Blacklist

by Sara Paretsky

  “I didn’t involve her with terrorists-I met her the same way I met you-by interrupting her housebreaking. If I had a kid, I wouldn’t let you hang out with her-I wouldn’t want her thinking that it’s okay to break the law if you’re rich and powerful.”

  He glared at me, his square angry face looking very like Renee.

  “You probably want to get back to the hospital.” I got up. “When I visit Catherine, I won’t mention our chat. I don’t pledge my honor, because we both know I’m a liberal and don’t have any, but I do care about disillusioning children’s belief in their parents. For whatever reason, your daughter seems fond of you.”

  “I told you to stay away from my daughter, and I mean it.” He stalked from office.

  I followed him down the hall to the front door. “You might notice the strong resemblance between Catherine and the portrait of Calvin’s mother that hangs over your big staircase in New Solway. Have you ever considered DNA testing? That could clear up your worries about your paternity.”

  He didn’t thank me for my helpful advice, but walked around his BMW, looking for any damage. Elton crossed the street to offer him StreetWise, but Bayard ignored him and drove off with a great thrust of his afterburners.

  I went back into my office. My anger had subsided, but Edwards Bayard’s turbulent emotions hung heavy in the room.

  I wished I did have a tape recording of the conversation. I tried to reconstruct it, especially the letter Laura Taverner Drummond had written Calvin. “Theft against her household,” that could mean anything, from sexual to financial plundering.

  I should have mastered my own temper better: I didn’t get as much out of the interview as I would have if I’d kept my cool. Edwards interpreted the letter as proof that Calvin had been stealing from the Grahams, or at least from the Drummond-Graham household. And then Olin Taverner said he was surprised that Laura Drummond cared about Negroes. Had Calvin stolen from some black servant in the Drummond family?

  Augustus Llewellyn was the only African-American whose name had

  cropped up in connection with Bayard’s. Just in case… I logged on to Nexis and looked up Llewellyn.

  Like Bayard Publishing, Llewellyn was a closely held corporation, so I couldn’t find much on their finances. Besides T-square, they published four other magazines, including one for teens, two for women and a general news magazine. Llewellyn also owned the license for an AM radio station that featured jazz and gospel, an FM station that played rap and hip-hop and a couple of cable channels. I couldn’t see how they were financed or what their debt load was.

  Personal data were easier to gather. Augustus Llewellyn was in his seventies, lived in a big home, some six thousand square feet, in Lake Forest. He had one getaway place in Jamaica, and an apartment in Paris on rue Georges V He was married, had three children and seven grandchildren. His daughter Janice managed the two women’s magazines, while a grandson worked at the AM radio station. Llewellyn himself still came to work every day. He was a big Republican Party donor, despite having been treated as a chauffeur by GOP operatives when he drove his Mercedes sedan to a recent fund-raiser at the opera house. He was a passionate sailor. A photograph showed a slender dapper man in tennis whites, carrying himself erect with no sign of aging except his grizzled hair.

  From an old interview with him in T-Square, I learned that Llewellyn had gone to Northwestern University in the forties, where he’d majored in journalism. When he found it impossible to get the kind of job his white fellow graduates were finding, he’d started T-square in his basement while he worked days as a mail clerk at the old Daily News. In the early days, he and his wife, June, carried magazines to stores on the black South Side, ran and repaired a handpress and wrote all the copy for each issue.

  In 1947, he was able to pay a photographer and a part-time staffer. In 1949, he found financing to set up a real piublishing operation. By 1953, he was making enough money to start Mero for women and to buy his FM and AM licenses. The radio stations began to make real money; he started his other publications in the early sixties, about the time he built his cube on west Erie Street.

  I whistled “If you miss me at the back of the bus” under my breath. The

  information was all interesting, but didn’t tell me whether Llewellyn’s family had ever worked for Laura Drummond in the dim past. I flipped back to the business reports and read them in more detail. And there, buried in the fine print on the third screen, was a fascinating little factoid. Registered agent for the Llewellyn Group: Lebold, Arnoff, attorneys with addresses in Oak Brook and on LaSalle Street.

  “‘Come on over to the front of the bus, I’ll be riding right there,’ yes, indeedy,” I said aloud. “Why are you using New Solway’s tame lawyers as your registered agent, Mr. Llewellyn?”

  I didn’t think Julius Arnoff would tell me anything, but the young associate might. I called Larry Yosano, both his home phone and his mobile, but only got voice mail at both places. I left a message with my own cell phone number.

  Of course, Geraldine Graham would know. She’d also know what her mother was referring to when she talked about theft against her household. I called Anodyne Park. Ms. Graham was resting, Lisa told me, and couldn’t be disturbed.

  “I really just wanted to know if Augustus Llewellyn’s family worked at Larchmont Hall before he became rich and famous.”

  “Who are you working for?” she hissed. “Does Mr. Darraugh know you’re with the newspapers, trying to dig up that old dirt? We never knew the Llewellns. Mrs. Graham met him socially through Mr. Bayard. And if you try to say something else, the lawyer will deal with you, or Mr. Darraugh will take care of you himself.”

  I hung up, more bewildered than ever. Had Geraldine been Llewellyn’s lover? But what did that have to do with her mother’s letter to Calvin Bayard?

  Geraldine had met Llewellyn socially through Calvin Bayard. Which is also how she had met Kylie Ballantine. Who’d been fired from the University of Chicago because Olin Taverner demanded it of the university’s president. Olin was Geraldine’s cousin as well as a neighbor, even though he spent most of his time in Washington in those days.

  Amy Blount had given me her photocopy of Taverner’s letter to the university, along with the picture of Kyhe Ballantine dancing for the Committee for Social Thought and Justice benefit. I still had the copies in my briefcase.

  I took them out and studied them. Dancers in Western tights and toe shoes, faces obscured by African shields or masks-who had known one of them was Kylie Ballantine? Or, for that matter, where she was dancing? The shot was of the stage, not of the audience. All you could tell was that it was an outdoor venue, because evergreen branches appeared behind the wings.

  Who had taken the picture? Who had sent it to Taverner? I dropped it on my desktop. The more bits and pieces about New Solway that I gathered, the more confused I became. And what about Edwards Bayard’s conviction that Calvin wasn’t his father? The gossip he’d overheard as a child-did that have anything to do with this story, or was it just gossip?

  Amy had included a few notes on the Committee for Social Thought and Justice. She said not much had been written about it because it wasn’t as well known as other left-leaning groups of the forties and fifties, “not like the Civil Rights Congress, where Dashiell Hammett sat on the board, and Decca Mitford and Bob Truehoft did groundbreaking legal and social work for African-Americans out in Oakland.” She’d found one article in the Journal of Labor History, part of the oral history of black labor organizers of the forties, which included reminiscences about the beginnings of the group.

  The article dealt mostly with the role that black members of the hotel workers union played in the struggle against the Mob and the hotel industry. One of the men interviewed had been a Communist who hung out at a West Side bar called Flora’s, where left-leaning workers and intellectuals, both black and white, congregated.

  Apparently, when Armand Pelletier returned from Spain, he started bringing some of his writer
and painter friends to Flora’s, where they had informal meetings, gave impromptu concerts and also helped the labor leaders write and print leaflets. Artists and writers from the Federal Negro Theater Project often showed up; “… the man in the interview definitely remembers Kylie Ballantine coming there,” Amy had written. “Not very many other writers or artists were mentioned by name, except Pelletier, because he was the important organizer of the artists; the interview was focusing on black labor leaders.”

  One day Pelletier joked that the Dies Committee in Congress would shut down Flora’s if they knew that the Federal Theater Project was still

  active there. “We’ll call ourselves a committee, too, just like Dies does, one that keeps American values alive. But we’re not here to investigate people’s toilets and peer in their bedrooms; we’ll have a committee for working people who believe in the real values of America.” Someone came up with the cumbersome title, Committee for Social Thought and justice, which the members themselves shortened to “ComThought.”

  ComThought never had an active organization or board, but they did raise money to help fund some of the experimental arts programs Congress had cut out of the New Deal. And since many of the people at Flora’s were Communists, and were arrested, ComThought began providing legal defense money for them in the late forties and early fifties. Pelletier himself served six months in prison, both for giving to the fund himself and for refusing to name any other donors.

  I thought again of Geraldine and the pet charity of Calvin’s she’d given money to. Her mother definitely would have hated any organization that she thought was a Communist front.

  I looked at the clock. When I’d talked to Lotty yesterday, she had invited me to dinner with her tonight. It was five-thirty now-if the traffic gods were kind, I could make it out to Anodyne Park and back in two hours. I called to say I might be a bit late; she adjured me not to make it too late, since she had an early date in the OR, but if I could get to her by eight she’d still like to see me.

  CHAPTER 41

  Charity Begins at Home

  You’re a determined young woman, aren’t you, Ms. Warshawski?” Geraldine Graham was sitting in the chair under her mother’s portrait, the remains of her supper on a tray on the piecrust table.

  “It gets me places brains and brawn won’t take me,” I agreed.

  When I’d reached Anodyne Park at six-thirty, Lisa had told the guard not to admit me. I didn’t waste time on argument, but drove back around to Coverdale Lane. It was dark now, but I quickly found the entrance to the culvert under the road. I shone my flashlight around-it didn’t look to me as though Bobby had organized an exploration of the area yet.

  I was still in jeans and running shoes; hunched over, my back aching from the need to stoop, I stomped through Benji’s and my footprints, trying not to obliterate the wheel tracks from the golf cart. When I got to the juniper bush on the Anodyne Park side, I stretched myself thankfully. I tried to clean the muck from my shoes, but when I got inside Geraldine’s building, I took them off: no point adding mud to my other iniquities in Lisa’s eyes.

  Getting inside Geraldine’s building didn’t require any special skill, just the time-honored method of pressing apartment bells until someone buzzed me in. An old person in Chicago would have been more cautious,

  but they were a trusting bunch in Anodyne Park, at least trusting in their guard at the gate.

  At Geraldine Graham’s own front door, Lisa answered my insistent ring. She was so startled she didn’t react at all for a second. By the time she decided to slam the door in my face, I had given her a genial “good evening,” dropped my shoes outside the door, and moved past her into the hallway. I could hear Ms. Graham calling from the living room, demanding to know who was at the door.

  I went in to greet her, and had the satisfaction of hearing her admonish Lisa for trying to keep me out: I was there at Geraldine’s request, to tell her what had happened at Larchmont on Friday night. When I’d run through enough of the highlights-including my interrogation by the FBI-to satisfy her, I finally turned to my own agenda.

  “I know we had an appointment for tomorrow afternoon,” I said, “but I had Edwards Bayard with me this afternoon and he told me an odd tale.” “Edwards? I suppose he came out here because of the girl.”

  “Among other things. Do you know, I actually found him in Olin Taverner’s apartment Thursday night? He had broken in, trying to find some secret papers that Taverner had promised him.”

  “How extraordinary. And did he find the papers?” She did a good job, keeping a tone of light interest in her flutey voice, but her hands had clenched at her sides.

  “No.” I waited for her hands to relax before adding, “but he did tell me about a letter he found from your mother to Calvin Bayard.”

  “And I suppose you drove out here to tell me about it?” Her hands tightened again, but she still managed to keep her voice steady.

  “Your mother wrote Calvin about depredations he was committing against her household, and a demand for restitution-or she would take action.”

  The light bouncing from her heavy glasses made it impossible for me to see Geraldine’s eyes. “Mother thought she was a law unto herself. She defined theft according to her own canons.”

  “And?” I prompted, when she fell silent again.

  “I wrote a check for Calvin to one of his pet charities. It was a group Mother disapproved of, because it provided assistance to indigent Negroes

  who needed legal assistance.” She gave one of her involuntary glances at the full-length portrait behind her. “I was fortyfive years old, but she still thought it within her rights to examine my bank statement when it arrived each month. I didn’t realize she was doing it until she confronted me over this check; for once I held my ground with her. I should have realized she would next turn to Calvin.”

  “She had such strong anti-black prejudices?” I was bewildered. Geraldine Graham gave a tight little smile. “She had such strong feelings against her will being thwarted that I imagine she lost sight of the original issue.

  “She threatened Mr. Bayard with reprisals. What would those have been?” “Mother owned shares in Bayard Publishing. She was always threatening to sell them to Olin, who was her nephew, or to will them to him, whenever Calvin published something she thought was risqu &. It was a hollow threat-she disapproved of Olin’s sexual proclivities far more than she did of Calvin’s daring authors. How odd it seems that Calvin’s authors were once considered daring, now that every sexual act is described in such detail that they all become merely boring. Not to mention how they appear in films. Men like Armand Pelletier, who were glamorized for their bold language, have become passe.”

  “Why was Lisa so determined I shouldn’t talk to you about this?” I refused to be diverted. “She accused me of working for the newspapers, trying to dig up old dirt.”

  “That’s right, madam.” Lisa popped into the room from her self-appointed listening post. “I remember well what Mrs. Drummond went through when Mr. MacKenzie passed, the work to keep-“

  “That will do, Lisa. Miss Victoria is trying to find out who killed the Negro writer in our pond. She has no prurient interest in my affairs and we have nothing to hide from her.”

  The last phrase was uttered like a warning, like a way of saying, our hand is so much quicker than her eye, that you can speak of everything, except the elephant in the drawing room which she can’t see. Lisa muttered something that might have been an apology. She retreated to the edge of the carpet, but she didn’t leave the room.

  “No one seemed to think I might mourn MacKenzie when he died, but

  his death marked the end of many things for me,” Geraldine added for me. “To my mother, his death was one more inconvenience he had caused her: odd, when you consider that my marriage to him was her idea. Hers and MacKenzie’s father’s. Mr. Blair Graham was one of my father’s business associates, and everyone thought that marriage would settle both MacKenzie and me dow
n, turning him from the temptations of New York City and me from those of Chicago when we started our own nursery. Children are supposed to be a woman’s greatest joy, after all. How strange that Mother would tell me that so often when I brought her no joy at all. Except perhaps the joy of exercising her will over mine.”

  “Your mother didn’t think Darraugh should mourn his father’s death, either?” As always happened in talking to Geraldine, I had to struggle to keep on the subject, or to remember what the subject was. “Was that why Darraugh ran away from school when your husband died?”

  Geraldine’s hands began to pleat the stiff fabric of her skirt. “My mother was still alive when Darraugh’s son was born. She took his naming the boy `MacKenzie’ as a personal insult, rather than a tribute to a well-loved parent. She thought Darraugh ought to name the boy Matthew for my father. Or even call him after her own father. Virgil Fabian Taverner-he was named during the Victorian fashion for all things Roman. Be that as it may, Mother rewrote her will a few days after MacKenzie’s baptism. None of the boy’s charms, and my grandson has always had most winning ways, could persuade Mother not to punish Darraugh through his son.”

  “I know young MacKenzie; he does have a lot of charm. What was the charity your mother took such exception to?”

  She didn’t understand what I was talking about at first. When I reminded her that she had written a check to one of Calvin Bayard’s charities, she again stiffened, but said, “How strange that I can’t remember. At the time it seemed of consuming importance-my action, Mother’s intrusiveness. And yet, the memory has vanished like some long-since plucked fruit.”

  “It wasn’t the Committee for Social Thought and Justice? Renee Bayard said that was one that your cousin Olin was particularly determined to prove a Communist front.”

  She shook her head again. “Young woman, you must be now the age I was then. Everything seems fresh and clear in your mind’s eye, but if you