Murder, She Reported

by Peg Cochran

  Elizabeth sank into one of the chairs with a loud sigh. She put her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes.

  The sound of water running startled her and she sat up abruptly, her eyes flying open, her ears at attention.

  The noise was coming from one of the stalls—small rooms with a real door and an individual sink and vanity—that were off the sitting area. Elizabeth had thought she was alone but was obviously mistaken.

  The running water stopped and she heard someone crying. She tiptoed across the plush carpet and listened.

  The sound was unmistakable—someone was having a good cry in one of the stalls. One of the debutantes?

  Elizabeth knocked on the door.

  “Is everything all right?”

  A loud sniff, a hiccough and a small voice answered, “I’m fine, thank you.”

  Elizabeth retrieved a new flashbulb and inserted it without thinking.

  “If there’s anything I can do…” Elizabeth leaned against the wall. “Can I get you a tissue?”

  The knob rattled and the door slowly opened. Gloria DeWitt’s famous face appeared in the gap—tearstained and with makeup smudged.

  Afterward Elizabeth wasn’t sure how it had happened. She couldn’t have done it on purpose, but somehow she had.

  She’d pushed the button and her flash had gone off.

  Chapter 2

  “You took my picture!” Gloria’s hands flew to her face.

  “I-I’m sorry,” Elizabeth stuttered. “I’m supposed to be taking photographs for the Daily Trumpet.”

  Gloria grabbed Elizabeth’s shoulders. “You can’t possibly use that! What would people think?”

  Elizabeth had pressed the button without realizing it, the flash startling her almost as much as it had Gloria. What had gotten into her? She would never take advantage of someone and that’s exactly what she had done—sneaking a picture of Gloria when she was so obviously in distress.

  “I’ll destroy it. I promise.” Elizabeth put a hand on Gloria’s arm, which was cool to the touch. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  Gloria nodded and swiped at her eyes. They were the largest eyes Elizabeth had ever seen—and so dark it was impossible to distinguish the pupil. They were framed by long lashes made longer by liberal applications of mascara and punctuated with thick brows that arched in the middle giving Gloria a perpetually surprised appearance. Her skin was a pale milky white that set off her dark hair and eyes. She was the girl of the season, the girl everyone was talking about, the girl everyone wanted to be.

  Gloria’s hands shook as she reached for her evening bag.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Elizabeth asked.

  Gloria gave a strained smile. “I’m fine. To quote the bard, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth.’ ”

  Elizabeth knew better than to pry. “I’m Elizabeth Adams,” she said, as Gloria sat down at the vanity, dug a cotton swab from her bag and removed the smudged makeup from under her eyes. “You probably don’t remember, but we met at the Van Aldens’ house party last year.”

  Gloria seemed grateful for the change of subject. She rolled her eyes. “Rex Van Alden is the most dreadful bore, isn’t he?” She scrutinized Elizabeth’s face.

  “Shouldn’t you be in the ballroom with the rest of the debutantes?” Elizabeth asked.

  Gloria groaned. “Frances will be furious.”

  “Who is Frances?”

  “My stepmother.” She leaned toward the mirror again with a powder puff in her hand. She dabbed it on her nose removing the slight tinge of red—a remnant of her crying jag.

  “I imagine she must be worried,” Elizabeth said.

  Gloria spun around. “Oh, Frances doesn’t give a fig about me. It’s only that she’s anxious to marry me off, you see. She’s found this dusty old fellow named Albert Wetmore. Of the Palm Beach Wetmores,” Gloria said, putting on an affected nasal voice. “He’s got pots of money and Frances would like to get her hands on some of it.”

  She must have noticed the look on Elizabeth’s face. “Oh, we’re hardly penniless or anything like that. It’s only that Frances has very expensive tastes.”

  Gloria again focused on her image in the mirror and carefully filled in her lush lips with bright red lipstick.

  “Frances is meant to be father’s companion in his old age. Heaven knows where he found her. Her pedigree is highly suspicious. No one seems to know her, and you know how our set is, everyone knows everyone. Sarah Decker thinks Frances used to be a chorus girl, but Tommy Tuck insists she was a…well, you know…a lady of the night as they used to be called.”

  Elizabeth noticed that Gloria’s hand was steady now and her eyes were dry. When she turned toward Elizabeth, she once again looked like the girl whose face the public had fallen in love with.

  “At any rate, she’s clearly after father’s money. Of course, it’s all tied up in trusts that old Mr. Butler, our family’s lawyer, arranged before he finally expired, the old gasbag. All aboveboard and legal, of course. Nothing Frances can do about it.” She looked Elizabeth up and down. “What about you? You aren’t dressed for the ball. Why aren’t you going?”

  “I am,” Elizabeth said. “Only not in the usual sense. I told you—I’m here to take photographs for the Daily Trumpet.”

  “I didn’t think you were serious. But darling, what on earth for? Don’t tell me your family has sent you out to work?”

  “Hardly. It’s my choice.”

  Gloria was pulling a brush through her glossy dark hair when the door to the ladies’ room flew open.

  “What do you think you’re doing hiding in here?” a woman demanded.

  She was tall and slim with wavy shoulder length platinum blond hair. She looked to be about thirty-five.

  She was wearing a Schiaparelli dress that Elizabeth remembered seeing in one of the latest fashion magazines. It must have come straight from Paris. It was black crepe de chine with small flowers embroidered on a bodice shimmering with paillettes.

  Elizabeth would have known the gown was expensive even if she hadn’t seen the scandalous price tag in the magazine. A decade ago her mother would have purchased it without thinking and her father would have paid the bill without a single flinch. Her family had been fortunate. They’d lost very little during the Great Depression thanks to her father’s aversion to any sort of gambling or risk-taking—which was how he equally viewed betting on horse races and the stock market.

  But the suffering of others—it was impossible to ignore the breadlines that snaked around entire city blocks—had left its mark and he no longer countenanced outrageous expenditures like frocks from Paris that cost hundreds and hundreds of dollars.

  “Well?” the woman demanded again, her nostrils flaring as she stared at Gloria.

  Gloria looked at her, her expression calm. “I was feeling unwell. I’m better now.” She exchanged a conspiratorial glance with Elizabeth as she dropped her tube of lipstick into her beaded evening bag and snapped it shut.

  “Elizabeth, this is my father’s wife, Frances DeWitt,” Gloria said and turned to Frances. “Frances, this is Elizabeth Adams. We met at the Van Aldens’ house party last year. You do remember the Van Aldens, don’t you?”

  Frances looked momentarily flustered. “Yes. Of course I do.” She looked Elizabeth over and raised her eyebrows. “But aren’t you coming to the ball? Surely you were on the invitation list.”

  Elizabeth looked down at her brown wool coat, which was still damp around the hem. “Not this time,” she said.

  “Elizabeth is working for the Daily Trumpet,” Gloria said as she pulled on her elbow-length white gloves.

  Frances’s face became animated. “I imagine you’ve taken Gloria’s picture?”

  Another look passed between Gloria and Elizabeth. Elizabeth read the warning in her gaze.r />
  “Not yet.”

  “But you must.” Frances bit her lip. “Unfortunately, we’re already late. Come up to the ballroom after the presentations are over, and I’ll see to it that you get as many photographs of Gloria as you like.”

  Elizabeth cleared her throat. “And an interview? The Daily Trumpet would like an exclusive if possible.”

  Frances took a deep breath. “Of course. We’ve been reading the Daily Trumpet for years. I simply adore Miss Draper’s column. It’s a dreadful shame that it isn’t possible to do the pictures at the moment, but we’re late as it is.” She twisted the large gold and diamond ring on her finger around and around. “Do promise you’ll find us after the presentations. There will be plenty of time then for an interview and all the pictures you’d like.”

  Gloria arched one perfectly shaped brow. “Do you think it’s wise to give an exclusive?” she asked Frances with the hint of a smile playing around her lips. “There may be other papers that want—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Frances snapped. “The Daily Trumpet is the most read paper in town. This is a wonderful opportunity.”

  “It’s a cheap gossip rag,” Gloria said, giving Elizabeth a snide look.

  Elizabeth felt herself stiffen. The Daily Trumpet was certainly not the venerable New York Times, but it boasted a Pulitzer Prize–winner—a strange fellow with a stutter whom Elizabeth had caught a glimpse of once or twice. He’d done an in-depth and controversial piece on the Ku Klux Klan that had won him the prize.

  “Don’t pay any attention to my stepdaughter,” Frances said. “And I’m sorry but we must go.”

  She glanced at the small diamond watch on her left wrist then grabbed her stepdaughter by the arm. Elizabeth couldn’t help but notice the white imprint her fingers left on Gloria’s pale flesh.

  * * *

  —

  Elizabeth spent some time in front of the mirror repairing her own face with a bit of powder and a fresh coat of lipstick. She unpinned her hat and ran a comb through her dark hair, which was still slightly damp from the rain that had started on their walk to the Waldorf. Fortunately she’d put her hair up in pin curls the night before and that, combined with its slight natural wave, had helped to maintain the set.

  She angled her hat just so, anchored it securely with several hatpins, checked the seams in her stockings and headed back to the lobby.

  Kaminsky had returned from the bar and was slumped in a chair. He got up when he saw Elizabeth headed in his direction.

  “Did you get any pictures of Gloria DeWitt?” he asked as soon as Elizabeth was near enough to hear. Judging by the smell of alcohol that emanated from him, he’d had more than a few shots of Old Schenley’s while he waited.

  Elizabeth hesitated. “No, I didn’t.” She looked down at her feet so her expression wouldn’t give her away. “But she’s agreed to an exclusive interview and some pictures after the presentation.”

  “Attagirl, Biz. Now how about we go up to the ballroom and get a couple of pictures of these swells dancing.”

  Elizabeth followed Kaminsky to the elevator. She could hear the whooshing of the car as it descended. The “up” light went out and the doors slid open soundlessly releasing a burst of perfumed air. A woman in a black cocktail dress and a mink jacket walked out. Her miniature poodle, resplendent in a rhinestone collar, trailed dutifully behind her.

  The elevator operator, looking very official in a uniform studded with gold buttons, closed the doors. Elizabeth and Kaminsky stood in silence as the elevator swept them to the third floor. Within seconds, the air inside the car no longer smelled of perfume but of onions, whiskey and damp wool—like a seedy bar at the end of a rainy Saturday night.

  They exited on the third floor where the Silver Corridor led to the Grand Ballroom. The floor was lined with black-and-white tiles like a chessboard turned on the diagonal, with massive crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling providing subtle lighting that threw giant shadows against the red walls.

  Music drifted from the open doors of the ballroom’s East Foyer—the orchestra was playing “The Way You Look Tonight,” a song that Fred Astaire had made popular two years before in the movie Swing Time.

  The song was very romantic and Elizabeth wondered if she would ever meet someone. She’d certainly dated—boys in her own set whose parents knew her parents—but none of them had swept her off her feet. She was beginning to doubt that would ever happen. Maybe she was doomed to be a spinster career girl, and if that was the case she’d better make a go of this job at the Daily Trumpet.

  The floor of the Grand Ballroom was filled with whirling figures, the girls’ dresses billowing out around them.

  The ballroom soared four stories high and was lit by a custom-made crystal chandelier sixteen feet in diameter. Elaborately draped tables with centerpieces dripping with flowers ringed the dance floor and the tiers of boxes towering above.

  The people seated at the tables were as elaborately gowned and made-up as the young girls on the dance floor. Elizabeth noticed Frances DeWitt at one of the tables. She was opening a gold cigarette case. Light from the chandelier reflected off the metal like a burst of sun when she tilted the case.

  She removed a cigarette, tapped it against the case half a dozen times and the gentleman seated next to her—Elizabeth assumed it was Edward DeWitt—leaned forward to light it. She took a puff and narrowed her eyes against the smoke that curled around her face. Her dark red lipstick left a stain on the end of the cigarette that matched the stain on the rim of the martini glass at her elbow.

  Elizabeth already had her camera out and was busy taking photographs. Gloria was dancing with an older man—though not quite old enough to be her father. Was he the dusty antiquated suitor Gloria had complained about?

  Elizabeth snapped away until she had more than a dozen pictures. Gloria must have noticed Elizabeth and her camera because her expression became more animated and she threw her head back, revealing her long, white neck, her dark hair cascading down her bare back, as her partner spun her around in a circle. Elizabeth had to admit, Gloria’s face was made for photographs—all angles and shadows with the high, sharp cheekbones reminiscent of a Slavic princess; the large, dark mesmerizing eyes and the dimple in her chin that softened the look just enough and kept her face from being too angular to be called pretty.

  Elizabeth moved to the side of the ballroom and glanced around looking to see what other scenes would make good photographs. She noticed that the chair next to Gloria’s stepmother was now empty but another gentleman had joined her at the table. He wasn’t sitting but was standing in back of Frances with his hands on her shoulders.

  He had dark hair, slicked back with plenty of Brylcreem, and a thin mustache that looked as if it had been drawn on with a few lines from a sharp pencil. He appeared to be younger than Gloria’s father—closer to Frances’s age.

  Frances leaned back and tilted her head up so she could look at him over her shoulder as they talked. To Elizabeth it looked like an animated conversation—intimate even. She swung her camera in their direction, but just then the gentleman moved away and she missed the shot.

  She turned back to the dancers swirling in the middle of the ballroom. The band was playing “Begin the Beguine” and Gloria had a new partner. He was in his early twenties—handsome with dark, wavy hair. His dinner clothes showed off a lithe form that he pressed close to Gloria’s as they moved in rhythm across the polished wood dance floor.

  It was a sensual song and their movements were sensual to the point of sexual—soft and languid one moment, sharp and demanding the next as he spun Gloria out and then pulled her close again so that their bodies melded nearly as one.

  Elizabeth snapped away, her flashbulbs going off like corn kernels popping in a hot pan. She was picturing a front cover backed by a two-page inner spread. Kaminsky was going to love her.
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br />   It was warm in the ballroom—no doubt in deference to the women with bare arms and shoulders in their strapless gowns. Elizabeth was still wearing her coat and she felt sweat dampening the back of her wool dress.

  A waiter whizzing by handed her a glass of cold champagne with a wink and nod of his head. Elizabeth accepted it with an answering nod, warning herself not to gulp it down all in one go no matter how parched she was.

  She’d lost sight of Gloria but there were plenty of other photographs to be taken. Elizabeth handed her empty champagne glass to a passing waiter and got back to work.

  She was aiming her camera at Brenda Longfellow, last year’s “It Girl,” who was dancing the rumba with a young man in a uniform, when someone tapped her on the shoulder. She knew before turning around it was Kaminsky—a miasma of the stench of onions and alcohol surrounded him like a thick cloud.

  “Hey, kid, any news on when I can talk to Miss DeWitt? It’s getting late and if we’re going to make tomorrow’s edition we’d better shake a leg.”

  Elizabeth looked around the crowded ballroom. She didn’t see Gloria, but the place was packed. She glanced toward Frances’s table. A woman was sitting alone, touching up her lipstick in a small makeup mirror, but there was no sign of Frances.

  “Maybe she’s in the lavatory.” Kaminsky jerked his thumb toward the door to the corridor.

  “I’ll go and see.”

  Elizabeth was glad to escape to the blessed coolness and quiet of the Silver Corridor. It was empty except for a couple sheltering in the shadows of one of the giant ferns that lined the walls. The young man’s arms were around the girl’s waist, drawing her closer. Elizabeth quickly looked away.

  She felt her leg dragging more than usual as she made her way down the long hall. Fatigue exacerbated the lingering effects of her bout with polio. It was frustrating, but she was damned if she was going to let it interfere with getting Kaminsky his exclusive.