Goodfellowe House

by Persia Walker

  It was nearly three in the morning. I walked around the room two times to stretch my arms and legs and sat down again. I studied the sketched diagram of who knew whom and reread the little notes I’d jotted at odd places on the page. When all was said and done, one sentence jumped out.

  All roads lead to Goodfellowe House.

  I stretched out on the sofa and let my eye dance over the diagram. My eyes hurt and I was exhausted. There was a pattern in the diagram, a hidden image I could sense but not see.

  My eyelids drooped.

  Chapter 39

  All roads lead to Goodfellowe House.

  That was my last thought before sleeping and my first upon waking. It was dark and I was still on the sofa, feeling cramped and uncomfortable. The diagram was a crumpled sheet beneath me, its sharp edges poking me in the back. The clock on the mantel said it was seven o’clock. Where was Sam? I’d been asleep at least an hour. I dragged myself up the stairs, planning to fall into bed and then sleep, sleep, sleep. In the morning, all the mental cobwebs would be gone and I’d be able to think.

  I pushed open my bedroom door. The room was lit only by the filtered light of a streetlamp. As groggy as I was, I registered the open night table drawer, the discarded oilcloth. Then an arm was around my throat, swinging me around and slamming me against the wall. The blow sent shards of white light through my head. A man jammed the cold barrel of a pistol hard up against my ribs.

  Echo.

  He put his face close to mine. “Did you honestly think Mr. Echo would let you destroy his life, and do nothing?”

  “I—”

  “Shut up.”

  He yanked me away from the wall and pushed me out the door. “Up the stairs. We’re going to the roof.”

  I stumbled forward, alternately shoved and jabbed by the gun in my back.

  Moonlight poured through the skylight over the stairway, bathing us in a cold blue light, lending us the complexion of the dead. He gave me another shove and I tripped across the top stair to the third-floor landing. My legs shot out from under me and I went flat on my stomach. He was so close behind me that he tripped over my feet and fell to one side with a grunt. His finger depressed the gun trigger. The weapon fired and the bullet hit the skylight. The thick pane exploded, releasing a rain of shattered glass.

  We both cringed, covering our faces, but I recovered first. Acting on instinct, I snatched up a shard, twisted and stabbed blindly at Echo’s face. I didn’t even feel the pain as the glass sliced through my palm. He screamed and dropped the gun as the shard plunged through the soft bubble of his eye.

  From downstairs, came the sound of heavy fists pounding the front door.

  Shaking, I grabbed the gun, backed down two steps and held the weapon on him. I tried to hold the gun in my right hand, but my palm was slippery with blood. I switched the gun to my left and steadied it with my right.

  Blood coursed from his ruptured left eye. The shard had gone in about an inch deep—far enough to do damage, but not enough to kill. With a quivering hand, he started to pull out the glass.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. The glass will cut on the way out, like it did on the way in. It’ll turn your eye into chop liver.”

  His hand froze.

  The pounding on the door downstairs got louder.

  “Lanie? Lanie, it’s Sam! Open up!”

  I was tempted to run down the stairs and let him in, but I couldn’t. I didn’t trust Echo. Even though I was armed and he was disabled, I was taking no chances.

  “Get up. And don’t do anything to make me shoot you. Because I will.”

  He grabbed hold of the railing and got to his feet. I backed down the steps to the second floor. There I waited and kept the gun trained on him as made his way down, gingerly, step by step.

  Downstairs, the pounding on the door got louder. And voices, loud men’s voices.

  “Lanie, it’s Sam!”

  “Move aside! It’s Blackie. The police—and I say, “Open up!’”

  “Hurry up!”

  By the time we got downstairs, the cops were ready to break the door down.

  “Answer the damned door, Lanie, or we’re coming in! NOW!”

  I ran and undid all the locks. A bunch of uniformed officers surged in, their guns drawn. Sam and Blackie shoved their way forward. Sam grabbed me up in his arms. Blackie took one look at Echo and his nose flared in disgust.

  “Grab him,” he barked. “And get a doc!”

  I buried myself in Sam’s embrace. “It’s OK,” he whispered. “It’s OK.”

  Then I heard Blackie’s brogue. “Lanie. The gun. You can let go of it now. You won’t need it anymore.”

  My hand went limp and I felt him take it from me.

  Chapter 40

  Blackie took me to Harlem Hospital, where the doctors stitched and bandaged my hand. My neighbors had reported shots fired, he said. Then he took my statement and left me and Sam alone.

  Sam wrapped me in his arms and hugged me tight. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I would’ve been there earlier, but the meeting. That damned meeting. It went on and on and on.”

  I looked up at him. “What was it about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? For hours?”

  He hesitated.

  “They were trying to fire you.”

  “And?”

  “I told them to hang on. That the story wasn’t done yet. And that firing you would be the best thing they could do for our competitors.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Oh, but I did.” He raised my bandaged hand to his lips and kissed it.

  “I’m fine. Really,” I said.

  “Yes, you are,” he whispered, and the look in his eyes left no doubt as to what he meant.

  “Take me home,” I said.

  * * *

  I had forgotten about the skylight.

  Sitting in the car, Sam eyed my house and said, “You shouldn’t stay here tonight.”

  “But I feel good here.”

  “Even after being attacked in it—twice?”

  “This is my home.”

  He drew a deep breath and sighed.

  “There you go again. Trying to do it alone.”

  He turned to me and we looked deep into each other’s eyes. All I saw was kindness in his. He was such a handsome man, always so well-dressed, with simple but elegant taste. And the way he looked at me. I’d never dared hope to see that look in a man’s eyes again. I could fall in love with him so easily. So, very easily.

  He put one gloved hand over mine. “Lanie, it’s one thing to have to go it alone. I understand that. But to choose to? That I don’t understand. You don’t have to be alone. I’m here, right now. I’m here and I want you to lean on me.”

  His words touched me deeply.

  “Give me, time,” I said. “Just a little more time.”

  I kissed him goodnight and got out of the car before he could say anything more. I felt his worried concern as I climbed the stairs, so after unlocking my door, I put on a brave smile, turned around and waved to him. He waved back with a forced smile and reluctantly drove away. I closed my eyes, exhaled and let my shoulders drop.

  Once inside, I took the broom and swept up all the glass. Still wearing my coat, I made myself a pot of tea, dragged the blankets off my bed and returned to the parlor, where I closed the doors and built a fire.

  I slept like a stone. Maybe it was the relief of knowing that Echo was no longer a problem. Maybe it was the satisfaction of having beaten him. Maybe it was Sam’s comforting words. Whatever it was, I woke up bright-eyed, and while not exactly bushy-tailed, I did feel more light-hearted than the day before.

  I threw back the blankets, sat up and gave in to a good head-to-toe shiver. The place was freezing. Of course, it was. The fire had gone out and icy air was pouring in through the roof. I’d have to get that skylight taken care of soon.

  My hand throbbed. The doctors said the cut was relatively superficial, but i
t was still deep enough to cause some serious hurting.

  From outside came the dull sound of metallic scraping. I went to the front window and saw that a thick layer of snow, ankle deep, had fallen overnight. People were busy scraping off their cars. Others were out with shovels, clearing their front steps. I’d have to do the same and do it before the snow hardened. I went out to the hallway and saw that the runners were all wet and small pools of water covered the stairs.

  I sensed the beginnings of a headache. Downstairs in the kitchen, I set on a pot of water for coffee and threw a hamburger in the frying pan. After eating, I returned to the parlor and built another fire in the fireplace. The telephone rang. Instinct told me it was Sam and it was.

  “How’re you feeling this morning?”

  “Better than before.”

  “I’m sending a guy over to fix your roof. The paper will spring for it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And what do you say I come over after work today and clear your steps? That snow’s pretty heavy.”

  That made me smile. “Thank you, but there’s a neighborhood man who always comes around and does it. He’d be really upset if I let someone else do it. He’d think I’d hired someone else — and that wouldn’t do at all.”

  “Oh, I understand.”

  “Sam?”

  “Yes?”

  “I wanted to thank you, for last night, for what you said.”

  “I meant it.”

  “I know.”

  There was a pause.

  Then he said, “OK, then. “I’ll just send the repairman. And don’t worry. I won’t invite myself over. Not as long as you promise that if you need anything—anything, at all— you’ll call me.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  I felt very alone after we hung up. I started to put on some Duke Ellington, but then I looked at the coffee table, still strewn with my notes from the night before and realized that I couldn’t afford distractions, especially anything sweet and sexy that would evoke memories of other late mornings spent lazing in bed with the man I loved, of afternoons spent picking out a Christmas tree, taking out decorations and hiding presents.

  My home was so bare of anything resembling Christmas now. I hadn’t realized how bare until Sam walked in and asked about a tree. Maybe this year I’d try for one. But I said that every year, didn’t I?

  I returned to the sofa and for several minutes, just sat there, holding the cup, warming my hands, and reviewing my notes. Then the oddest thought occurred to me.

  All roads lead to Rome—or, in this case, to Goodfellowe House.

  I took a sip and set the cup aside. The telephone rang. I glanced at it, sensing that it wasn’t Sam, and willed it to be silent. When it kept on jangling, I ignored it. I picked up a pencil, flipped the notepad to a blank sheet and began to do something I should’ve done earlier—set down a timeline. I started with the two most prominent dates, those of Esther’s kidnapping and the subsequent Goodfellowe heist. It was a good way of getting a handle on the case.

  December 19

  (Just past midnight) Esther is kidnapped

  December 23

  Goodfellowe mansion robbed

  After due consideration, I added the approximate dates of Esther’s relationship with Whitfield. Then I set the notepad aside. Having finally decided to sit down and do this, I figured I might as well be thorough. I fetched the file containing my old notes and the newspapers clippings on Esther’s case.

  The telephone rang. I ignored it. Half an hour later, it rang again. Once more, I ignored it. For the next couple of hours, it rang on and off. Finally, I took the receiver off the hook. In the meantime, everything got reread—every jotting, every comment, every article. I made some educated guesses and added new approximate dates to the ones I already had. Then I rewrote the dates, in order.

  September 1 (Approx.)

  Esther meets Sexton Whitfield at a party at Goodfellowe house

  October 1 (Approx.)

  Something goes wrong in relationship with Whitfield

  1st week of December

  Esther gets first threatening note

  2nd week of December

  Esther gets second note

  December 18

  (Just past midnight) Esther disappears

  December 20

  Police accept report

  December 22

  Det. John Reed decides that she ran away

  December 23

  (5 days after disappearance) Goodfellowe mansion robbed

  December 30

  (1 week after heist) Esther’s family receives 1st note

  January 7

  (1 week later) Esther’s family receives 2nd note

  January 20

  (3 weeks later) Katherine’s car is spotted

  I studied the list of dates and something stirred. I sat quite still, letting the ideas float and dance and gently bounce off one another.

  Esther’s affair and her disappearance. Her disappearance and the Goodfellowe heist. What were the connecting threads? How had the information been passed along?

  I padded downstairs to the kitchen and poured another cup of java. I didn’t want it, but needed the movement. Actually what I needed was to put on warmer clothes. Fifteen minutes later, snug in a heavy sweater, thick stockings and a long wool skirt, I returned to the parlor to study my timetable. Minutes slipped by. I frowned.

  A date was missing.

  I flipped back through the notes I’d prepared before going to see Katherine Goodfellowe. Not seeing what I was looking for, I turned the pages forward again. There it was, the date I sought. I added it to the list and drew a line to indicate where it belonged.

  October 6, 1923

  Eric Alan Powell found shot to death

  I sat back, considering. Mrs. Goodfellowe’s husband murdered, her favorite protégée kidnapped and her house robbed in a multimillion-dollar heist that was based on inside information, all taking place within months of each other.

  Was it just a streak of incredibly bad luck or was there more to it?

  It was late afternoon when I put my notes away and put the telephone receiver back on its cradle. I had just enough time to get to the library.

  Chapter 41

  New York booklovers are a hardy lot. They refuse to be daunted by Mother Nature. Their footsteps had already flattened the snow on the steps to the main entrance of the New York Public Library at 42nd Street. Given the weather, no one was loitering about, as was the habit in summer, but children were throwing snowballs at Lady Astor and Lord Lenox, the giant marble lions guarding the main entrance.

  Once inside, I clomped down the hall to the Periodicals Room. There I asked a librarian for copies of the Times, dating back to early January of ‘23. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for or what relevance Powell’s death might have to Esther’s kidnapping. Probably none. But too much had happened around Mrs. Goodfellowe not to raise the question. An hour later, I had neat stacks of newspapers to one side. In short, this is the story they told:

  On January 1, 1923, Mrs. G, then in her mid-fifties, marries Eric Alan Powell, age thirty-two. No one quite knows where the young man came from. They only know where he’s landed: in Mrs. G’s bed. There are stories about gambling and tales of criminal involvements. The tongues wag. The busybodies fuss. Mrs. G silences them quickly. Her new darling is handsome, apparently refined and profoundly witty. If people expect to see a young man who wastes her money, one who insists that she invest in various ridiculous if not nefarious schemes, then they’re disappointed. Powell conducts himself as a man worthy of the woman he’s married and the status he’s attained. After a while people simply accept it: Mrs. G and her new husband are one of those unlikely pairings that nature springs on decent society: unusual, but not unnatural. She has clearly never recovered from the double blow of losing her husband and her daughter, and now Fate has given her a genuine second chance at love. Her good friends sincerely rejoice at her newfound luck.

>   But Mrs. G’s new happiness is short-lived.

  At 6 a.m. on the morning of October 6, 1923, a middle-aged Brooklyn secretary named Francine Baker takes her terrier, Snookums, for a walk along Surf Avenue, the main street of Coney Island’s amusement park. She treasures these walks, when the street is still quiet, well before visitors, even in autumn, fill it to capacity. She turns onto the boardwalk and takes a deep breath of salty ocean air. She holds her face to the wind, enjoying how it sweeps off the Atlantic. The beach is just the way she likes it—empty and peaceful.

  Mrs. Baker resumes her stroll, but takes only a few steps before slowing to a halt. A car is parked to one side of the boardwalk, a brand new black Packard. Mrs. Baker automatically tightens her hold on Snookums’ leash. What’s such an expensive car doing there, at this time of morning? She glances around, but sees no one else. Snookums barks and strains at the leash. She eases up on it and he drags her forward, tail wagging. As she comes abreast of the car, she can see that she’s mistaken. The car is occupied. There’s the top of a man’s head. He’s in the driver’s seat, his head thrown back on the headrest. No doubt, he got drunk the night before and passed out.

  The window on the driver’s side is rolled down. Mrs. Baker’s better instincts tell her to take a wide berth around the car, but curiosity and Snookums get the best of her. So she goes up to the window and gets an eyeful.

  It’s a sight she’ll remember for the rest of her days.

  With a piercing scream, she stumbles backward and falls flat on her butt. Snookums is hopping and yelping around her. After a moment’s shock, the woman scrambles to her feet and scurries home, the short-legged dog racing ahead of her. Her husband, Fred, can’t fully grasp what she’s babbling about. But he understands enough to call the cops.

  Police find the body of a white male slumped behind the steering wheel. The dead man is of slender build. He’s wearing a black full-length cashmere coat over a dark blue suit with a white shirt and a gray-and-white checked silk tie with a rare black pearl tiepin. He’s also wearing a gold wedding band on his left hand and a diamond pinkie ring on his right. The fingers of his right hand pinch a blood-spattered cigarette stub and his left hand grips a dark gray hat. His Colt .380 is still in his shoulder holster. From the smoothness of the skin on his hands, one would say he’s in his twenties or thirties. It’s impossible to tell from his face.