Murder, She Uncovered

by Peg Cochran

  Elizabeth smiled. “It’s a polite way of saying she’ll see whether or not Mrs. Post is willing to speak with you. If Mrs. Post is at home that means she’ll see you.”

  “So kind of like rich people code or something. Sounds confusing, if you ask me. Why not just say what you mean right up front?”

  Kaminsky jingled the change in his pocket and paced back and forth across the foyer.

  Several minutes later the young woman reappeared.

  “Mrs. Post will see you.”

  Kaminsky leaned his head close to Elizabeth’s. “So I guess Mrs. Post is at home.”

  “Now you’re getting the idea.”

  They followed the girl into a small sitting room. It was an intimate and cozy space with two love seats facing each other across a low table on which stacks of books were piled. The tall windows were shuttered and several small lamps gave the room a rosy glow. A fire was lit in the brick fireplace on the far wall.

  A slender woman rose from the sofa and walked toward them, her hand outstretched.

  “Edith Post,” she said in cultured tones.

  Silver strands mingled with her blond hair and she was wearing a rose-colored taffeta cocktail dress with a square neckline that rustled as she moved.

  “I’m afraid we’re disturbing you,” Elizabeth said as she introduced herself and Kaminsky.

  “I am about to go out,” Mrs. Post said, fingering the pearl necklace around her long neck. “I’m not used to speaking with the press.”

  Kaminsky stepped up then. “We want to ask you a few questions about your maid Noeleen Donovan. It will help us to get the facts right. I’m sure you would want that.”

  “Yes, of course.” She gestured toward the sofa. “Please have a seat.”

  “We won’t be long, I promise,” Kaminsky said.

  Mrs. Post sat opposite them. A cut glass tumbler on a coaster was on the table in front of her. The liquid in it was a deep amber color and there was a maraschino cherry floating on top.

  Kaminsky pulled out his notebook and pencil. “Miss Donovan’s death must have come as a shock to you,” he said.

  Mrs. Post looked momentarily confused. “You mean Noeleen? Yes, it was a shock. A bit of an inconvenience, too. Fortunately Mrs. Sutton was able to send another girl over right away.”

  Now Kaminsky looked confused. “Mrs. Sutton.”

  “Yes. From Mrs. Sutton’s Irish Employment Agency. All the help come from Ireland. I’ve found them to be hard workers and the girls have a gentility about them that you don’t ordinarily find in women of that class.” She gave a throaty laugh. “It makes training them easier, I can assure you.”

  “Of course,” Kaminsky said. Elizabeth could imagine what he was thinking. “Was Noeleen one of those gentile types you mentioned?”

  Mrs. Post looked slightly affronted. “She had decent manners, if that’s what you mean. Of course she needed a bit of polishing, but she was coming along nicely.”

  “So you spend the summers in Westhampton?” Kaminsky paused with his pencil poised over his notebook.

  “Yes. We’ve been going for ages. Of course this year we came back earlier than usual. The weather had been absolutely ghastly—raining for days and days on end. I simply couldn’t bear it anymore and told Frederick—that’s Mr. Post—I thought we ought to pack up and come back to the city. The Coopers and the Schermerhorns and the Websters had already left and there was absolutely no one around.”

  “If you’d already come back here, what was Noeleen doing out there?”

  “She was seeing to things, of course. She was young and not always the most sensible creature, but I could hardly spare Mrs. Brown.”

  Kaminsky cocked his head to the side.

  “Mrs. Brown is our cook. I’d already planned a dinner for twelve for two nights after we returned so you can see how I could hardly have Mrs. Brown out in Westhampton and no one here to do the cooking. I had no choice but to leave it up to Noeleen and Mr. Hogg to close up the house.”

  Mrs. Post’s dress made a rustling sound as she leaned forward, picked up her glass and took a delicate sip leaving a faint smear of red lipstick on the rim.

  “I was positively frantic when Noeleen didn’t return on the ten-fifteen from Westhampton. Here I was expecting twelve people for dinner and there was no one to help.”

  “Were you worried about her?” Elizabeth asked, feeling sorry for the hapless Noeleen.

  “No, why should I have been?” Mrs. Post fingered her pearl necklace again. “I assumed she’d missed the train. You know how young girls are—their heads are always in the clouds thinking about love and romance and things like that instead of concentrating on their responsibilities.”

  Kaminsky pounced. “So Noeleen had a boyfriend?”

  “I…I don’t know,” Mrs. Post stammered. She picked up her glass and took a gulp of her drink.

  “But you mentioned love and romance.”

  “I meant it as a generalization. Aren’t most young girls interested in romance?” She looked at Elizabeth as if for confirmation.

  Elizabeth thought of Marino and felt her face flush again.

  “It seems she must have had a boyfriend. The Westhampton police chief told us that the autopsy revealed she had a bun in the oven,” Kaminsky said.

  Mrs. Post’s hand jerked and some of her drink sloshed onto the table.

  “Noeleen was pregnant?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “I don’t encourage those sorts of confidences from the help.” Mrs. Post shook her head. “What a tragedy it all is. When I first heard about Noeleen’s death, I assumed she’d been injured in the storm. We didn’t realize how bad the hurricane had been until after it was all over. I felt terrible about leaving Noeleen out there to cope all by herself, but we had no idea the storm was even coming.”

  “Were you surprised to learn she’d been murdered?”

  “Of course we were. It’s not the sort of thing you expect, is it? Do the police have any idea who killed her?”

  Mrs. Post looked up, and Elizabeth thought she saw tears glistening in her eyes.

  “Not yet,” Kaminsky said.

  Mrs. Post looked down at her hands. Her fingers were knotted together.

  “Do you know anything about Noeleen’s family?” Elizabeth said, assuming that the answer would be no since Mrs. Post didn’t encourage confidences as she had put it.

  “No, not really. But I suppose Mrs. Brown could help you with that. I leave a lot of the arrangements to her. I don’t know what we’d do without her.”

  “Can we talk to Mrs. Brown? It would be good to get the human side of the story.”

  Mrs. Post looked slightly pained. “I suppose so.” She reached for a small bell sitting on the table next to her drink. “Although I can’t imagine who would be interested in all this. Noeleen wasn’t anyone. She was just a…well, she was just a servant. Like so many others.”

  Kaminsky cocked his head to one side. “Really? Personally I think the public will eat the story up.”

  Chapter 4

  Mrs. Brown was sitting at the kitchen table peeling carrots when the young lady in the white apron led Elizabeth and Kaminsky down the stairs to the basement kitchen. Mrs. Brown was a thin, wiry woman with faded red hair pinned up in a bun. She was wearing an apron over a blue flowered housedress.

  Her hands were in perpetual motion as she peeled carrot after carrot, chopping them into chunks and dropping them into a pot.

  She half rose from her seat when Elizabeth and Kaminsky entered the room. Kaminsky gestured for her to stay seated.

  Mrs. Brown looked inquiringly at the girl in the apron, but the girl had already turned and was about to head back upstairs.

  The kitchen was clean and functional with a large stove and refrigerator and a long, scarred wooden table
with rush-seated wooden chairs on one side and a bench on the other. A lamp suspended from the ceiling hung over the table and left the corners of the room in shadow.

  “We’re from the Daily Trumpet,” Kaminsky said by way of introduction.

  Elizabeth noticed a copy of that day’s paper open to the society page on the chair next to Mrs. Brown.

  Mrs. Brown put down the carrot she was peeling and laid both hands flat on the table.

  “I suppose you’ve come about Noeleen. We only just heard.” Her voice had a lilt to it—a faint remnant of what must have once been a strong Irish accent.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Kaminsky said, bowing his head slightly.

  Mrs. Brown quickly made the sign of the cross. “It came as a shock, I can tell you that. I got myself into quite a state when I heard. Mrs. Post very kindly sent for Father McGrath to come sit with me.”

  “Father McGrath?” Elizabeth said.

  “He’s our parish priest. He comes from St. Vincent Ferrer over on Lexington Avenue on the corner of Sixty-Sixth Street. I attend Mass at nine every Sunday morning before going to visit my sister. She lives out in Queens.”

  “Did Noeleen go to church with you?” Elizabeth said.

  “Yes. She was very devout. She went to early morning Mass most days of the week since she wasn’t needed here until we served breakfast at eight o’clock.”

  Mrs. Brown fiddled with the hem of her apron.

  “Do you think the police will find who did it?” she said suddenly. “It was a terrible shock to learn the poor girl had been killed—so young—but we assumed it was an accident caused by the storm. When Mrs. Post told us that she’d been stabbed…we hardly knew what to make of it.”

  “I can imagine,” Elizabeth said soothingly. “Do you know anything about Noeleen’s family? Are they nearby?”

  Mrs. Brown shook her head. “Hardly. They’re back in Ireland. They never did come over. As far as I understand it, Noeleen’s father was stricken with the Spanish flu and died when she was a baby. Her mother remarried and died in childbirth not too long ago. Noeleen was living with an aunt who was getting on in years, so I suppose Noeleen felt she had nothing to lose in coming here.”

  “It must have been terribly lonely for her—coming to a foreign country all by herself,” Elizabeth said.

  Mrs. Brown tilted her head. “I should imagine it was. But she took great solace in the church.”

  “Did Noeleen have a young man that you know of?”

  “You mean a beau?” Mrs. Brown frowned and shook her head. “I don’t think so. Not that I know of. Noeleen wasn’t that type of girl. She was a good girl. Not like some of them.”

  Kaminsky made a faint noise that sounded like a snort.

  “Did Noeleen live in or did she go home at night?” Elizabeth said.

  “The Posts provide rooms for us on the fifth floor. It’s only the chauffeur, Mr. Russo, who lives out.”

  “Any idea where Noeleen spent her days off?” Kaminsky said.

  Elizabeth saw his hand inch toward his pocket and then withdraw. She suspected he was dying for a cigarette.

  “She had a relative living in the Bronx. She stayed with them when she first came here. Before she took this job with the Posts.”

  “Any idea what the address is?”

  “It’s a boardinghouse on Westchester Avenue. Her second cousin has a room there.”

  “How did Noeleen come to work for the Posts?” Kaminsky tapped his pencil against his notebook.

  “The same way we all did—through Mrs. Sutton’s Irish Employment Agency. All except for Mr. Russo, of course. I interviewed Noeleen myself. I found her to be pleasant. It was good luck that Mrs. Sutton sent her to us. The girl who was originally supposed to interview for the job took sick and couldn’t make it.”

  “Would it surprise you to know that an autopsy revealed Noeleen was five months pregnant when she died?” Kaminsky said.

  Mrs. Brown gasped and put her hands to her face. Elizabeth could see they were trembling.

  “You had no idea?” Kaminsky said. “You didn’t suspect anything?”

  “I swear on my dear mother’s grave,” Mrs. Brown said.

  She pushed back her chair so roughly it nearly toppled over, then went to the sink and poured some water into a glass. She took a drink.

  “Are you okay?” Elizabeth said.

  “Yes. I just need a moment. That gave me quite a start, it did.”

  Mrs. Brown finished the water and returned to her seat. She leaned on the table as if for support.

  She turned to Elizabeth. “But how could it be? Noeleen was a good girl.”

  “We’ve upset you,” Elizabeth said. “I’m sorry. Can I make you a cup of tea?”

  Mrs. Brown shook her head. “I’ll be fine. I just need a minute.”

  “Of course.” Elizabeth patted Mrs. Brown’s arm.

  Elizabeth noticed Kaminsky’s hand creeping toward the pocket where he kept his cigarettes again. She smiled at him.

  “Why don’t you go outside for a smoke? Mrs. Brown is upset. I’ll sit with her for a bit.”

  Kaminsky didn’t object but immediately got to his feet. He gave Elizabeth a surreptitious wink on his way out of the kitchen.

  Elizabeth waited until he’d left, then turned to Mrs. Brown.

  “This must all be so distressing for you,” Elizabeth said when the door closed behind Kaminsky. “And quite a shock.”

  Mrs. Brown nodded her head. “I thought I knew Noeleen. But now…” She fought back a sob.

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill Noeleen?”

  Mrs. Brown shoved her hands in the pockets of her apron and clutched the fabric in her fists.

  “Who would want to kill an innocent young lass like Noeleen? It must have been a crazy person who did it.” She turned to Elizabeth. “Are they sure that it wasn’t an accident? Something to do with the storm?”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath and shook her head. “I’m afraid not. She was stabbed. That can’t have been an accident.”

  Mrs. Brown hung her head. “I’ll never understand this as long as I live.” She looked at Elizabeth. “I’ll be praying for the poor girl’s soul.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” Elizabeth said as she got up to leave.

  She pulled on her gloves and straightened her hat but didn’t move toward the door.

  Mrs. Brown shook her head slowly. “You go on then. I’ll be fine.”

  Elizabeth was about to leave when she noticed a movement in the corner of the room and was startled to see a young man sitting in a chair. He was in deep shadow, dressed in black, with his back to her, but now that he had turned toward her, she could see the pallor of his face. Both his face and his eyes were expressionless, giving him the appearance of a statue.

  He continued to stare at Elizabeth, unblinking, as she made her way to the stairs to the first floor. She didn’t know why, but he gave her the shivers. There was something distinctly odd about him.

  * * *

  —

  The clouds had cleared and a sliver of a moon was visible in the sky when Elizabeth and Kaminsky left the Posts’ townhouse. Kaminsky turned up the collar of his raincoat as they began walking toward the car.

  “I feel an urge for a shot of Old Schenley and a beer chaser. There’s a decent place over on Third Avenue if you’re game,” Kaminsky said as he put the key in the ignition.

  “Why not?”

  Elizabeth marveled that at one time—not very long ago actually—she would have been appalled at the thought of going to a bar with Kaminsky. It wasn’t that she didn’t drink—but she usually enjoyed her libations at places like El Morocco or the Stork Club or in her own living room brought to her on a silver tray by Jones the butler.

  They turned rig
ht onto Second Avenue and headed south. Kaminsky found a parking place on Fifty-Fifth Street and led Elizabeth to a squat red-brick building with P. J. CLARKE’S spelled out in gold lettering on the plate-glass window.

  “It’s not the Stork Club but, like I said, it’s decent.” He held the door open for Elizabeth.

  The inside was dim but gave the impression of being clean. The glasses on the shelves sparkled and the wood bar was polished to a sheen.

  A few months ago Elizabeth would have felt out of place, but after having rubbed elbows with Kaminsky for a while now, she was much more at ease in places her former life would never have taken her. They made their way to a small table in the back covered with a red-and-white-checked tablecloth.

  “What’ll you have?” Kaminsky said as a waiter hovered by their table.

  “Do you think they can do an Old Fashioned?”

  “Let’s see,” Kaminsky said, turning to the waiter and raising his eyebrows.

  “An Old Fashioned for the lady, coming right up. And you, sir?”

  “A shot of Old Schenley and a beer chaser.”

  The waiter nodded and headed toward the bar.

  “That was some interview,” Kaminsky said, running a finger around his collar. “That Mrs. Post is as hard as flint.” He looked down at his hands splayed out on the table, the knuckles swollen and gnarled. “I felt sorry for the cook though.”

  “She did take Noeleen’s death hard. I’m glad someone did at least.”

  “I did think the lady doth protest too much.”

  Elizabeth looked at Kaminsky open-mouthed.

  “Shakespeare.”

  “I know who wrote it. I’m…surprised, I guess, that you would quote it.”

  “You underestimate me.” Kaminsky pointed a finger at Elizabeth. “That can be dangerous.”

  “Okay, you’ve read Shakespeare. But what did you mean by that? What was it that Mrs. Brown protested too much?”

  The waiter slid their drinks in front of them and quietly slipped away.

  Kaminsky rolled his eyes. “All that swearing on her mother’s grave she didn’t know that Noeleen was in the family way. Something smelled about it.”