“Is Miss Rutherford’s crowned?” I tried.
“Oh, yes, she’s been chosen.”
“Who?” I would keep him talking, keep him in mind of the hundreds of people nearby. This was no dark alley late at night in a neighborhood used to violence. This was Rutherford’s. Where women were welcomed, celebrated, I thought in a wild joke.
“I’m afraid your Miss Tyler didn’t win. But there will be other honors.”
Yes, I thought. Like Lottie Burckholdt, the eleventh girl who wasn’t supposed to win. But Mrs. Hirschfeld insisted, and the field was poor that year. How many others? The ones who didn’t win and were quickly forgotten. When they died, who would have asked, Wasn’t she once an American Beauty?
“I should get back.”
He took another step toward me.
“Mrs. Tyler will wonder where I am.” I let a note of warning into my voice, even as I began to feel behind me for a pen, letter opener …
“Oh, dear,” said George Rutherford. “Oh, dear.”
I darted sideways. He caught my hair, pulled down. An explosion of pain at the base of my skull. Bright lights bloomed before my eyes. Through them, I could just see the crisp whiteness of George Rutherford’s cuff, the dull glow of jasper in his button link, the scar on his wrist.
Worse than the pain: knowledge that there was no pretending. I had shown fear. He had shown brutality. I knew what he was now, and he knew it. There was no way out of this room. Scream, I thought. I should …
He clamped a hand over my mouth and gave my hair another sharp pull, refusing to let go even when I clawed at his wrists. “You come in here. In”—another hard tug, and I felt my stomach lurch—“here, where you don’t”—this time I cried out—“belong.”
Shoving me back against the desk, he put himself between me and the door. “You think you can go anywhere you want these days, don’t you? Home is not good enough for you. You want to be out in the streets, throwing a man’s money around, showing yourself off. There’s no place sacred left. No place a man might call his own, be at peace. While you shut us out anytime you feel like it—mustn’t look. Even after you’ve pushed your way in, demanded our attention…”
Something in the accusation pushed your way in reminded me of that night, the voice on the telephone. Come after me …
Then, in a softer voice, he said, “I suppose I shouldn’t be angry. Of course you want us to look. What would you be otherwise? You’re only what we make of you. The female face, it’s blank, like any canvas. It needs the artist.”
He peered at my face, suddenly concerned. “I’m afraid I don’t see much in you. The hair, perhaps. That, I can see. But it will take a lot of work to get you looking like anything.”
Briefly, I thought, he had seen us as colleagues. Employer and assistant, which was at least better than artist and subject. I would try that, get him talking about his work. “Is it frustrating? That people don’t get to admire your … best work?”
“Some do. I’ve seen them.”
The warehouse, I thought. Those huge windows. Afterward, he had watched as people crowded around the bodies, eager to get a glimpse. He had been that close the whole time.
Sadie, I thought, might never have known who he was. On her way to meet Harry Knowles, she might have been struck from behind, dragged into the alley. Or else been charmed by his money, his flattery.
Carrie was smart and ambitious. The chance to walk with the owner of Rutherford’s would have been appealing to her, especially if he promised her a ride late at night. And she was considerate. If George Rutherford said—and I was sure he had—Oh, dear, I’ve left something at the warehouse, would you mind if we stop to get it? Carrie would have said Of course. She would have been helpful, amenable.
I had killed Carrie. The moment I told her to come to the refuge.
I remembered her bare wrist. Sadie’s ankle. Dizzy from terror and ragged breathing, I said, “The women … give you something in return. Don’t they? You don’t work for free?”
“I don’t ask what they can’t afford. Some of the women I am most creative with have very little.”
Yes, I thought. A wealthy woman, well known, with many friends, you could never take the kind of creative liberties you took with Sadie and Carrie.
“But I ask for a small token. I don’t get to see my work for very long, you see, and the tokens help me remember. Vanity, yes. But still, very precious to me. I keep them safe.”
His hand trembled, as if it had been held back too long. The door, I had to get to the door. But he was in between like a snarling rabid dog, teeth shining, froth whipping from his jaws, and I had nothing to beat him back. He had to be put down, I thought. Put down. The words thundered in my head—useless. He had no knife, I told myself. But the hands, red and hard knuckled, thick cruel fingers around the throat. How many had he killed? I couldn’t think he would hesitate over me.
I reached behind me, groped along the desk’s surface. And that’s when it all happened. He was on me, overwhelming, any trace of human burned away. Roaring, he grabbed my hair, yanking my head back as he slammed my hand onto the desk, pinning it. Pain obliterated any fear I might have felt, and I kicked and screamed, landing my fist against the side of his head and his neck. He snatched both hands, used his weight to keep my legs still. I arched, trying to throw him off, and felt choking panic as his hands fastened hard on my neck, nails digging in.
I struggled for consciousness, knowing the moment I let go it would be the end. My uncle came to mind. And that lamp, brass with a smoked-glass bowl. I was going to end with the sight of that lamp; it would be the last thing I saw. Determined to hold on to myself as I left this life, I shut my eyes, put my mind on Uncle, on dancing, fingers curled through Leo’s, Anna’s swift, hard embrace, Michael Behan’s half smile, Otelia Brooks fixing her hat on that child’s head …
Something in that memory put breath back in my lungs and I attacked Rutherford’s red and sweating face with my fingers. I clawed at his eyes, his neck. I would forget his size, forget his strength and rage to kill—my will counted, too. I needed to live. I was going to live …
I don’t know what I understood first, the thunderclap of the gunshot or the sudden crushing weight of George Rutherford as he fell, first on top of me, then slowly sliding sideways to the floor. I was gulping air and crying all at once, shaking so hard my knees buckled. But I would not fall anywhere near George Rutherford and managed to stay upright just long enough to stagger forward and be caught by Otelia Brooks.
16
My eyes were red. Bloodred. In the hospital, I looked in the mirror and saw an illustration from a fairy tale. The witch, obviously. Although when I turned my head and saw the mottled purple blotches on my throat, the crescent dents of fingernails, I thought, No, this is a different point in the fairy tale. That part of “Bluebeard” or even “Beauty and the Beast” we don’t hear. Even if we know very well what happens.
They told me I was lucky. I nodded to show I knew it was true.
A detective gave me a pad of paper. I wrote, Miss Brooks?
Miss Brooks had been arrested.
I tried to speak, choked on needles. I splayed my fingers at my throat, waved at my eyes.
“She shot him, Miss Prescott.”
One vehement nod: Good.
“There will be a fair trial, I assure you.”
I threw up my hand, a gesture I had borrowed from Anna. Now I knew why she did it so often; it was an excellent expression of fury at sheer stupidity. Grabbing the pad, I scribbled, No trial. INNOCENT.
I started to write that George Rutherford had murdered at least three women, but the detectives were barely looking at the pad. So I threw it at them. Then, realizing I had thrown away my one means of communication, I started to cry.
Louise hurried to my bed and demanded, “What have you said to her?” And when they did not answer immediately, “I think you should leave. Now.”
They did. Through my bloodshot eyes, I looked u
p at Mrs. Louise Tyler, who had just ordered two policemen out of the room. I thought to tell her that Mr. Lincoln’s courage and leadership had rubbed off on her a little. But then I fell asleep.
I couldn’t remember much of what happened directly after Otelia Brooks shot George Rutherford. I had been dizzy from shock and lack of air. I think the first screams came from Dolly Rutherford. Quickly, the little space filled up; I was aware of legs all around me, voices far above my head. At some point, I must have stopped being aware, because when I could see again, Otelia Brooks was gone and I was in a hospital bed.
They held up fingers. Asked me to name the president. Then, satisfied my brain was not damaged, they sent me home. Which, Louise insisted, was the Tyler residence. Lying in my bed at the top of their house, I took in my little writing desk and chair. The pale blue rug on the floor. My washbowl and washcloth. Books. The elegant coat I had worn to the Armory Show over the back of a chair. The sun coming through my window and the sounds of the city. And thought, Yes, home.
Louise brought me a fresh ice pack; I had a feeling she was enjoying her nursing duties. Holding it to my neck, I wrote, Mrs. Tyler, I am so sorry.
“Jane, why on earth should you be sorry?”
Scandal.
“I hardly think it’s your scandal if a brute tries to strangle you.”
I asked for newspapers. Reluctantly, Louise gave them to me.
The stories were ugly—and since no one knew George Rutherford was a murderer, flagrantly untrue. People were told that he had been killed while defending me from an attack by an unhinged woman. No motive for the attack was given. Nor was there any mention of my injuries. An illustration helped those who could not read: George Rutherford, hands raised helplessly as Otelia Brooks shot him down. Another woman, meant to be me, cowered behind Mr. Rutherford.
I was unable to use the telephone, but Louise was eager to help. Calling people on my behalf, she said, was far more interesting than lunch with her mother or stammering through yet another French lesson.
So I gave her a list. The first was Officer Nolan.
Then I wrote, Miss Ella Dodson, Amsterdam News. Reporter.
I hesitated a moment, then added, Michael Behan at the Herald.
Louise smiled. “Very well.” She took the notes. “By the way, I should mention, Mr. Hirschfeld has called the house several times. He seems quite frantic to see you.”
Officer Nolan arrived, officious and ill at ease in such an elegant house. He seemed positively relieved to be shown into my room. Although his grip on his hat tightened at the sight of my throat.
“I was sorry to hear of your…”
I nodded: Thank you. Then I wrote down the names Sadie Ellis and Carrie Biel and showed him the pad.
“Miss Prescott, don’t you worry about that now…”
George Rutherford killed them. He told me so.
He blinked, then tugged at his collar. “Well, he can’t speak from the grave, Miss Prescott. Other than that, we’ve only got your word that he said it.”
I wrote, Can prove he attacked Otelia Brooks 10 years ago in same way. Scar on his wrist. Look for it.
“I can’t.” He shook his head. “They’ll be wanting to bury him.”
Stop burial. I underlined it.
I told him about Lottie Burckholdt, even if it was unlikely they would look into her death again. I said he should interview the other women who worked at Rutherford’s and see if other American Beauties had met similar unfortunate fates.
“George Rutherford is … was … a wealthy, respected man, Miss Prescott.”
I pointed to my throat. He shifted in his chair, clearly wishing himself elsewhere.
“His widow says you, ah … that you might have … She was under the impression you led him on.”
“Led him on?” I mouthed the words in shock.
“She says you wanted a chance to be an American Beauty, that you were promising him…” His shoulders jumped. “She says you were asking where he was that day, wanting to talk to him.”
Dolly Rutherford, I thought numbly. How much did she know? Suspect? How many women had died because she chose to look the other way? Then I thought, no, I could not blame Mrs. Rutherford for her husband’s monstrousness. His crimes were his alone.
Then I wrote, There’s a safe in his office. Open it.
“I don’t see how we can…”
Frustrated, I wrote, SADIE ELLIS. CARRIE BIEL. OTHERS. OPEN IT.
I scribbled, He keeps things there.
* * *
It was hard not to smile at the sight of Leo—or sound, rather. I heard him as he came up the stairs, talking a mile a minute to poor Louise, who could only interject an “Oh, really?” or “My!” every so often. He opened the door himself, saying over his shoulder, “‘But on Fridays’ … it’s my new song, Mrs. Tyler. I’ll play it for you later, you’ll love it, I assure you.”
Then, shutting the door, he said, “Hello.” He looked eager, healthy, and optimistic—everything I didn’t feel.
Pulling up a seat next to the bed, he said, “Hey, did I ever tell you how I’m crazy for a girl who can gouge a man’s eyes out?”
I wanted to make a droll face but couldn’t. There were still times when my body felt the crushing weight of George Rutherford, and I found it hard to breathe.
Leo poured me a glass of water. “He’s dead,” he said flatly. “My mother saw him and she said he’s dead. Mother Hirschfeld never lies.” He handed me the glass. “I hear her son takes after her.”
“O … mits,” I mouthed.
“Only with girls smart enough to catch him.” He rubbed my hand. “I can’t believe I told Rutherford you’d gone to his office. I keep thinking…”
He had also told Otelia Brooks where I was, so I smiled and shook my head. Then I waved my hands in the air to show how lively I felt.
“Good,” he said. “I want you to get better. And when you’re better, I’m going to take you to dinner at Delmonico’s.”
I wrote, Never lies?
“And we’re going to go dancing in Union Square and they’re going to play my song. ‘But on Fridays.’ I wrote it for you.” I shook my head. “No, really, I did.”
He sang, “A maid’s life is endless toil / sewing hems and cleaning soil. / She sweeps, she braids, / but on Fridays, these maids … Oh, these maids.” He swung my hands. “They dance. Oh, yes, they dance. / With no thought of work or dirt / or anything but romance…”
I laughed.
“There you go. Uncle Hesh even took the cigar out of his mouth when I played it. So it’s dinner, dancing, and we’ll see what happens next.” He took my hand again, smiling in a way that made me feel as if next could last a lifetime.
Of course, I knew what would happen, and I knew it would not last a lifetime. But I smiled anyway.
* * *
Michael Behan did not smile. He did not make jokes or promise dinner at Delmonico’s. He settled himself on my small desk chair, gently turned my head, and described George Rutherford in terms I won’t repeat.
Then he said, “I’m sorry. You don’t need me showing off my vocabulary at a time like this.”
“Do … need … your vocabulary.”
“Don’t talk.” He slid the pad over to me. “Strain your…”
Vocal chords, I wrote. Opera career over.
I showed him the newspapers howling for Otelia Brooks’s blood. Then told him what George Rutherford kept in his safe.
You need to write different story. George Rutherford murderer. Otelia Brooks heroine. Saved me. Saved others. Make people see that. Make jury see that.
“I can’t call him a murderer until they open that safe.”
Impatient, I waved at my throat. Then wrote, Remember when you thought I killed Norrie Newsome?
“Ah, yes, I do.”
You promised to defend me in the papers. You said you would make me sound like … I frowned, unable to remember … woman from Bible who killed man …
He smi
led. “St. Agnes. Even a Lutheran would know that.”
Otelia = St. Agnes.
“Looks a bit different,” he said quietly.
I smacked the paper. Then I turned the page, circled the words DEATH NOTICES, and wrote my name underneath. Then I underlined Otelia = St. Agnes and croaked, “She is.”
He put a hand up. “Don’t strain…”
Either he forgot the word or something else came to mind. His hand drifted, and I felt a light touch at my throat. Nothing very much, just the back of his fingers; then it was over and he said, “Your voice. Don’t strain your voice, you’ll need it for the trial. And I’ll want a quote.”
Then he picked up the newspaper and stood up. “I haven’t been on crime for a while. I’ll have to ask my editor.”
And his wife. He had stopped writing about crime so he could be home more. I was endangering the Behan family future.
Under Otelia = St. Agnes, I wrote, THANK YOU.
* * *
Ella Dodson arrived the next morning, settling herself in the chair and smiling a thank-you to the offer of tea. Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of my throat, but I waved to assure her I would be okay. Then I wrote, Otelia Brooks.
“They arrested her, I know,” she said.
I pointed to her, wrote in the air with my finger. You write.
“I intend to.”
I wrote the details of what had happened that day, beginning with my realization that George Rutherford knew about the refuge. At one point, I worried I had not explained the importance of that moment and wrote, You’ll have to tell readers—
Ella Dodson put a hand over mine, stilling it. “You tell me what you know. Then let me tell the story.”
* * *
“Jane.”
The voice came from above my head. I wasn’t sure if it was real or a dream. If a dream, I preferred to stay with my eyes closed, the pillow warm and comforting around my head.
“Jane?”
Once I knew the voice, I opened my eyes, but remained unsure whether I was dreaming or not. My uncle had come to the police station, but … he looked wrong. Older. And it was day, not night. And I was no longer three years old, but an adult.
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