by Peg Cochran
On her way back to her own bedroom, Elizabeth peeked into Rose’s, pleased to see that her sister had fallen back to sleep. She closed the door as quietly as possible and continued down the hall.
As tired as she was, she knew she would have trouble falling asleep. Her heart still felt as if it was pounding abnormally hard and she could feel the blood rushing in her veins.
Her mother would be laid up for weeks…maybe longer. She remembered when Daisy Campbell had broken her leg in a field hockey game against Mount Holyoke. She’d hobbled around campus on crutches for months afterward.
Elizabeth hung up her robe, tucked her slippers alongside the bed and crawled under the covers.
And even though she was convinced she wouldn’t sleep a wink, fatigue took over and she was asleep within minutes.
Chapter 9
Only two places were set at the breakfast table that morning although George’s New York Times was folded and in its usual position at the head of the table. Elizabeth and Rose took seats opposite each other, their eyes straying to the empty chairs at either end of the table.
“Where’s Father?” Rose said, her voice trembling slightly, when Mrs. Murphy bustled in with Rose’s oatmeal and Elizabeth’s boiled egg and toast on a tray.
“He was at the hospital until terribly late last night, poor thing, so he’s taking it easy this morning. He said to tell you that your mother is doing fine and he’ll be bringing her home later today.”
Elizabeth was glad to see Rose’s expression brighten at that news. She was glad to hear it herself, she realized, as she sliced the top off her boiled egg.
Rose sprinkled sugar on her oatmeal and stirred it in. She looked up at Elizabeth shyly.
“I think what you’re doing is wonderful, you know.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, but Rose put up a hand to stop her.
“I know Mother and Father don’t approve, but I think you’re terribly brave to be working the way you are. I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, looking down at her bowl and allowing her long, fair hair to form a curtain over her face. “I’ve been thinking I’d like to be a nurse someday.” She looked up at Elizabeth. “I think I’d be good at it.”
“I’m sure you would,” Elizabeth said, giving her younger sister a big smile.
“I don’t want to waste my life going to parties and hosting charity events like Mother.” Rose wrinkled her nose. “I’m afraid I’d be absolutely bored to tears.”
“You probably would be,” Elizabeth said. “I know I would.”
“You don’t think that’s silly? Wanting to be a nurse, I mean?”
“Not at all.” Elizabeth took a sip of her coffee. “You’d be helping people, and that’s important.”
“I haven’t told Father. I haven’t even told Mother yet.” Rose looked up with a hopeful expression on her face. “Would you tell them for me?”
Elizabeth stopped with her spoon halfway to her mouth.
“I think you need to tell them yourself.”
“You will back me up, though, won’t you?”
Elizabeth reached out a hand and patted her sister’s. “Of course.”
* * *
—
Elizabeth hadn’t even taken her hat off before Kaminsky was by her side. He had his coat on and a half-eaten bagel in his hand.
“Hold on to your hat,” he said. “They’ve found a body in Central Park, and it looks like foul play. The police are there now. Sullivan’s out today, so grab your camera, and let’s go.”
Elizabeth slung the strap of her camera case over her shoulder and followed Kaminsky out the door and to the elevator.
It was one of those rare winter days where the thermometer had surprised everyone by shooting up well above the freezing mark. The skies were blue, the breeze mild, and people were unbuttoning their coats and lifting their faces to the sun.
It wouldn’t last, but Elizabeth thought it felt heavenly.
They took the Lexington Avenue IRT to the Sixty-eighth Street Hunter College stop.
Kaminsky paused at the top of the flight of stairs leading to the street and pulled out his pack of Camels. He cupped his hand around the match and lit one.
“We can walk up to the Seventy-second Street entrance to the park. The body’s there, right off the path.”
Elizabeth felt a tremor of excitement combined with an equal dose of apprehension.
“Do you know how the victim was killed?” she asked Kaminsky, hoping that they’d been dispatched with a gunshot and the body’s only disfigurement would be a nice, clean bullet hole.
“Hit over the head with the proverbial blunt instrument apparently. Why?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Just curious,” she said as she tried not to think about what that was likely to look like.
By now they’d reached Fifth Avenue where they crossed to the Central Park side of the street and walked down the stone wall–bordered cobblestone path that wound around the perimeter of the park.
A chestnut vendor’s cart was parked just outside the Seventy-second Street entrance to the park. Despite the unexpected warmth of the day, the vendor was buttoned into a heavy, worn-looking overcoat and had a black knitted scarf wound twice around his neck. His black-and-white tweed newsboy cap was pulled down low onto his forehead.
Glossy brown chestnuts were scattered across the top of the brazier, popping and sizzling over the orange-red coals.
A couple was standing in front of the cart, arms linked, heads close together. They giggled as the young man put some coins into the vendor’s palm in exchange for a small paper bag filled with the roasted chestnuts.
The woman was wearing a scarlet wool coat with a matching scarf tossed over one shoulder. A dark gray hat with a red grosgrain ribbon around the crown sat atop her glossy black curls. Even with the woman’s back to her, Elizabeth could tell she must be attractive by the saucy tilt of her head and the way the young man appeared to be enraptured by her presence.
He held the bag of chestnuts out to her and she tossed her head gaily and looked up at him. Her profile seemed familiar, and Elizabeth continued to stare as the young man dared to plant a quick surreptitious kiss on the woman’s ruby lips.
They were turning into the Seventy-second Street entrance to the park when it occurred to Elizabeth. She stopped in the middle of the path and grabbed Kaminsky’s arm.
“Did you see that?”
“See what?”
“The couple buying chestnuts. That was Gloria DeWitt. She was with a young man. I remember her dancing with him at her debut at the Waldorf.”
“You don’t say.” Kaminsky looked over his shoulder, but the couple had already moved on. “I wonder how the cops are coming on her stepmother’s murder? I think I’ll give my contact at the police station a call. It’s time we followed up on that story.”
Panic seized Elizabeth for a moment. What if the paper printed something new about Gloria? Would Gloria blame her for it? Elizabeth didn’t doubt that Gloria would do what she’d threatened to if that happened.
The murdered man was lying just off the macadam path under a large tree, its bare branches arching over his body as if to protect it. Black-and-yellow police tape encircled the scene, stretched between three trees and tied around their thick trunks. It lay slack in the still air.
Two bored-looking uniformed policemen were guarding the scene. Kaminsky approached one of them and flashed his press card.
“Daily Trumpet. Can you tell me what we’ve got here?” He pulled his battered notebook from his pocket along with his stubby yellow pencil.
The cop shrugged. “Looks like a mugging gone sour. Victim’s wallet is missing.”
“How was he killed?” Kaminsky scribbled some notes on his pad and looked up.
“Who knows? They hit him good with something hard. Maybe a
rock. Maybe a bat of some kind.”
“Does it look like they meant to kill him?”
“Hard to say. It could have been bad luck that the guy had a thin skull.”
“Who is he? Do you know?”
The cop scratched behind one ear. “No idea. No ID on him to speak of. Just a pack of matches from some place called Café des Artistes. The detective thinks he was maybe cutting across the park on his way home.”
Elizabeth looked the scene over, carefully avoiding the man’s caved-in skull and the blood that had turned the collar of his white shirt bright red.
“He looks to be well-dressed,” she told Kaminsky. “The cashmere coat looks like it’s from Brooks Brothers, and that scarf is certainly silk. And the shoes are definitely Church’s. He might have bought them in London so perhaps he travels a lot?”
Kaminsky gave Elizabeth a strange look. “You sure know a lot about this fancy luxury stuff. Where’d you learn all that?”
Elizabeth felt the heat rising to her cheeks. “Oh”—she waved a hand—“I read a lot of magazines. Living vicariously, I guess you could say.”
Kaminsky didn’t look convinced, but he turned back to the cop who was unwrapping a piece of Black Jack gum.
“Any idea about time of death?”
The cop popped the piece of gum in his mouth and began chewing.
“Medical examiner thinks a couple of hours ago. The blood’s still tacky.”
Elizabeth felt her stomach turn over.
Kaminsky motioned to the body. “Why don’t you get some pictures, Biz?”
Elizabeth felt like a voyeur taking photographs of this poor man whose life had oozed out of him drop by drop in such an exposed fashion—his picture to be on display in every paper in town, his untimely death to be discussed over lunch and cocktails along with Joe DiMaggio’s batting average and the chances of the Yankees making it into the Word Series.
Once again, she realized she was grateful to have the camera between herself and the scene. Would she ever get used to this, she wondered. The congealing blood on the side of the man’s face suddenly reminded her of the rare steak her father had ordered the night he’d taken them all to Gallaghers Steakhouse to celebrate Elizabeth’s college graduation, and Elizabeth felt lightheaded and had to fight down the bile that rose in her throat leaving it feeling raw and burnt.
“You okay, kid?” Kaminsky said, looking over at Elizabeth.
“I’m fine,” Elizabeth said, but her voice was so faint that Kaminsky became even more alarmed.
Kaminsky pocketed his pad and pencil. “You look like you could use something to perk you up. Fortunately for you, I know just the thing.”
Elizabeth didn’t even want to know what Kaminsky had in mind, but she let herself be led out of the park and back to Fifth Avenue, out of sight of that poor man’s body.
“Come on,” Kaminsky said, as they crossed the street and headed toward Lexington Avenue.
“I like your pictures, Biz,” Kaminsky said after they’d gone half a block. “There’s something about them. Sullivan’s a crack photographer, but you have a great eye. Your pictures are different somehow. Maybe it’s the woman’s touch.” He slapped Elizabeth on the back. “Besides, I like working with you. Sullivan’s an old curmudgeon.”
The brisk walk and bracing air made Elizabeth feel better, and by the time they reached their destination, Elizabeth was feeling considerably better.
“Where are we going?” she said.
“Right here.” Kaminsky gestured to a rough-looking wooden door with a small window, dulled by grime, at the top.
Elizabeth looked up. Individual gold letters that fanned out over the door read O’Grady’s Pub.
Kaminsky pulled open the door, but Elizabeth balked.
“I can’t go in there,” she said, peering into the darkened interior.
“Why not?”
“Because,” Elizabeth stalled, “it’s not a proper place for a lady.”
“You’re not a lady anymore,” Kaminsky said, as he urged Elizabeth through the doorway. “You’re a newspaper photographer now.”
The interior of the pub was thick with cigarette smoke and smelled of spilled beer, cheap booze and unwashed clothes. Elizabeth wrinkled her nose.
A group of men were clustered on stools around the bar talking to the bartender, who had a dirty apron tied around his waist and was leaning on the bar with both hands, listening to a fellow who spoke with an accent and was wearing a heavy work shirt and pants.
All the men looked up when Elizabeth walked in. The bartender crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.
“What’s the matter? You never seen a dame before?” Kaminsky asked, and they looked away and bowed their heads over the glasses in front of them.
Kaminsky led Elizabeth to a table at the back and gestured for the bartender.
The bartender was a big man with large hands and splayed knuckles. His face looked like he’d gone a couple of rounds with Joe Louis, the Brown Bomber.
“What’ll it be?” he asked Kaminsky, his arms still crossed over his chest. He avoided looking at Elizabeth.
“Two shots of Old Schenley’s and a couple of beer chasers.”
“I can’t drink that,” Elizabeth protested as the bartender walked away with their order.
“Sure you can. Put some color back in your face. You look like you’ve seen your own ghost.”
The table was sticky, and Elizabeth kept her hands in her lap as they waited.
Moments later, the bartender plunked down two shot glasses and two beer glasses.
“Bottoms up,” Kaminsky said, picking up one of the shot glasses and throwing the liquid down his throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Elizabeth picked up her glass and took a cautious sip. She began to cough and tears welled up in her eyes.
Elizabeth was no stranger to sipping cleverly mixed cocktails, vintage wine and fine champagne but downing an entire shot of pure alcohol wasn’t something she was exactly used to.
“Come on,” Kaminsky urged. “All of it.”
Elizabeth thought perhaps doing it quickly, the way Kaminsky had, would make it more palatable. She picked up the shot glass again, silently counted to three and tossed back the liquid.
She immediately began coughing and sputtering as tears streamed down her face and her nose began to run. The whiskey left a trail of fire going down her throat and spreading throughout the pit of her stomach.
She grabbed the glass of beer and gulped some down. The cool liquid felt heavenly and she drank some more. She was astonished, when she put the glass down, to see she’d drunk half of it without realizing it.
Kaminsky was watching her with a bemused expression on his face.
“Feeling better?” he said.
Surprisingly she did, Elizabeth realized. The tension in her shoulders had eased and her fists were no longer clenched. She gave a big sigh. The bludgeoned body in the park seemed so far away now. Kaminsky seemed so far away. And he was going in and out of focus. Her eyes wanted to close, and she had to struggle to keep them open.
Kaminsky was grinning broadly. Elizabeth suspected that should alarm her, but for some reason it didn’t. She felt insulated from the world…from her own feelings. The room began to rock, and she put both hands down on the table to steady it.
Kaminsky reached out and moved her beer glass. “I think you’ve had enough of that. At least you’ve got some color back in your face.”
Elizabeth wanted to put her head down on the table, dirty though it was, and take a long nap.
Kaminsky tilted his chair back on two legs. He took a long swallow of his beer.
“So tell me about yourself, Biz.”
“Not much to tell.” Elizabeth burped. “Excuse me.” She put a hand over her mouth. “What d
o you want to know?” She tried to bring Kaminsky into focus but he kept insisting on splitting into two.
When he didn’t answer, Elizabeth went on.
“I went to Wellesley,” she said without thinking. “I made my debut at the Waldorf Astoria just like Gloria DeWitt.” She giggled. “Only no one was murdered so it wasn’t nearly as exciting.”
Elizabeth had the distinct feeling she was saying things she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.
“So you’re one of them classy dames. The type who lives on Fifth Avenue in a building with a doorman.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “Madison Avenue.” Her head drooped.
Kaminsky let his chair drop back into place. “I figured there was something about you. You didn’t seem like the rest of us poor working stiffs.” He finished the rest of his beer. “Come on, Biz, we’ve got to get back to work.” He took her by the elbow and helped her up.
Elizabeth’s legs felt strange, and she couldn’t seem to walk in a straight line.
“Let’s go. Some fresh air will do you good.” Kaminsky led her out the door and onto the sidewalk.
Chapter 10
Elizabeth slipped the last negative into the developer and watched as the picture slowly appeared. Her head was pounding although she’d taken two aspirin with a large glass of water at Kaminsky’s suggestion. She hadn’t had any lunch, which was probably a good thing since her stomach still felt as if it might betray her at any moment.
She fished the print from the solution and clipped it to the overhead carousel. She had the awful feeling she’d told Kaminsky things she shouldn’t have, but her memory was too hazy for her to be sure. If only her head would stop pounding, perhaps she would be able to remember.
She’d forced herself to look long and hard at each picture as she developed it. She had the idea that she could cure herself of any remaining squeamishness that way—like the opposite of aversion therapy, which she’d learned about in Professor Schmidt’s psychology class.