Murder, She Reported

by Peg Cochran

  —

  The doors to the subway opened and Elizabeth let herself be carried inside on the tide of human bodies pressing forward. She was reaching for the pole when a woman in back of her suddenly jumped from her seat and ran toward the open doors.

  Elizabeth slipped into the seat before anyone else noticed it was vacant. The woman to the right of her had her arms wrapped around a half dozen shopping bags and Elizabeth had to squeeze to the left to avoid the woman’s outstretched arms.

  There was a jolt and the train began to move, the swaying motion as it got underway nearly putting Elizabeth to sleep. She’d gotten Estelle’s column typed in the nick of time and had to run it down three floors to the typesetter herself.

  She’d overheard Estelle berating Kaminsky for taking Elizabeth away all afternoon, but Kaminsky had merely grunted and waved Estelle away like a pesky fly.

  As the train clattered over the tracks, Elizabeth thought about Kaminsky’s conversation with DeWitt. Was it possible that DeWitt actually thought Frances and Gloria got along? She thought of her own father—his nose buried in his newspaper during breakfast, his study door shut tight against the activity of the household until Mrs. Murphy called him for dinner. It was possible that DeWitt was so far removed from what went on under his roof that he’d convinced himself that his new wife and daughter were compatible.

  “You’re looking very tired, if you don’t mind my saying so, miss,” Jones said when Elizabeth arrived home.

  He took her coat and hat and put them in the front closet.

  “By the way. A gentleman called for you and asked that I give you a message. A Mr. Phillips Sloan. He said to tell you that he would call for you at eight o’clock as arranged and that he’d made reservations at the Stork Club.”

  Elizabeth groaned. All she wanted to do was enjoy a warm bowl of soup and crawl into bed with Gone With the Wind, the Margaret Mitchell novel Rose had given her for Christmas.

  There was a burst of Fleur de Rocaille perfume and Helen came toward the door.

  “Jones tells me that you and Phillips Sloan are going out tonight. That’s splendid news, darling. The Sloans are a wonderful family.”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes. Canceling the date with Phillips was now out of the question. Her mother would insist she go.

  “Are you going to wear your new rose organdy?”

  Elizabeth massaged the bridge of her nose. On top of everything, she felt a headache coming on.

  “Yes. I suppose I shall. And I imagine I should go freshen up. Please tell Mrs. Murphy not to set a place for me tonight.”

  * * *

  —

  The full skirt of Elizabeth’s rose-colored gown rustled as she walked down the hall to the foyer. There, she paused in front of the gilt-framed mirror to check her reflection. She’d added sparkling diamante clips to either side of the dress’s square neckline and had left her hair down.

  She was ready early, as if by being early she could hurry the evening along and be back home sooner—which she knew was ridiculous. But here she was, watching the clock on the hall table click through the ten minutes until it would strike eight o’clock.

  Finally, the intercom buzzed, and Elizabeth pressed the button eagerly.

  “Tell him I’ll be right down,” she said to the doorman.

  Jones came gliding silently down the hall.

  “You’ll want your coat, miss. Will you be taking the fur tonight?”

  “Yes. I fear it’s still rather chilly out.”

  Jones retrieved a dark brown mink coat from the closet and helped Elizabeth into it. She picked up her elbow-length silk gloves from the hall table, pulled them on and gave one last check in the mirror before heading out.

  A black Packard was idling at the curb, a uniformed chauffeur behind the wheel.

  Phillips was standing by the open back door.

  “Darling, you look lovely,” he said as he ushered Elizabeth into the backseat before going around to the other side of the car and letting himself in.

  He wasn’t the sort of man to stand out in a crowd with his sandy-colored hair, pale skin and light brown eyes. He was tall and on the reedy side with bony wrists that stuck out beyond the cuffs of his shirt. While his pedigree was excellent, Elizabeth found him boring, with his wishy-washy looks and conversation sprinkled with uninteresting anecdotes of his time at Yale mixed with comments about the current price of stocks on the exchange.

  The car pulled away from the curb smoothly and soon they were heading south on Lexington Avenue and finally west on Fifty-third Street where the driver pulled up in front of a canopy with Stork Club written in large block letters. A gold chain stretched across the door and a uniformed doorman stood next to it.

  Phillips opened the car door for Elizabeth and, after a brief conversation with the doorman, the doorman removed the gold chain and ushered them inside.

  The club was warm, and Elizabeth was happy to surrender her coat to the coat-check girl. The orchestra was playing “Cheek to Cheek” and couples were swaying around the dance floor, the men somber in their dark suits, and the women sparkling with gold and diamond jewelry.

  The maître d’ led them between the tables and across the packed dining room.

  They passed a group of six people seated around a half moon–shaped leather banquette. Elizabeth recognized Sally Taylor, a classmate from Wellesley who ran in the same social circles as Elizabeth did. One of the men turned his head, and she realized it was Dickie Palmer, another acquaintance who often showed up at the same parties. Many of the other faces were familiar as well.

  Elizabeth paused briefly and smiled and waved. She could have sworn Sally saw her—Dickie, too—but neither of them responded so Elizabeth assumed she was mistaken. Phillips was waiting for her to join him so she continued toward the table where the maître d’ was holding a chair out for her.

  Elizabeth joined Phillips at their table, shook out her white linen napkin and placed it in her lap. The table was set with heavy silver cutlery, and there was a bowl of fresh flowers in the center of the pristine white tablecloth.

  Phillips pulled a pack of Old Golds from his pocket and offered one to Elizabeth. She shook her head. “No, thanks.”

  “Mind if I do?”

  She shook her head again, and he pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a snap of his gold Tiffany lighter.

  He leaned closer to Elizabeth. “I thought I saw Walter Winchell as we were coming in. Maybe we’ll be written up in his column.” He tapped his cigarette on the edge of the black-and-white Stork Club ashtray.

  A waiter approached their table and Phillips turned to Elizabeth.

  “Care for a drink?”

  “Yes, please. I’ll have the Stork Club Cocktail,” she said, ordering the club’s signature drink of gin, orange juice, lime juice, Cointreau, and bitters.

  “And for you, sir?”

  “I’ll take a Manhattan.”

  The waiter walked away with their drink orders and Phillips picked up the menu.

  “Say,” he said, putting it down again. “Did you hear about the murder at that debutante ball at the Waldorf? Didn’t you come out there? I remember Dickie and I getting absolutely smashed on champagne and him pushing me down the hall on one of the room service carts.” He took a puff of his cigarette and let the smoke out in a long, thin stream. “The papers are saying that Gloria DeWitt killed her stepmother. My sister Betty was at Miss Porter’s with Gloria and she said it wouldn’t surprise her one bit.”

  Elizabeth was about to say something but then bit her tongue. Kaminsky had told her to keep her ears open for any information she could glean.

  “Really? You think Gloria might have done it?”

  Phillips shrugged and ground his cigarette out in the ashtray.

  “Betty said that Gloria was a real daddy’s girl. You
know her mother died when she was quite young. I suspect she resented having another woman in the house. And from what I’ve heard about the second Mrs. DeWitt…”

  Elizabeth tried not to appear too eager. “The second Mrs. DeWitt…?”

  But Phillips seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. He tapped his menu.

  “Do you know what you’re having?”

  Elizabeth felt a twinge of frustration as she opened her menu. The waiter arrived with their drinks, and she took a sip as she began scanning the dinner entrees.

  “I’ll have the broiled lamb chops with a fruit cocktail for a starter.” She closed her menu. “Now if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’d like to go powder my nose.”

  Phillips stood up, and Elizabeth pushed back her chair and headed toward the back of the restaurant. The ladies’ room at the Stork Club was on the second floor, and Elizabeth felt her fatigue intensify as she climbed the stairs. She shouldn’t have had a cocktail—it was making her even sleepier. Perhaps if she splashed some cold water on her face, she’d be able to get through the rest of the evening without having her head land in her plate of lamb chops. That would certainly give Walter Winchell something to write about.

  Elizabeth went into the ladies’ room, ran the cold tap, and carefully patted water on her cheeks. The icy jolt was refreshing—she just hoped it would last through the exceedingly dull dinner ahead.

  Three women were sitting in the black-and-white striped chairs in front of the vanity mirror. Elizabeth took the fourth seat, opened her purse and pulled out her compact and lipstick. She had her powder puff in hand and was about to apply it, when she noticed the reflection of the other women in the mirror. She turned toward them.

  “Mary, Ruth, Alice! So lovely to see you. It’s been ages, hasn’t it?”

  Elizabeth waited, but none of the women acknowledged her presence. She felt her head swimming from fatigue and the few sips she’d had of her cocktail. Was she dreaming? Or was this real?

  The three women snapped their handbags shut, pushed back their chairs and stood up in unison. None of them looked at Elizabeth as they opened the door of the ladies’ room and walked out.

  Elizabeth’s cheeks burned as if she’d been slapped. She’d known Mary, Ruth and Alice for ages. She thought of the moment when she and Phillips had been walking to their table and she’d stopped to say hello to Sally. She thought Sally hadn’t seen her but now she knew she was wrong. Sally had seen her. And snubbed her. Just like Mary, Ruth and Alice had done just now.

  Gloria must have told them that Elizabeth had taken the photograph of her that had appeared on the front cover of the Daily Trumpet, because surely they wouldn’t have associated someone named Biz Adams with her.

  Elizabeth put her hands to her burning cheeks. She had to talk to Gloria and tell her she hadn’t meant for that to happen. It was Kaminsky’s doing—he’d been the one to retrieve the picture from the trash can. Why hadn’t she torn it up?

  She felt like crying, but she was damned if she was going to give them the satisfaction of knowing they had hurt her.

  Somehow she’d have to hold her head up high, walk downstairs and finish her dinner with Phillips.

  She had the feeling that taking that photograph of Gloria was going to turn out to be one of the biggest mistakes of her life.

  Chapter 7

  “Darling, you look exhausted. Were you out terribly late with Phillips last night?” Helen’s expression was hopeful.

  “Not terribly,” Elizabeth said without looking up from the piece of toast she was buttering.

  “Well, did you have a good time, then?” Helen took a sip of her black coffee.

  “Yes. We went to the Stork Club.”

  “I imagine you saw plenty of people you knew. George and I haven’t been there in ages, have we George?”

  George grunted.

  “We must make a plan to go soon.”

  Elizabeth felt her stomach contract as if she’d been punched. She thought back to how her friends had snubbed her, and she felt the heat rushing into her face.

  “I’m so glad you’re giving Phillips a chance. He comes from a very—”

  “Good family. Yes, I know.”

  Elizabeth took a bite of her toast and immediately regretted it. Anxiety had turned her stomach sour.

  George rattled his paper and Helen lowered her voice.

  “I imagine it’s your job. You’ve been looking very peaked since you started working at that newspaper. I do wish you’d reconsider your decision.”

  Elizabeth sighed. She’d spent the night tossing and turning, listening to the grandfather clock in her father’s study chime the hours one by one. Her very bones ached this morning, and she didn’t know how she would get through the day.

  She pushed back her chair.

  “But you haven’t finished your breakfast,” Helen protested.

  “I’m afraid I’m not hungry.”

  * * *

  —

  Elizabeth had retreated to the living room to read. She heard the rustling of her mother’s skirt as Helen walked into the room.

  “Darling, will you be home for dinner tonight? Mrs. Murphy has to call the butcher to order the meat. Your father has suddenly developed a craving for lamb chops.” Helen wrinkled her nose. “I do find them somewhat…gamey at times. We had them at the Taylors’ when we went for dinner last week, and I didn’t care for them at all. But Mr. Schwartz has assured me that his loin chops have a far more delicate flavor. Miriam Taylor can be rather parsimonious so who knows where she gets her meat.”

  Elizabeth laid her book facedown on her lap. “Yes, I’ll be having dinner with you tonight.”

  “But I suppose you’ll be going out afterward?” Helen clasped her hands in front of her chest. “You young people—always on the go.”

  “Actually, I’ll be staying in tonight.”

  “But, darling, surely you don’t want to sit at home on a Saturday night. Surely there must be something going on—a party, a trip to the theater?”

  “I’m afraid I’m rather tired.”

  “Is something wrong? Are you not feeling well?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Helen frowned. “I do hope you aren’t going to let that job interfere with your social life. You’ll never find a suitable husband sitting in those musty offices all day long, working so hard you’re too tired to join your friends on a Saturday night.”

  Her friends, Elizabeth thought, as her mother left the room. What had become of them? The phone hadn’t rung all day. Elizabeth found herself staring at it every time she went past it.

  Her mother was right—normally she’d be invited to something—perhaps even several things. But no one had rung to say they were throwing an impromptu get-together or that they had an extra ticket for the theater and would she care to join them.

  Sunday was no different. They went to St. James’s Church for the eleven o’clock service as usual. It was the servants’ day off, but Mrs. Murphy had left a chicken roasting in the oven for their lunch before leaving for her weekly visit to her cousin in Queens.

  Elizabeth and Rose helped Helen in the kitchen—opening a tin of peas and heating them up and mashing the potatoes. They had bouillon to start and canned peaches for dessert.

  To Elizabeth, the meal seemed interminable. She barely listened to the conversation going on around her and came to with a start when she heard her name mentioned.

  “Elizabeth, dear, do pay attention,” Helen said, dabbing at her lips with her napkin. “I asked if you planned to go out this afternoon.”

  “No,” Elizabeth said, quickly glancing down at her plate.

  The telephone still hadn’t rung. No one was looking for her to make a fourth in bridge or to join them on a stroll in Central Park now that the weather had turned fine after days of gray
skies and drizzle.

  Elizabeth was beginning to realize the price she was going to have to pay to have a career.

  * * *

  —

  The swaying of the subway car would have lulled Elizabeth to sleep if it had not been for a very young child, squirming and screaming in its mother’s arms. The poor woman looked as exhausted as Elizabeth felt, Elizabeth thought, glancing over toward where the pair was sitting.

  She’d spent the third night in a row tossing and turning, unable to sleep and only falling into an uneasy slumber as dawn began to break.

  The train stopped just outside the station, and this time Elizabeth found her eyes flickering closed. She came awake with a jolt as the train began to move again, moments later pulling into the Grand Central Station stop.

  It was a short walk to the Daily Trumpet building. The skies were overcast, and the wind had an edge to it, but the rain had stopped.

  “Don’t you look like hell,” Kaminsky said when Elizabeth walked into the newsroom.

  “Thanks.” Elizabeth said, looking around the empty room. “Where is everybody?”

  Kaminsky shrugged. “A couple of calls came in—an accident on the West Side Highway—a three-car pileup, and it looks like there’s at least one fatality. Mayor LaGuardia’s giving a press conference this morning on his proposed reform of the City Charter and a fight broke out at the Fulton Fish Market. In other words, business as usual.”

  The phone on Kaminsky’s desk rang and he reached over and grabbed it. Elizabeth glanced at the clock and wondered how she’d get through the day. She wanted to put her head down on her typewriter and take a good long nap. She glanced at the closed door of Estelle’s office but didn’t see her shadow lurking behind the frosted glass. She breathed a sigh of relief. She’d get herself a cup of coffee and then brace herself for Estelle’s arrival.

  “We’ve got a story!” Kaminsky yelled, dropping the telephone receiver back in the cradle.

  He sounded excited, and Elizabeth wondered if the exhilaration of a breaking story ever wore off.