kind who wanted to ‘burn’ you—I would add that. Aren’t you lucky that I’m not?”
She stared at me. I stared back. After a while, I got tired of it.
“I’ll find my way out.” I was in the front entryway when her voice stopped me.
“You’re going to write about this whether or not I talk to you, aren’t you?”
She sounded weary. I simply nodded.
“All right,” she sighed. “What if I did agree to talk? What would you want to know?”
I turned. “Everything. Everything you think you know and more.”
Chapter 9
She made me wait another two seconds, then nodded. I went back, sank down on her sofa, and took out my notepad and a pencil.
“Did you notice whether she had any male admirers?”
At first glance, a daily schedule like Esther’s was so packed, so jammed with responsibility, that you’d think it was impenetrable. But when you look at anybody’s schedule, really look close, you often find little cracks in time, those moments when the unexpected can slip in. A lot can happen in a crack in time. In Esther’s case it might’ve been crossing paths with a man she normally wouldn’t have met. If so, then what started out as an unexpected meeting might’ve turned into a deadly and secret love affair.
My question surprised her. Apparently, no one had put it to her before.
“No, of course not. She didn’t run around like that. She didn’t have time. And she wasn’t that kind of girl. She was a serious artist.”
I was glad to hear her defend Esther so vigorously. I tried to ignore the wicked little inner voice that kept saying that any defense of Esther was a defense of herself.
“You used to give parties, didn’t you? Every two weeks. And Esther used to play?”
“Yes. So?”
I tried to think of a tactful manner in which to put it, but I’m not a tactful person.
“So, did any of your guests, male guests in particular, seem to … especially admire Esther’s talent?”
“They all admired her talent. She would have been tremendous if this—this thing hadn’t happened.”
“But none of your guests ever–”
“No. Never. I wouldn’t have permitted it.” She gave me a stern look. “You said you wanted to help. But you aren’t helping her. Not like this.”
“I’m not afraid to learn something ugly or impolite about Esther, not if it means bringing her back.”
“You’re a fierce one, aren’t you?”
“I try.”
“Your chocolate,” she said, “it’s getting cold.”
She took a sip of her own, tasted it, then took another and frowned down at the cup. “This really needs a kick.” She directed me to a writing desk across the room, told me where the key was and instructed me to unlock it. Inside I found a bottle of twenty-year-old Scotch, half-empty. It was Prohibition, but everybody—especially the rich—had a little something on the side.
“Bring it here.”
I did so.
“Pour it in.” She indicated her cup.
I gave her a generous dollop.
“Don’t you want any?” she asked.
“No, thank you.” Resuming my seat, I continued. “I’d like the names of everyone who knew the details of the auction. Who t
ook care of the inventory list? The guest list? Most important, who knew where the jewels would be stashed?”
She shook her head. “I can’t tell you that.”
It took an effort to check my temper. “I could understand why this information was withheld at the time of the heist. But three years have passed.”
Again, she shook her head, this time more vigorously. “These families are old. They value their privacy. Right now it’s just a matter of speculation as to who lost what. If I confirmed, or even denied, any of those reports … If I, in any way, gave any of them validity, it would be a betrayal on the most intimate level. I cannot and will not disclose that information.”
The door opened and Roland entered, carrying a little silver tray. It held a glass of water and a saucer with two little pills.
“Excuse me, Miss Katherine, but it’s time for your medicine.”
She gave a shaky nod. Her right hand trembled as she put the pills in her mouth using her right hand. Roland held the glass to her lips and she sipped carefully from one side of her mouth. Despite her care, a trickle of water escaped. Roland produced a handkerchief from nowhere and gently dabbed the moisture away.
“Thank you,” she whispered in a voice so low I almost didn’t hear it. Again, sympathy tugged at my heart. How many members of her class ever thanked a servant for anything?
In a somewhat gentler voice, I picked up where we’d left off.
“What about the private detective?”
“He’s dead. If you’re thinking about his files, I’m sure they’re long gone.”
“But—”
She shook her head. “There’s no point in looking in that direction.”
I drew a deep breath. “Then I’d like to speak with Beth Johnson.”
“Beth? Why, she hasn’t worked here in ...” She turned to her butler. “How long’s it been, Roland?”
“Quite some time, ma’am. You released her two years ago, this past spring. It was in April, if I remember correctly.”
“Yes, that’s right.” She looked at me. “Why in the world would you want to talk to her?”
“I’m hoping she’ll remember something from that night.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you there.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, why did you ... ‘release’ her?”
Katherine Goodfellowe actually averted her eyes. With her good hand, she readjusted her shawl around her thin shoulders. Then she gave Roland a pointed glance and he left the room. When he was gone, the doors closed behind him, she cleared her throat.
“I had to send her away.”
“She did something wrong?”
Mrs. Goodfellowe drew herself up. “I’m a Christian,” she said, her voice quietly strict. “I’m in good standing with my church community and my God. I follow the teachings of the Bible and I expect my servants to do the same.”
Interesting. Mrs. Goodfellowe was not known for her religious beliefs.
She fussed with her shawl some more and squirmed in her chair, as much as she could. There was movement in her legs. So, she wasn’t paralyzed, just debilitated.
“The silly girl went and got herself in trouble.” Mrs. Goodfellowe looked angry just thinking about it.
The news dismayed me. Mrs. Goodfellowe went on, trying to justify her self-righteousness. I half-listened, worrying. Beth, a single mother, and losing her job when she most needed it: Where was she? How was she doing? How would I find her?
“It was such a shame,” Mrs. Goodfellowe was saying. “She was an excellent girl, you know. Quiet, obedient. Efficient. Very dependable. I don’t know what happened. She tried to keep it from me. If she’d come to me, told me what she’d done, then maybe I’d have ... I could’ve helped her. I certainly would have tried.”
“Tried how?” I was genuinely curious.
“Well, I would’ve made sure she had a place in one of those homes. You know the ones, where girls like her, girls who’ve made a mistake, can go and get taken care of. Then later, when it’s all over and done, they can come back.”
“And you would have taken her back?”
“Perhaps. That depended ...”
“On what?”
She was silent, so I answered my own question.
“On whether she gave up her child?”
She turned her steely eyes on me. Guilt battled self-righteousness.
“Don’t you understand? She wasn’t married. She couldn’t even tell me who the father was.”
Couldn’t? Why not simply wouldn’t? Had she assumed that Beth had slept with so many men that she couldn’t identify the father? Would Mrs. Goodfellowe have made the same assumption if Beth were white and not poor?
“How far along was she when you, uh … ‘released’ her?”
“Stop saying it like that. It was the best thing I could’ve done for her. She wouldn’t have fit in, anymore. Everyone would’ve talked about it.”
Yes, of course. That was a consideration.
“How far?”
“Maybe six months, maybe seven. I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“And you haven’t heard from her since?”
“Of course not. She knew better than to come back here. Not without ... you know. Now is that all?”
I left her sitting by her fireplace, trying to absorb the heat of the flames. I was tempted to tell her it was a lost cause. Somewhere along the line, a sliver of ice had slipped into her heart. It would take more than nesting by the hearth to melt it.
Roland appeared out of nowhere to return my coat and open the door. The temperature had dropped outside. I had forgotten my gloves at home, so I tucked my purse under one arm and stuffed my hands in my pockets. An unfamiliar piece of paper tickled my fingertips on the right side. I drew out the torn square and squinted at it. Handwriting I didn’t recognize, but a name I did.
Beth Johnson
410 St. Nicholas Ave, Apt 59
I turned back to the house. Roland stood at a ground-floor window, between parted curtains, watching.
“Thank you,” I mouthed.
He gave an answering nod, then let the curtain drop and stepped back into the shadows.
Chapter 10
I walked over to Lexington Avenue and took the train back up to Harlem. Once at my office, I called Ruth at her church.
“I might’ve found Beth. I’m going over to see her tonight. You want to come with me?”
“I don’t know. She might not want to talk to me.”
“How about you wanting to talk to her? Now’s your chance to apologize.”
A pause and then a nervous decision: “All right.”
“Look, if it makes you feel any better, there could be another reason why Beth dropped off the scene.” I told her what I’d learned. “Now I don’t mean to be spreading the girl’s business around, but at least you know she was busy with problems of her own.”
“Oh, that’s rotten. Did the guy skip out on her?”
“Don’t know. Could be.”
“Beth must’ve been feeling real bad.” A thoughtful pause. “But she should’ve called me. I would’ve understood. She should’ve known I wouldn’t hold nothing like that against her. Sure, I’ll go with you, When were you thinking about?”
“This evening.”
I offered to pick her up at her apartment at seven.
“Can you make it a little earlier? Say around half past five? I want to stop by and see my mother. If you come with me, then you can see her, too.”
I agreed and we hung up.
* * *
Ruth Todd had moved to a tenement building over on 140th Street and Eighth Avenue. She was leaving her house as I came up. We headed east, over to Seventh. A stray cat scooted across our path, gray and ragged.
“Where’s Job?” I asked.
“Visiting friends. We got some nice neighbors, thank the Lord. They got a boy his age and they let Job sleep over when I got to work late.”
“And is work going wel
l?”
She smiled and shrugged. “It’s a good job, but maybe a bit much for one person. It’d be great if I could find somebody to help. But you know how it is,” she laughed. “Good help ain’t easy to find.”
The wind cut through my coat like a knife through butter. A thin sheen of ice covered the ground and it was slippery going. I kept my head down and shoulders hunched. My feet hurt from the cold, even though I had boots on. My eyes strayed to Ruth’s thin-soled shoes and I decided I had nothing to complain about.
I tried to work the stiff muscles in my face. This was not the best time to be posing questions, but it would have to do.
“Ruth, what kind of man was Esther drawn to?”
She rubbed her face with nervous hands, and then shoved them deep into her pockets.
“Smart guys. She really liked the brainy ones. She felt bad about not having much schooling herself.”
I made a mental note of that. “Did you notice any changes in her mood, going back months before the disappearance?”
Ruth looked uncomfortable. “What kind of changes?”
“Like being cheerful, ‘cause she’d fallen in love, maybe?”
Ruth inclined her head in thought. “Well, back in September, she did seem real upbeat, hopeful in a way she hadn’t been in a long time. It didn’t last long, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure. I can’t exactly put my finger on it. I asked her about it but she wouldn’t answer, and the look she gave me … It was so sad I didn’t press her.” Her expression clouded. “I guess that was a mistake, letting her off like that. I should’ve asked. Then maybe I would’ve known.”
“You’re assuming she would’ve told you. Maybe she would’ve. But maybe she wouldn’t. You don’t know.”
Ruth nodded, but the look in her eyes was one of old regret.
I sighed. “Ruth, you’ve got to learn to lay your burden down. Beating yourself down for what you should’ve or shouldn’t have done isn’t going to help your mother or you.”
Goodfellowe House Page 8