by Amy Stewart
He looked between the two of us, astonished. “What’s the matter with her? How do you know about her hats?”
“She isn’t in Newark, Mr. Townley,” Geraldine said, as gently as she could. “She’s right here in Rutherford.”
He started to sink into his chair but remembered his manners.
“Please take a seat,” I said. “We don’t mind. It appears your wife has taken a position as a housekeeper.”
At that Mr. Townley laughed and dropped into his chair, obviously relieved. “Then I’m afraid you’re after the wrong woman. My wife doesn’t keep her own house, much less anyone else’s. She’s never done a day’s work in her life. She spends the money. I’m the one who earns it. Ain’t that the usual arrangement?”
He struck a match and lit a cigarette, offering one to each of us. We refused, but I handed him the glass ash-tray that was just behind me on a window-sill.
“It seemed irregular to us, too,” I said, “which is why we looked into it a bit more. We happened to visit the house where she’s employed, to investigate another matter, and found the situation suspicious. That’s why we’ve come to you. Do you know a man named Charles Kayser?”
Geraldine and I both leaned back a little, expecting him to explode out of his chair. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on the cigarette in his hand, took a couple of uneven breaths, and finally looked slowly up at us.
“Charlie?” There was misery in his voice.
I gave a slight nod but didn’t say a word.
He looked again at his cigarette. His head shook slightly back and forth, and he muttered something under his breath.
“Is he a friend of yours?” I asked after a long silence.
He nodded but kept his eyes down.
Geraldine said, “You might know that he’s had some trouble with his wife. There’s a daughter still at home, and he needed a woman about the place to look after her.”
Not a word came from Joseph Townley. We stared at the top of his head, where his hair stood up in a cowlick at the back, and waited.
“I wonder why Virginia wouldn’t just tell you the truth, if she was only going to help a friend of yours,” I said at last.
He reached into his coat and pulled out a handkerchief, which he pressed briefly to his eyes. Then he pushed himself shakily to his feet and kicked the chair out of the way so that he could lean against the wall. His arms were crossed in front of him, and he was as far away from us as he could be in that little room.
“Charles Kayser keeps a woman,” he said, in a quiet and resigned voice. “He always has.”
I waited, but that was all he said for a minute. He took a ragged breath, swallowed hard, and started again.
“I mean to say that he has, over the years, kept a woman apart from his marriage.”
He raised an eyebrow, as if to question whether we understood his meaning, and we both nodded.
“Charlie and I are in sales. I suppose you already know that. We travel together once or twice a month. Sometimes he’ll have a woman in another town. He falls in love with them, or he thinks he does, and then he wants to marry them.”
Geraldine looked at me from the corner of her eye. “You’ve seen this before,” she said.
He gulped and nodded. “When his wife is ill—when she goes away—there’s always a lady to come and keep house for him. It’s—well, it’s one of his girls.”
“Are you saying,” I asked, “that when his wife becomes ill, he brings a lady-friend to town to keep him company, or are you saying that he sends his wife away under the pretense of illness because he prefers the company of another woman?”
Mr. Townley turned around and banged his palm against the window. The rattle of the panes made us both jump.
“I never knew he had his eye on Virginia,” he said, looking out the window at the street below. “I never knew, or I never bothered to ask. Charlie was a good friend to me when my wife died. He introduced me to . . .”
His voice trailed off as he put the pieces together. “He introduced me to Virginia.”
23
we sent Mr. Townley into a state of high alarm, but he was able to compose himself long enough to assure us of his readiness to file a divorce suit against his wife. Geraldine warned him that the next step was the most delicate: photographs of the erring couple must be taken and entered into evidence. She begged him to stay calm, and if he happened to see Charles Kayser or Virginia, to act as if nothing was amiss.
“Why, I’ll be on a train to Scranton with Charlie in another week,” he said, red-faced. “I’m not any kind of actor. What’ll I do about that?”
“Change your plans,” said Geraldine. “Come down with a case of dyspepsia or a head cold. Just stay away from him. And if your wife comes back—”
“She won’t,” he said dispiritedly.
“If she does, act as if nothing’s wrong. Make it easy for her to go out again. The picture’s the thing, Mr. Townley.”
When we left his office, Geraldine pulled a scrap of paper from her purse. “This is going exactly as I’d hoped. The trouble is that I don’t know a reliable photographer in New Jersey, and the rates to send someone over from New York would be awfully high. But there’s an attorney in Paterson who handles divorce cases, so I’ve made an appointment for us. It would be better for him to represent Mr. Townley anyway, and I’ll take Anna Kayser.”
“Who’s the attorney in Paterson?” I asked.
She showed me the paper. “John Ward. Do you know him?”
I had to admit that I did know him. For a brief time, John Ward represented Henry Kaufman, the man who harassed my family a few years earlier. Mr. Kaufman fired him, and went into court with a poor defense, which seemed to have worked in our favor as we won the case. Sheriff Heath and John Ward were friends of many years, although the two men couldn’t have been less alike. The sheriff served divorce papers on behalf of John Ward’s clients, and sought Ward’s advice on legal matters pertaining to the sheriff’s office.
“I know him,” I said. “And he’s expecting us this afternoon? You must have been awfully confident about our meeting with Mr. Townley.”
Geraldine waved her hand in the air dismissively. “Poor old Joe. What choice did he have?”
We arrived in Paterson with little time to spare, and walked right up to John Ward’s office. I’d been there only once before but knew the way.
The door bore the name of the firm, Ward & McGinnis, in fresh stenciling, and when we walked in, I was astonished to see that the office had been completely transformed and that a new girl sat at the desk. Gone were the red carpets and the mahogany panels. Gone were the Chinese lacquer pots and the fan palms. The room had been made over entirely in white and gold, with a pale carpet of the faintest green, and a delicate chandelier dripping in gold filigree that hung over a desk of honey-colored wood.
Sitting at that desk was a Scandinavian beauty with aquamarine eyes and hair as white as corn-silk. Even Geraldine seemed taken aback.
“Have we come to a law office?”
The girl gave a little gasp. “What do you think of it? I’ve only just had it redone.”
Geraldine turned around in a circle and said, “It is the most beautiful office I’ve ever seen. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been in a room quite like it.”
The girl looked pleased. “Mr. Ward told me to spend whatever it cost. He wanted all traces of the former . . . well, of the old ways taken away.”
I thought the last receptionist was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen, until I met this one. I was beginning to suspect a pattern.
“I believe we have an appointment,” I told the girl, and gave our names.
She consulted a little white calfskin appointment book. Just as she did, a crash came from the room behind her, and the sound of breaking glass. She looked up as if she hadn’t heard it. “They’re waiting for you.”
“They?” Geraldine asked.
“Mr. McGinnis is in today as well.” Something hit a w
all with a dull thud, followed by muffled laughter. She lifted an eyebrow in the direction of the noise and said, “They found a game of parlor croquet in a closet, and they play it violently. It’s best to knock.”
She did so, rapping on the door behind her desk officiously. That brought about the sound of furniture sliding around and a low but animated argument between two men. Geraldine wore a look of delighted fascination.
“They share an office,” I explained. “They always have.”
At last the door opened, and we were greeted by a flushed and panting Peter McGinnis. He was a round-faced, red-haired jovial man whose green eyes and freckles made him look perpetually boyish. John Ward came up behind him, a lanky man with curly hair that flopped over his forehead and a scheming squint to his eyes. He wore a wide grin and kept a pipe clenched between his teeth.
“Ladies!” Mr. Ward called, opening the door wide. “Petey was just letting me beat him at croquet. Miss Ericson, what do you suppose these ladies might take at this hour? My aunt takes a drink called a Presbyterian, with Scotch and mint and enough ginger ale to hide the color of the Scotch. Could we interest you girls in a thing like that?”
“I don’t know where I’d find the mint,” Miss Ericson said anxiously.
“No one bothers with the mint,” Mr. Ward said, grinning at Geraldine.
Mr. McGinnis took his croquet mallet—it was one of those toy-sized mallets, with the paint chipped off—and bent over to knock a ball against Mr. Ward’s feet. “You’re offering drinks to a sworn officer of the law, Jack. She’s a deputy now.”
“Yes, and I’m on duty myself,” Geraldine said. She swept into the room and bent down to scoop up the ball and hand it back to Mr. McGinnis. “Where would you like us?”
The chairs had all been moved out of the way to make room for the croquet hoops. Mr. McGinnis hastened to put them back where they belonged, and we each took our seats. The men sat at either end of an enormous partner’s desk, where a rudimentary game of table-top croquet had been set up, with golf balls and little paper tents.
“I thought a Presbyterian was gin and ginger,” said Mr. McGinnis.
“It might be. A Methodist is the same drink, only with sarsaparilla. Say, now, Miss . . .” Mr. Ward turned to us, leaning across the desk on his elbows, “Geraldine, is it? I’m sorry . . .”
“Miss Rodgers,” Geraldine said. “I’ve come to bring you a client. He might just like one of those drinks of yours.”
“Divorce, isn’t it?” said Mr. Ward. “It’s a specialty of ours. I don’t know any drinks particular to the institution, however. We should have one called the Willful Deserter. Write that down, Petey.”
Mr. McGinnis did. “Yes, and what about Failure to Support?”
Mr. Ward said, “It sounds like a stingy drink, but that describes half our clients. I hope this one has some money.”
I was beginning to remember why Sheriff Heath tried to avoid afternoon meetings with Mr. Ward. They started into their liquor early and rarely got anything done after three.
Geraldine said, “I’m afraid we have an ordinary adultery case for you. There are pictures to be taken, if you can manage it.”
Mr. McGinnis straightened up a little in his chair. Mr. Ward said, “We manage it better than anyone else on the Atlantic seaboard. Petey’s a champion photographer and a master illusionist. We’ve dressed him up as a theater usher, a milk-man, and a cleaning lady, all in pursuit of the truth.”
“A cleaning lady!” Geraldine said. Mr. McGinnis smiled, pleased, his cheeks pink behind their orange freckles.
“I loaned him my best pink duster. He filled it out nicely,” Mr. Ward said.
“The milk-man will do just fine,” Geraldine said. “But the lady spooks easily, so get it right the first time.”
“They all spook easily,” Mr. Ward said. “Why does this one have the attention of the Gentlewoman Deputy?”
I told him about Anna Kayser’s commitment to Morris Plains and he gave a low whistle. “Had his own wife committed? It’s an old trick, but a dependable one. My great-uncle Pop sent his first wife away and got another one just like your fellow did. Used to call it the poor man’s divorce. All it took was a doctor willing to take payment in chicken eggs or pork bellies.”
“You never told me about any Uncle Pop,” Mr. McGinnis said.
“His name was Whatcoat, but he wouldn’t answer to it.”
If we didn’t leave soon, I feared we’d be there all afternoon hearing about Uncle Pop. “The picture, gentlemen,” I said, rising to my feet. They jumped up and Geraldine followed suit. “This week, if at all possible. We have a perfectly sane woman in an asylum who would very much like not to sample the electrical therapy or the lithia tablets. Let’s do her a good turn. And please keep this to yourselves, as I am involved in an unofficial capacity.”
“Do you mean to say that Mr. Sheriff doesn’t know you’re here?” Mr. Ward said delightedly. “I didn’t know you were capable of running a con, Miss Deputy.”
“It isn’t a con. Only—I’d appreciate your discretion.”
I meant to leave in as dignified and expedient a manner as possible, but before I could, Miss Ericson knocked at the door and came in wearing a chinchilla set. Mr. Ward shrieked and Mr. McGinnis collapsed in laughter.
“You know that thing terrifies me,” Mr. Ward said, rushing to the door and batting her away, while keeping one hand dramatically over his eyes. “I was bitten by a weasel as a small child and I can’t go near them.”
She giggled. “It isn’t a weasel, and it can’t bite you.” She waved the snout at him and he fell back in horror.
“I don’t know how you afford to feed that thing. We pay you too much, Miss Ericson.”
“Yes, you do,” she called, and waved good-night. “Lock the door when you leave.”
Geraldine handed Mr. Ward her card. “Telephone the minute you have those photographs.”
“I’ll get them tonight, if it means I can telephone you,” Mr. Ward said. “What does a lady lawyer get up to in the evenings in New York?”
“What does a married man get up to in Paterson?” Geraldine retorted.
“You’d never guess,” Mr. Ward said, bouncing his pipe up and down between his teeth.
“Oh, I might.”
24
i wanted very much to write to Mrs. Kayser and tell her that we were working on securing her release, but I knew the doctors would read her mail. I had to hope that she was safe, at least, and looked after, and that Ward & McGinnis would get their pictures quickly.
We were now only two weeks away from the election. I hadn’t seen Mr. Courter again and had no idea whether he knew what Geraldine and I had been up to. The business of campaigning occupied more and more of Sheriff Heath’s time, so that I rarely saw him, either. In fact, I read about him in the paper more often than I spoke to him. The papers had nothing new or unusual to report, only that Sheriff Heath and William Conklin were out speaking to one group or another about their program of reform and social change.
I’d managed to stay out of Cordelia Heath’s way, too, until a Tuesday morning when I was summoned down from the fifth floor to register a new inmate. I went to collect her from the interviewing room where she’d been made to wait, but I found Cordelia standing in the corridor, blocking my way. She was dressed for a luncheon, in a stiff silk dress of shimmering pale lilac.
It was unusual to find her anywhere inside the jail proper: she tended to stay within her own apartment and the sheriff’s office. She’d never once gone looking for me specifically, so I assumed she was searching for her husband.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Heath,” I said. “I haven’t seen the sheriff. I’m on my way to bring in a new inmate, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Yes, I know,” Cordelia said. “I want to tell you about her before you go in.”
That was enough to stop me in my tracks. What was Mrs. Heath doing, interfering with my inmates?
Cordelia looked up and down the corri
dor. We were entirely alone, and the metal doors at each end were both closed. There were plenty of places at the jail where one might be overheard—the inmates even talked to one another through the steam pipes—but those stark brick walls were impervious to eavesdropping.
Nonetheless, Cordelia whispered. I had to bend over to hear her. “That’s Mrs. Pattengill who’s been arrested.”
“Do you mean the lady from the jail tour? Isn’t she a friend of yours?”
Cordelia looked around anxiously. “Yes. I don’t have to tell you that she runs in all the same circles as . . . well, you know. She’s acquainted with so many of my husband’s friends.”
I was beginning to get the idea, and I didn’t like it.
“What I mean to say,” she continued, as it must’ve been apparent that I wasn’t sympathetic to her perspective, “is that those individuals most likely to endorse Mr. Heath, or to contribute to his campaign, are known to Mrs. Pattengill. It’s unfortunate that she’s here, but as it is unavoidable, we must show her our hospitality.”
She followed that with a faint misplaced smile and a pat on my arm. I wanted very much to withdraw the arm, but fought the urge.
“Has there been some mistake, Mrs. Heath? Has Mrs. Pattengill been wrongly arrested?” I asked.
Her eyes flew open. “Oh! I haven’t an idea, but I imagine so. It’s something to do with funds raised for a charity. I don’t pretend to understand it. Only—we can’t afford a single misstep right now. You do understand that, don’t you, Miss Kopp?”
“I suppose.”
“Mr. Heath has been under a terrible strain lately, and we’ve two more weeks to go until the election. Neither one of us wish to see his office in the papers again, in such an unfavorable light.”