by R. J. Koreto
“So who’s this Miss Meadows?” I asked.
“Of course, you wouldn’t know,” Alice replied. “She covers Society. That’s what women reporters do, and for the most part, only women read their articles. Lots of people dislike her.”
“Why?”
“The rule is that you’re supposed to be in the newspaper only three times in your life—when you’re born, when you’re married, and when you die. Miss Meadows, and others like her, disagree. They know all kinds of things and publish everything they hear. She’s written reams about me.” She sounded proud about that. “But I’ve never met her, and so I’m very curious.”
“It’s none of my business, Miss Alice, but this Miss Meadows doesn’t sound like the kind of person your aunt wants you to talk to.”
“Oh, no. She’d have all kinds of fits,” said Alice cheerfully.
We stopped at a small office, where a woman of about thirty was sitting behind a desk and looking intently at some pages through a pair of spectacles. She had a pleasant, round face and brown hair rather carelessly done up. She was much more simply dressed than Alice and could’ve passed for any of hundreds of young women who worked in offices throughout the city.
The boy rapped on the open door, and the woman took her spectacles off and looked up. Those eyes—that’s what made her different. They were as green and hard as emeralds, and her pretty mouth pursed in amused surprise.
“Miss Meadows, this is—”
“Oh, I know who this is, Jackie. Thank you.” The boy excused himself and left, and Miss Meadows motioned for us to take two seats jammed between the wall and the front of her desk.
“So it’s Miss Roosevelt and…” She smiled wryly at me. “Wyatt Earp.”
“No need for silliness,” said Alice. “This is Joseph St. Clair of the Secret Service, my bodyguard.”
“What did you do to merit an assignment like this, Mr. St. Clair?” asked Miss Meadows. I couldn’t tell if she had decided my assignment was an honor or a punishment.
“Secret Service agents aren’t allowed to talk to the press,” I said. Alice gave another one of her dramatic sighs.
“If you must know, Mr. St. Clair was a deputy sheriff in Laramie and a sergeant with the Rough Riders before my father assigned him to my detail. Now to the matter at hand. I’ve come for some assistance.”
“Really? I assumed when the president’s daughter shows up in my office with an armed cowboy, it’s to make a complaint.”
“Why should I complain? You have a job to do, and you do it well. I find your articles amusing.”
That surprised Miss Meadows. “You read me regularly? For pleasure?”
“When I get a copy of the Herald. My aunt finds your column, indeed your entire newspaper, disgraceful and won’t have it in the house.”
Miss Meadows laughed. “I can believe that. I’m glad there are no hard feelings. Now tell me what I can do for you.”
“I need some information about certain people in Society, and I think you might have the details.”
“Really? Who is more central to New York Society than a Roosevelt?”
“I have information. But not the information you probably have. Deeper things than are usually discussed in Polite Society.”
“Who are we talking about?”
“The late Delilah Linde and her husband Marcus, and the late Lynley Brackton and his wife Victoria.”
That lovely mouth curved into a knowing smile, and she watched Alice with great interest. “Yes, two deaths so close together. The police are saying a sudden illness in both cases, but no one believes them. Everyone here assumes it’s murder, even if nothing has been officially stated.” O’Hara was apparently still maintaining the fiction that it was just death by natural causes. But he probably couldn’t do that forever.
“I am glad to hear you say that. I cannot speak on behalf of the police, but I can tell you—and you may not quote me—that you are absolutely right. But as for what I need from you. You’re probably aware I was at the Rutledge party when Mr. Brackton was murdered, but just because my father was police commissioner doesn’t mean the police keep me in their confidence. I’m not here for the legal implications. There are events, social connections, decisions about invitations. Sudden deaths like this, even natural, bring certain things to light. If I can get information today, it will save embarrassment tomorrow.”
“What makes you think I have information beyond what I put into my column?” she asked.
“I think your job is not that different from politics. You don’t make use of it all, not right away. You use it strategically. And if you cause a major scandal, if you couldn’t show some discretion, you would put yourself out of business. Also, I know a little something of the law. There are things you know and things you can prove. If you publish things you cannot prove, there are libel laws in this country, and powerful and wealthy people spend a lot of money on attorneys. But I didn’t ask you for what you can prove. I asked for what you know.”
Miss Meadows looked impressed. I was, too. “Very shrewd, Miss Roosevelt. Very well. I have information. But it’s worth a lot. What can you give me?”
“How about this? The Gadsden ball later this spring. You and you alone get a look at what I’ll be wearing. And the name of my escort, in advance.”
“People misbehave there when it gets late. I want three anecdotes I can print.”
“I can give you that. But you have to be discreet with what I tell you. I can’t see my name posted anywhere. It won’t do me any good if people think I know too much. I’ll get you two anecdotes, and I will have to remain anonymous.”
Miss Meadows thought that over for a moment, then said “done” and leaned over the table to shake Alice’s hand. I was impressed once more. I thought you had to be a senator to pull together a deal as neatly as Alice had. Someone was keeping her eyes and ears open in Washington and learning her lessons.
“Now I’ll tell you what I know. I don’t even have to check my notes because I’ve been poring over them after the two deaths. Lynley Brackton was an unapologetic womanizer with a doormat for a wife, the kind who accepted everything he did and is probably mourning him right now.” Good instincts, I thought.
“Why? Why did Victoria accept that?” asked Alice, genuinely puzzled. Miss Meadows shook her head, then looked at me.
“You—Mr. St. Clair. You look like you’ve kicked around. Have you told Miss Roosevelt that sometimes with marriages things aren’t that straightforward?”
I just smiled. “I told you, I can’t talk to the press.”
“Oh, let’s call this off the record. That means I don’t quote anything either of you say, even anonymously. All off the record today.”
“That’s acceptable,” said Alice. “‘Off the record’ happens all the time in Washington.”
“Fine then,” I said. “I told Miss Alice that marriages are complicated and don’t work the way you think.”
“You got that right. We’re all born to be something. Victoria Brackton was born to be a victim. As long as he eventually came home and behaved among their friends, she turned a blind eye to every actress or shopgirl he picked up. Apparently, there was no one serious or long-term. I don’t know much about her, but if you’re curious, I might be able to get more from the arts desk.”
“How do you get all this information?” asked Alice.
“Oh, my dear, you have no idea. I talk to many, many people. My job is 10 percent writing and 90 percent listening.”
Alice considered that for a moment before saying, “And the Lindes. What can you tell me about them?”
“Ah, yes. That’s a rather more complicated situation. Marcus Linde is fantastically wealthy and has always lived a quiet life. Delilah Linde was born Delilah van Dijk. It was a good family and an old one, but money management wasn’t their strong suit, and after a succession of wastrels and drunks, almost nothing is left. She has a brother in New York, but he’s not spoken about—doesn’t mix with Society a
nymore now that he’s come down in the world. Named Miles. A good marriage was her only option. I think Marcus Linde is older than her father. Still, they each got what they wanted.” She smirked.
“Older men like young women. I’ve seen that myself,” said Alice, who didn’t want to look unsophisticated in front of Miss Meadows.
“If that were the half of it, my dear. You know he was married before?”
“Yes. His wife died some twenty years ago when they were in Europe. That’s the story that goes around in Society, at any rate. Of course, it was before my time.”
“A story. That’s for sure. She didn’t die, Miss Roosevelt. They got divorced. He gave her a very nice settlement, and she made a new life for herself in Paris. She wasn’t of any particular family, so no one really missed her.”
Alice frowned. Divorce in Society happened, but people were quiet about it, and if Linde didn’t want to make it the official story, I could understand.
“Do we know why?” asked Alice.
“I don’t think Mr. Linde was the marrying kind. He’s what’s often known as a confirmed bachelor.”
“But he did marry. He married twice,” said Alice, looking confused.
“Well, yes,” said Miss Meadows. “But these were not conventional marriages. That is, marriage as it’s usually thought of.” We saw a glimmer of understanding in Alice’s eyes. Alice knew a lot, and she was smart as a whip, but there were still things she had to learn.
“Mr. St. Clair, do you want to explain to Alice what we’re talking about?” asked Miss Meadows.
“No, not really,” I said.
“Fine. Miss Roosevelt, I don’t know where Society girls get their information from, or when, but Mr. Linde was not interested in normal relations with his wives. Is that clear?”
“I see now,” said Alice, full enlightenment coming to her. “So why get married at all, then?”
“Who can be sure? Maybe he just liked the company—somebody to organize the intimate dinner parties he liked, to decorate his house, to have someone to talk to in the evenings. I’m not married, either, Miss Roosevelt. I can tell you his first wife was only nineteen when they wed, and I don’t think she realized what the deal was when they got married. Maybe even he didn’t realize what he was getting into. Anyway, they got a divorce, he gave her lots of money, and she made a nice life for herself in Paris.”
“And the second Mrs. Linde?”
“She was a little older, and so was he. I bet his situation was made a lot more explicit to her. I’ve never been in their home, but I hear she made it very nice.”
“I was there, and you’re right. Didn’t I say that, Mr. St. Clair? I said the house showed a woman’s touch.”
“There you go,” said Miss Meadows. “And Mrs. Linde didn’t do too badly out of it, especially as she had no money of her own. She got jewels and servants and fancy dresses. I bet that she planned on someday patiently nursing him in his final days before becoming the wealthiest widow in New York.”
“I like the way you think, Miss Meadows,” I said. She gave me a mock bow.
“All right. I see what is going on here,” said Alice. “Mr. Linde got everything he wanted, and Mrs. Linde got to live like a queen. But what if she wanted more? Other men were probably attracted to her.”
“I’m sure. Is this leading to whether Mrs. Linde took lovers? If she did, she was very discreet. I haven’t heard anything.”
“Also, if she did and was reasonably discreet, would Mr. Linde even mind?”
“A very shrewd observation, Miss Roosevelt. Although I don’t have any more information on Mrs. Linde, I like the way you think.” Now, Alice gave Miss Meadows a mock bow. “Anyway, you now know more than you did when you came in and can take some comfort in that.”
“I do, indeed,” said Alice. “Thank you. This has been very helpful, and I’ll keep my end of the bargain.”
“Then we’ll drink to that,” said Miss Meadows, and I was surprised and amused to see her pull a bottle of whiskey out of her desk drawer.
“You like whiskey, Cowboy?” she asked.
“Not while I’m on duty,” I said, and Alice snickered.
“We’re done with business here. All off the record, both our words and our actions,” said Miss Meadows. I wanted to be hospitable, so I took out my flask.
“Bourbon,” I said. Miss Meadows produced three shot glasses.
“Miss Alice will take your whiskey but not my bourbon,” I said.
“You don’t like bourbon, Miss Roosevelt?” asked Miss Meadows.
“She’s a kid. Bourbon is for grown-ups,” I said, and Alice glared at me. The whiskey was good, and since we were off the record, I told Miss Meadows some stories about growing up in Wyoming, working as a deputy sheriff, and charging up San Juan Hill. She seemed entertained, and I liked making her laugh. As I said, she had a really lovely mouth.
Alice wasn’t happy. She didn’t like being out of the limelight, and she didn’t like it when I paid attention to any other woman. So there she was, getting into a sulk as Miss Meadows talked about growing up a brewer’s daughter in New Jersey and crossing the Hudson to seek her fortune.
Finally, Alice stood. “Miss Meadows, I thank you and will give you the particulars on the Gadsden ball as we get closer.”
“Perhaps this can be the start of an ongoing relationship,” said Miss Meadows.
“Perhaps,” said Alice a little coolly. And then Miss Meadows looked at me. “You, too, Joey.”
I winked at her. “As Miss Alice said, perhaps. Thanks for the whiskey, Felicia.” With that, we were off. I’m a good deal taller than Alice, but even so, I almost had to run to keep up with her.
“We have things to do,” she said. “At least, I do. You apparently have nothing to do other than flirt with lady journalists.”
“Oh, come, Miss Alice. I was just being friendly.”
“I didn’t think she was all that attractive,” she said.
“Maybe I was a little tickled to talk with a woman my own age. Maybe I liked talking with someone a little more like me.”
Alice stopped at that, right in the hallway, and busy office boys pushed past us, as they spared a glance for the famous president’s daughter. She looked at me as if she were seeing me for the first time.
“That is a very introspective remark, Mr. St. Clair. You repeatedly remind me of your hidden depths.” We started walking again, and she gave me a sidelong glance. “I still don’t think she was that attractive.”
“She has a lovely mouth.”
“If you say so,” she said, indicating that I was entitled to my opinion no matter how stupid it was. We headed out of the building and found some hot dogs and Coca-Colas in a hole-in-the-wall restaurant.
“What do we have?” asked Alice. “Remember, we’re the only ones who know that Victoria was the intended victim. So someone is out to kill two women in New York Society. And someone is out to warn us off. Here’s the question I keep coming back to: what is the connection between the XVII and the murders? The Bracktons and Lindes were members. Why should they be victims?
“Is there another group fighting back against them? Is it all some kind of insane coincidence? And why are they called the XVII? There is a business connection here,” said Alice slowly between bites of hot dog. “I’m sure about that. Whoever sent those men after us on Houston—that was about business, not just personal. Marcus Linde was upset over the business connections, not his wife. Rutledge, Linde, and Brackton are all men of business in this city with a lot of control, and they seem to be deeply worried about changing demographics. They are worried and threatened about the growth and power of immigrants—and that includes the Roths, who are definitely outsiders.”
“A good summary. So what’s next?”
“We have two paths, and we’re going down both of them. We need to find out more about both the Lindes and the Bracktons, and that means Mrs. Linde’s brother. It’s getting late, and we’re having people for dinner, so we�
��ll start fresh in the morning. What are you doing tonight?”
“There will probably be a game in the basement with the building porters.” And then, because I couldn’t resist, I said, “Maybe Felicia would like to join us.”
“Mr. St. Clair, shut up. Just shut up.”
CHAPTER 19
The next morning turned out to be a lot busier than we expected. I was up in the breakfast room at the usual time, and Alice was already digging into her eggs and bacon. A maid was clearing a coffee cup.
“You just missed my aunt. She’ll be off to a political breakfast in a moment. I managed to wriggle out of it. Anyway, she said she wanted to speak to you.”
“To me?” That was startling.
“Don’t worry. If she were angry, I would’ve heard already. Anyway, I want to talk to Mrs. Linde’s brother. I’ll have to think about where to find him.”
The doorbell rang, and I went with the maid to get it. It was Captain O’Hara once again.
“It’s the coffee, isn’t it?” I asked. “You come back for the coffee. I don’t blame you. They have the best coffee here.”
“Never mind the coffee. I’m doing you another favor. I have the medical report on Mrs. Linde. Nothing too surprising. It seems it really was that punch that killed her; there’s wolfsbane in her system.” He handed me some papers. “I can’t let you keep this, but you can look at it over here.”
“Thanks, Captain. It’s not that we don’t appreciate this, but there must be a reason you’re being so nice. This is more than you owed me.”
He rubbed his chin with his thumb as he thought about it and looked a little embarrassed. “I’m in a tight place, St. Clair. We’re supposed to figure this out, but you know what we’re up against. I can’t ask them anything, people at that level. And the politicians owe everything to those people, and they’re all over me. I’m going to have to arrest someone, anyone, as long as I don’t touch the wrong people. But you’re federal. You’re outside it all.”
I held up my hands. “Wait a minute. There is no Secret Service role here. I’m just Miss Roosevelt’s bodyguard. It’s just that Miss Roosevelt—”