Shadows of the White City

by Jocelyn Green

  “Do I ever put dishes away at all?”

  “Excellent point.” Kristof unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled them to the elbows, and ran water and soap into the sink while he methodically inspected every dish in the cupboard, dunking into the suds those that didn’t pass muster.

  Gregor raised his eyebrows, lips twisting. “So now you’re paying her, and you’re doing her work.” Shaking his head, he sauntered away to his bedroom.

  His words stuck where they landed. Gregor was being paid to be concertmaster, and he wasn’t doing his work either. Kristof’s hands stilled beneath the water. Sylvie had admitted she had trouble drawing a line between her responsibility and someone else’s. But here Kristof was doing the same thing, redoing tasks that weren’t his to begin with.

  Sylvie had hinted at that, too, and he’d shut her down.

  Hang it all. She’d been right.

  Should he find Lottie elsewhere in the building and make her come back to finish washing? That would only take her away from cleaning for Sylvie or Karl and Anna. No good. Next time he saw her, he decided, he would gently explain that she needed to raise her standard if she hoped to be a domestic elsewhere. She could have been dismissed for her negligence.

  Minutes passed. The skin on his finger pads wrinkled while he washed and rinsed every dish. Done at last, he withdrew from the sink and dried his hands on a towel before hanging it back on its hook. Absently, he watched the soapy water whirl down the drain. Finishing Lottie’s job was one thing—he couldn’t very well eat off dirty dishes. But what would happen if he didn’t do Gregor’s work for him? It would affect the entire orchestra. Was that a risk he was willing to take? Would he give Gregor a chance to rise to the challenge, or was he so convinced his brother would fail that he didn’t allow him room to succeed?

  Kristof dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. As a young man, he’d felt nearly crushed by his father’s low expectations for him. How could he do the same to Gregor? He raked his fingers through his hair. This was different, he told himself. There was more at stake. If Gregor didn’t do his job correctly, then . . .

  Then Kristof would decide what to do at that point. Enough quibbling.

  He stood. “Gregor,” he called. “We need to talk.”

  Gregor emerged from his room freshly shaven, in a crisp white shirt he was still buttoning. “Yes?”

  “I’m done being concertmaster and conductor both. It’s time for you to step up.”

  “Not a good idea. You won’t like how I do it.” He pressed his arm against his middle and buttoned the cuff.

  “I write the musical phrasing in the master score, and you copy it into each musician’s copy, exactly as I’ve done it for each section. That’s all you have to do. Copy.”

  “Copying, dear brother, is not my style.”

  Typical. “Your style has nothing to do with it.” Annoyance surged. “For once, don’t concern yourself with being special and instead be concerned about doing this right. Not everything you do needs to be about your own glory.”

  “It hurts!” Gregor slapped his chest. “Oh, how the truth hurts!” Laughing, he tucked his shirt into his trousers.

  Kristof waited for a more satisfying response. It didn’t come. “I need you to take this seriously. I need you to prove you’re capable of the honor of being concertmaster and first chair.” He opened his leather valise and pulled out a folder fat with sheet music. “I’ve already marked my scores for the pieces in Friday’s program. You need to copy the rest, tonight, to hand to the orchestra at tomorrow’s rehearsal. They need time with the music before we perform on Friday.”

  The humor fled Gregor’s eyes. “There are one hundred and fifty members. You expect me to mark everything before morning?”

  “Perhaps I won’t be the only one staying home tonight.” It was all he could do to keep from demanding Gregor cancel his plans.

  “Not a chance. I’m going. If I need to stay up late to get it done, I will, but I won’t back out of my evening plans. They’re counting on me.”

  “I’m counting on you.”

  “Are you?” A glint of mischief entered Gregor’s eye. “I’d wager that by the time I get home tonight, my work will magically be done for me. As always.”

  That was Kristof’s fault. Sylvie had been right. Gregor had no reason to feel accountable, none at all, based on their previous pattern. That all changed now. “No more wagering, remember? Especially not on this.”

  Gregor disappeared into his room again. “Whatever you say, Maestro.”

  Kristof’s jaw hardened, and he ducked into the bathroom to wash his face and neck. The cool water soothed his warm skin but did little to abate the heat within. Returning to his bedroom, he removed his own shirt, now damp with the day’s perspiration, and pulled out his bureau drawer for a fresh undershirt. At least the bureau was free of dust, he noted.

  And the top drawer was free of something else. His heart skipped a beat as he felt beneath the stacks of undershirts for last week’s wages. With so many banks failing these days, Kristof wasn’t eager to put all of his salary into the bank anymore. After cashing the check, he was sure he’d put the cash right here. One hundred and fifty dollars.

  Gone.

  He slammed the drawer shut and opened the next, then the next, until he’d rummaged through every one of them.

  Gregor appeared in the doorway, his hair shining with pomade, a dinner jacket draped over an arm. “Do you have something to say to me?”

  “My wages from last week are gone.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Help yourself.” Kristof gestured toward the ransacked bureau. “I hope you find it.”

  He didn’t.

  “Please tell me that at least your wages are safe,” Kristof said.

  “They were right where I put them this morning.”

  “And now?”

  Frowning, Gregor marched back to his room, Kristof on his heels, watching as he opened a cigar box he kept on his nightstand. He saw cuff links and matchsticks inside, a ticket stub or coat check claim. But no money.

  “Three hundred dollars.” Kristof felt as though he’d been punched. “It didn’t vanish into thin air.” He sank to the edge of the bed. “Only one other person comes in here.” And she was desperate for money by her own admission.

  Gregor hooked a thumb in his trouser pocket, shifting his weight where he stood. “Lottie might have moved the money while cleaning and just didn’t put it back. It could be around here somewhere. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll help you sort this out when I get back.”

  Kristof barely heard him leave. He was already back in his own room, pulling on a fresh shirt, putting to rights the clothing he’d rumpled in his search, and at the same time reordering his thoughts. Lottie had no business even opening Gregor’s cigar box. As for his bureau drawers, she only opened those to put away cleaned and folded clothes, but she hadn’t done laundry today.

  Rose’s violin case remained on the floor, since Sylvie couldn’t bear to have the reminder in her apartment. Kneeling beside it, he unfastened the buckles to reassure himself it was there. It was, thank goodness. Perhaps Lottie hadn’t realized she could get money for the instrument, as well.

  Sitting on his heels, he rubbed a hand over his face, trying not to feel the theft as a personal betrayal. He was already paying Lottie, who had no references or experience. He was patient, or trying to be. And this was how she repaid him.

  Did she not know any better? Was her mother truly on death’s doorstep? Three hundred dollars! It was a staggering amount of cash, far more than a doctor’s visit and medicine would amount to. Exactly what kind of girl was this housekeeper?

  Sylvie locked up the bookstore twenty minutes early. All she wanted to do was curl up in her apartment with a cup of peppermint tea. The headache pushing against skin and bone hadn’t released her since she’d seen Rose’s gown at the Fair on Monday.

  That afternoon, she’d gone directly to the clothing shop on Clark Stre
et and inquired about when the dress had come in and who had brought it. The manager had laughed at her. “You expect me to remember who brings in what, and when, with a full description of their physical appearance?” he had said. “Why not ask their birthdates and addresses along with their names?” His sarcasm had stung. It was another dead end. She was surrounded by them.

  Removing the pins from the base of her skull, she freed the lower portions of her hair and massaged her scalp, hoping to relieve some pressure. It helped, some.

  In the corner, the fern drooped, its arms hanging over its pedestal, as if it were as utterly spent as she was. The brittle edges of the leaves were curling. She couldn’t bring herself to care. Instead, she put the teakettle on to boil, sank into a chair, and measured the emptiness around her.

  Flanking the fireplace in the parlor, bookcases leaned against walls papered with blushing peonies on a ground of sage-green vines. A leather armchair her father had favored still bore a depression where he’d sat with books or newspapers. A clock clicked on the mantel beside a framed photograph from Meg and Nate’s wedding and a vase of dried roses left over from the occasion. The only other decoration in the room was a portrait Meg had painted for her of Lucy Snowe, the heroine in Charlotte Bronte’s Villette, and a stuffed bird in a cage on a stand in the corner.

  She owned nothing from her childhood and certainly nothing from generations past. No quilt passed down from her mother, no cross-stitched sampler from her grandmother. She had very little from before October 1871, and those few treasures she kept in her bedroom. She did not even own doilies to spread over the green upholstered sofa and wingback chair. There was something about losing almost everything in a fire that made her resist acquiring material possessions that could burn.

  Except for books, which had always been faithful companions. But just now she was so lonely she could scarcely draw air around the hollow between her ribs.

  A light knock sounded at the door, and the hinge squeaked as Lottie let herself in. “Oh! Miss Townsend. I didn’t know you’d be here. I just came to pick up my bonnet. It’s right over there on the sofa.”

  Sylvie gasped. “Lottie!” she cried. “What are you wearing?”

  Startled, Lottie looked down at the dress beneath her apron. “I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean! And why shouldn’t I have a nice dress to wear?”

  Either Sylvie was genuinely losing her wits, or that dress was Rose’s navy-and-white gingham day dress, with a ruffle at each shoulder above sleeves that were barely puffed at all. It had been the simplest Rose had owned but remained in excellent condition. “Where did you get it? When?”

  “A charity bin at St. Michael’s, on Sunday. The nicest I ever did wear, even if it is a little too long in the hem. I’m sure I can fix that, but I didn’t have time and I—I wanted to look nice for work.” Her cheeks flushed with the confession. Her neatly plaited hair bore testimony that she had indeed taken extra effort. “Some ladies say that we are what we wear. I only wanted to be decent for once. Almost pretty.” She spread out the skirt. “No one could tell I live in a rear tenement on DeKoven Street from this, could they? Don’t you like it?”

  “Of course I do.” Sylvie choked on the words. “You look lovely. And if I remember correctly, the hem shouldn’t be challenging to rip out and re-sew.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I hemmed it myself.”

  “This was yours?”

  “Rozalia’s.” It was excruciating, seeing pieces of Rose over and over like this and still having no idea where she was sixteen days after she went missing. So much could happen in that time. Too much.

  Lottie’s countenance clouded. “Don’t tell Ivan that. He’d probably take it right back and say I’m not good enough to wear it. He was the one who found it for me in the church charity bin. I don’t recall the last time he gave me a present.”

  Sylvie crossed to the sofa in the parlor and sat, the champagne folds of her dress spreading about her. “Is his new job working out?”

  Lottie sat beside her. “He won’t say much about it, but the hours are good, and he is bringing home more cash. He doesn’t say much of anything.”

  “I see.” Sylvie fingered the crocheted trim at her elbow. “Are the two of you close?”

  “The thing about Ivan is that you don’t know what he’s thinking or feeling, sometimes, until he’s yelling about it. He hasn’t hurt Matka or me, but sometimes I worry he might. He told me once that when a person loves something, they hold on to it to keep it safe. To keep it from running away and getting hurt. Like that.” Lottie nodded to the stuffed bird in the cage. “Once, after I told him he was scaring me, he said that if scaring me was what it took, then he didn’t mind doing it because he was protecting me from myself. From my own ideas and plans. He said if it took more than scaring me, he’d do that too. Like our father did.” She shrugged again, as if to dismiss the entire conversation.

  A chill raced up Sylvie’s spine as each revelation unfolded. Could Ivan, the son of an abusive father, be holding tight to Rose even now? He’d said he didn’t know where Rose was, but he could have been lying.

  The teakettle whistled in the kitchen. Only when it reached a frenzied pitch did Sylvie register the sound and excuse herself to set her tea to brew. When she returned to the parlor, Lottie looked like a bird ready to take flight. Sylvie ought not ask more questions. She ought not push her further today.

  Lowering herself beside the young woman, she offered a reassuring smile. “Let’s see about that hem.” She made no remark on the worn and tattered condition of Lottie’s boots, string in place of shoelaces, as she turned up the hem to inspect the seam. “Just as I thought,” she said. “I hand-stitched this, so the stitches aren’t very small. You’ll have no trouble slipping a ripper beneath the thread.”

  Lottie flipped up another portion of the skirt, exposing a petticoat beneath. She ran her finger along the hem. “What’s this?” She unpinned a small white tag from where the hem met the seam that ran to the waist.

  “May I see?”

  Lottie handed it over, and Sylvie read aloud. “‘Laundered by the staff at—’” She lost her breath.

  “What is it? What does it say?”

  Sylvie was already on her feet when a knock on the door jolted through her. Laundry ticket clutched in one hand, she opened it to find Kristof, his hair disheveled, face drawn. As eager as she was to blurt out what she’d just discovered, the seriousness of his expression stopped her cold. Something was dreadfully wrong.

  His gaze went immediately to her hair. Though silver combs still held it back from her face at the sides, the rest fell in waves down her back. “I’m intruding,” he said. “But I’m afraid I must, if Lottie is here. I thought I heard you talking, and I have a serious matter to discuss with her. You may as well be part of it. I’m sorry, Sylvie. I wish this weren’t the case.”

  Bewildered, Sylvie closed the door behind him.

  Lottie stood beside the sofa, clutching her bonnet. “What is it, Mr. Bartok?”

  He marched toward her, but when the girl shrank back, Kristof went no farther, allowing several feet to remain between him and their young housekeeper. “Lottie, I need to ask you something, and I want you to be honest. Tell the truth, and we’ll work it out, I promise.” He paused. “My wages from last week are missing. So are my brother’s. That’s three hundred dollars.”

  Lottie dropped the bonnet and covered her mouth. “You think I stole three hundred dollars?”

  Shock stole Sylvie’s speech. Memories assaulted her of how destitute Lottie had been when she and Beth had found her on the steps of Carrie Watson’s, of her insistent questions about when she’d be paid, even before she’d done any work. Lottie had forgotten to lock the apartment door before, so perhaps the same neglect at the Bartoks’ had allowed a thief easy access. Sylvie hated to think so. She didn’t want to imagine that Lottie had anything to do with this, by accident or intention.

  “That’s w
hat I wanted to ask you. I don’t want to assume anything,” he went on, “but you are the only person who comes into our apartment, and you are in there, alone, for hours. Now, I realize your mother’s declining health generates expenses, but—”

  Tears filled Lottie’s eyes. “I wouldn’t do that, Mr. Bartok. I never stole a thing from you. Why would I, when you’re the one who pays me?”

  A cloud passed over the sun, muting every color. “What about Ivan?” Sylvie asked quietly. “On occasion you’ve forgotten to lock the door when you finish cleaning. Did Ivan tell you to do that? Could he have come in and taken the money?” Even suggesting the idea was abhorrent to her, but she had to ask.

  Thunder grumbled in the distance. “He’s working now. And he never said to do any such thing, I swear it.” Lottie lifted the hem of her apron to her nose. “And if he had, I wouldn’t have done it. I can’t blame you for not thinking much of my morals after the way you found me, but all I have is my word.”

  Was that enough?

  Tension charged the atmosphere. The wind sweeping through the window and ruffling through the fern in the corner did nothing to thin it.

  “There must be some misunderstanding,” Sylvie ventured at last. “May I speak with you, Kristof?”

  He followed her into the kitchen. The rumbling outside grew louder, and plates rattled in the cupboard. Kristof looked haggard and wary. Her fingers itched to smooth both the worry and suspicion from his brow.

  “Remember the bail money I paid to release Beth from jail?” she whispered. “Beth came to repay me one day when I wasn’t here. She left the money on the kitchen table while Lottie was cleaning my apartment. She could have taken it before I returned from work, and I never would have known. Why would Lottie leave that alone and then steal from you and Gregor?”

  “Her family needs money. She’s loyal to them. It’s not unthinkable.”

  Sylvie walked back and beckoned Lottie closer. “Could you have moved the money or misplaced it? Can you offer any ideas as to what might have happened?”