It was dark by the time I reached the building. But I was in luck. Michael Behan was just coming out onto the street. He was alone, thankfully; most of the other reporters, I realized, would have already left.
Running up to him, I said, “You can’t write that story.”
“Miss Prescott. Still trying to put me in the poorhouse.”
“You can’t write it. It’s not true. I—” I struggled to think of a quick way to sum up everything Sandro had told me. There was none. “I want to tell you a different story.”
“All right.”
“I can’t on the street.…”
The clock overhead started to chime and Behan took the opportunity to note that it was dinnertime. Frustrated, I thought, How had Behan gotten Sullivan to talk to him? Money. He had spent money …
I put a hand to my purse. I had money.
“Mr. Behan, may I invite you to dinner?”
* * *
I took him to a restaurant called Lanza’s. It was on the cellar level, down a flight of wrought-iron stairs. It was small, with only eight tables. A waiter pushed a cloth along the bar. A single man sat in the back consuming a plate of veal with great concentration. A family of five was just finishing their meal.
“I don’t like Italian food,” Behan had said when he saw our destination.
“Maybe it’s time you became better acquainted with it.”
The waiter was happy to seat us at one of the white-and-red-cloth-covered tables. He turned to Behan to take the order, but I ordered the things least likely to outrage an Irish stomach. Gnocchi, polenta, ziti marinara, and escarole, because I liked it. It was said the sauce of garlic, oil, and tomato was called marinara because sailors’ wives could make it quickly once they spotted the boats returning to shore. Thinking of wives, aware that I had caused Mrs. Behan irritation, I asked, “How is Mrs. Behan?”
Settling back in his chair, he said, “Mrs. Behan is … tired. Mrs. Behan’s head aches, as do her feet. Mrs. Behan would like to see something of me occasionally. Mrs. Behan also cannot stand the sight of me. At least, she couldn’t when she last saw me. Perhaps having established beyond a reasonable doubt the existence of Mrs. Behan, we could drop the subject.”
The waiter set several plates on the table, as well as two glasses of wine. Tucking his napkin into his collar, Behan said, “My wife is very well, thank you.”
He started with the escarole, lifting a forkful to his mouth. Then coughing violently, he spat it into his napkin and gasped, “Jesus, that’s every garlic clove that came across the ocean in a Sicilian’s arse.”
I looked at him.
“I’m sorry.” He took a long swallow of wine. “Sorry. It’s just a little strong on the seasoning for me.”
I waited.
“And I apologize for the profanity.”
I stayed as I was.
Behan lowered his voice. “Am I to apologize to the waiter and our friends in the corner as well?”
I nodded.
Behan looked toward the bar and raised a hand in contrition. The waiter pointedly ignored him and—in truth—the other diner remained focused on his veal. One of the children had spilled water on the table and the family was distracted.
“You’re very partial to the Italians, aren’t you, Miss Prescott?”
“I’m partial to not insulting people when I’m eating their food.” I hesitated, then said, “When I was young, Anna’s family welcomed me into their home. That might sound like nothing to you, but no one else was interested in a girl who lived with ‘fallen women.’ They fed me, were kind to me. They let me wash the dishes.” I smiled, thinking of that funny honor. “Anna wasn’t allowed to, but I was because I was premuroso. It means you pay attention to people, you’re careful.” The words caught in my throat and I took up the escarole. “So, it feels odd to me when people say shut the doors to people capable of that generosity.” I ate some of the escarole. “And it’s exactly the right amount of garlic.”
Behan was quiet. Then he slid one of the plates in front of him and said, “What’s this then?”
“Polenta.”
He ate the smallest forkful conceivable. But the next forkful was larger. For a while, we were content to eat.
Then I said, “I want to thank you for not writing about Sofia.”
Behan drank his wine. “Oh, but I did. Yesterday. Page seventeen.”
“But—”
“Did you not see it? ‘Woman Found Dead in Oyster Bay.’ About two inches near the bottom right of the page. Right near ‘Dead Dog in Tiny Coffin.’”
“Your headlines are usually more dramatic than that.”
“It wasn’t my finest effort.”
“Everyone has their bad days, I suppose.”
“Sure.”
“May I ask what caused your bad day?”
“Remember how I said I didn’t like being fed stories?” I nodded. “Well, let’s say when I started writing up Sullivan’s account, I felt a little full. Nauseous, in fact. So I checked with some of my fellow parishioners—did you know Sullivan and Charles Tyler were colleagues? They work in the same precinct. For a time, Sullivan was even on the Dag—”
The family got up to leave and Behan amended his statement to, “Served on the squad that focused on crime in a particular area.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“And furthermore, I heard that while Mr. Tyler has many fans, Sullivan is not one of them. Thinks Tyler’s a little too friendly to the nonnatives, wastes too many resources better spent on real Americans. An attitude that not surprisingly got Sullivan kicked off the squad. So, I thought maybe I’d wait a bit. See what else came up. Has something else come up, Miss Prescott?”
“Maybe.”
In careful language, making no mention of last names—Moretti, Forti, or Tyler—I told him what Sandro had told me.
“He’s not brilliant, but he’s smarter than his sister gives him credit for,” I said. “And since he admits he was involved, I think we can consider him the highest authority on Rosalba’s innocence.”
Michael Behan had started the meal unhappy, but was eating more naturally with each bite. Now he signaled for another glass of wine and ran a piece of bread around the plate and asked, “What about the open window?”
“What I thought; she wanted air. They think the killers were watching the house before the kidnapping. They probably noticed she had a tendency to leave it open. But you can see that Charles Tyler shouldn’t be publicly mocked for trying to help a woman who saved a six-year-old boy.”
He chewed, a frown on his face.
“What?”
He pointed to a plate. “What’s this again?”
“Ziti marinara.”
“It’s good.”
“And?”
“And I think I’m feeling fonder of the Italian people, Miss Prescott.” He sat back. “What if Sofia’s death isn’t the work of the—” He wiggled his fingers to indicate “hand.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, you said yourself, she was pleasing to the eye.”
I almost laughed. “Mr. Tyler has many flaws, but he loves his wife.”
“Didn’t Mrs. Tyler just have a baby?”
“Yes, but—”
“Wife is tired, getting over the birth. Pretty, buxom addition to the household.”
“I’m telling you, you’re wrong.”
“Your faith in men is touching, Miss Prescott.”
“My faith in men is exactly what it should be, Mr. Behan. Charles Tyler wasn’t having an affair with Sofia, because if he has eyes for anyone other than his wife, it’s Charles Tyler. Why seduce the nanny when you have the press at your feet? And why kill her if they were having such a convenient little affair?”
“She made it inconvenient?”
“And he sleeps on the other side of the house. That’s why Mabel came to get me instead of her father. Charles Tyler was nowhere near the nursery that night.”
“And where d
oes William Tyler sleep?”
The sudden switch threw me and it took me a moment to say, “That’s ridiculous.”
“Why?”
“Because…” Because it simply was. “He’s getting married in a matter of weeks.”
“I don’t know what you think matrimony is, Miss Prescott—it’s not blinders you put on a horse.”
No, it certainly hadn’t been in William’s case. And yet, to be blunt, he was a horse in need of a fine stable, the kind that Louise was going to provide for him. If she decided to forgive him. And if the romp on the lawn was all she needed to forgive him for …
No. This was ridiculous. To jump from … a wander to murder was wild speculation. Why would he even do such a thing?
“William Tyler is a good man.” I spoke slowly so he might understand these simple words. “Just because he’s a well-known, good-looking young man—”
“You think he’s good-looking?”
“Yes, because he is.”
“Did Sofia think he was good-looking?”
I felt caught.
“She did, didn’t she?”
She had. And she had shown interest in the woman William was going to marry. Mr. William, he’s verynice. I do not want him having a killer in his family. And perhaps she had been a little … disinterested in the feelings of others; her callousness toward Alva Tyler. I took it as the natural antipathy for a critical employer. She was a kind woman, I thought, struggling to recall Sandro’s stories of her. Not the type to threaten a young man with the destruction of his hopes …
Resolved, I said, “She thought he was a nice man, which he is. Which was my very point to you. I know I took a good story away from you, Mr. Behan, but don’t build another one on William Tyler. Not if you ever want to speak with me again. The unsung heroine of the Forti kidnapping—that’s your story. Although if you could put off writing it until after the wedding, I’d be extremely grateful.”
The waiter brought Behan the check. Taking it with a flourish, I took my purse out of my pocket and started counting out bills. Behan watched me, uncomfortable.
“Miss Prescott.” I kept counting. “Jane.”
“I asked you to dinner, Mr. Behan.” Despite the emptiness of my purse, I took great pleasure in laying the money on the table. Let Michael Behan try and write the wrong story after being fed gnocchi and polenta.
As we left the restaurant, Behan said, “By the way, your friend Anna was right about mano nera. Well, the name anyway. A reporter did make it up.”
“Really?”
“Herald reporter. A woman, as it happens. She saw one of the extortion letters, how someone had drawn a black hand, and she started calling it a mano nera letter. The gangs liked the sound of it and took it up.”
Behan began walking to the train with me without comment. Near the station, we passed by a poster that read MARCH FOR WOMEN’S SUFFRAGE, MAY 6TH! It was tattered and someone had scrawled an obscenity on it.
Wanting to change the subject from murder and adultery, I said, “Tell me why you support Mr. Roosevelt.”
“I never said I did.”
We reached the station and started making our way down the stairs.
“On the train, you said, ‘Fine,’ when I asked if you were voting for him.” He shrugged. “You will vote, won’t you?”
Startled to be challenged, Behan said, “I’m not sure that that’s any of your business.”
“Well, if you’re going to say I can’t, then you certainly should.” Irritation growing, I continued, “If it’s such a complicated and intricate process well beyond my understanding, then as someone granted the privilege—because you have the mind and wherewithal to distinguish a good candidate from a poor one—you have a responsibility to exercise it.”
We pushed our way into the crowds already waiting on the platform. Behan said, “I didn’t say you can’t have the vote.”
Emboldened by his equivocation, I said, “Then you’re a supporter of the suffrage movement.”
The train rolled into the station and we stepped on. The train was packed with people and we both had to stand. Swaying from a handle, a gentleman’s elbow in my back, the feather of a woman’s hat brushing my neck, a foot that threatened to tromp mine with every jolt, I thought of the jaunty new song, “The Subway Glide.” “Ev’rybody you rub when you’re doing the sub … doing the subway gli-ide.”
His voice roiling with sarcasm, Behan said, “Just remind me, how does you having the vote help you sew a better hem?”
For a moment I was stumped—I hadn’t realized voting was meant to support you in your profession. Then I said, “How does having the vote help you write about heads in barrels?”
Angry now, he said, “There are differences between men and women, Miss Prescott.” The train took a sharp curve, throwing us all off our feet. My foot was stomped, I tasted feathers, and what little space there was between me and Mr. Behan vanished as we crashed into each other. For a strange, brief moment, my forehead rested on his chest, my fingers on his coat, and I was keenly aware that his heart was pounding. I say aware, but it was more a confusion. He had reached out to steady me, and his hand was at my waist.
I stepped back. “I am well aware of them, Mr. Behan.”
Returning to the argument, he said, “Men do things women do not do. We fight in wars, we are policemen, we protect—”
“So only soldiers and policemen should have the vote.” The man behind me turned the page of his paper, his elbow making its presence felt in my ribs.
Behan lowered his voice to say, “Men are … in the world, Miss Prescott. We face the realities of life in ways that women—”
I thought of Mrs. Tyler, weary from motherhood and childbearing, of Louise, so fearful at the thought of taking on those challenges, of Sofia, who would never have the chance now. Jabbing at the gentleman’s soft midsection with my own elbow, I said, “Do you honestly think women don’t face the realities of life? Isn’t birth the first reality of life?”
As the doors slid open at Fiftieth Street, the rumble of the train died and the word “birth” seemed to reverberate in the silence. I was aware of being stared at. Behan said quietly, “Miss Prescott,” and gestured ahead to indicate we should be going. Feeling both chagrined and elated that I had come through the argument and had the final word—even if it had been uttered a little too loudly—I went ahead.
As we turned onto Fifth Avenue, Behan said, “I’m guessing you’ll be marching on the sixth then.”
“It’s a few days after the wedding. I intend to be asleep.”
“I tell you what, you have my vote. I’ll sleep in on Election Day.”
“Fine. But I might vote for Wilson.”
“You can’t waste my vote on Wilson.”
“It’s not your vote, Mr. Behan.”
“Oh, right.” He smiled.
As we arrived at the Benchleys’, Behan nodded solemnly. “Thank you for dinner.”
“Thank you for page seventeen.”
I started walking up the back stairs. Then stopped.
“By the way—the dress.”
Behan looked up, eyes bright under the derby brim.
“Is by Worth. Cream silk charmeuse, with handmade Brussels lace at the neck and shoulder flounces. At the sleeves, dangling tassels finished in pearl. The veil is full length with a headdress of wax orange blossom. Good night, Mr. Behan.”
And I went inside, feeling just the tiniest bit like Mrs. Langtry sweeping through the doors at Keens in her feather boa.
* * *
The next morning, the Benchley sisters shared a quiet breakfast. Their mother was to arrive by lunchtime. As I came down, I saw Bernadette idly pushing the vacuum an inch or two across the hall rug, her head cocked toward the closed doors of the dining room. In the kitchen, Elsie stood by the swinging door, tray in hand, ostensibly waiting to be called in. Only Mrs. Mueller was fully engrossed in her duties, carefully tending the eggs while adjusting the bacon’s position in the pan. I
sat down at the table and complimented her on the meal. Then I looked toward Elsie, who shook her head. A moment later, Bernadette, also frustrated, came through the door and viciously bit into a piece of toast.
Coming to the table, Elsie whispered, “Is she calling it off or not?”
“She’s thinking,” I told her.
“What’s she want to call it off for?” Bernadette asked. “All I heard last night was her crying about trust and respect. Miss Charlotte said she’d be Mrs. William Tyler, and she could trust people would respect that.” She drank her coffee.
“Do you know why, Miss Prescott?” I shook my head. “Well, my guess is it’s another woman.”
“It’s not always about that, Elsie,” I said, more sharply than I meant to.
“Almost always,” she insisted. “Almost always, it’s a love story.”
Just then the front doorbell rang. “Oh, Lord, it’s Missus. She’s early,” said Elsie, smoothing her skirts and setting her cap straight.
She left to answer the door. I waited for the explosion of fretfulness that always accompanied Mrs. Benchley’s return. But it didn’t come. I glanced at the clock. She would have had to leave early to arrive this long before noon. And she was not one for early arrivals …
Then I heard Elsie open the dining-room door and announce, “Mr. William Tyler is here, Miss Louise.”
There was a gasp, followed by Charlotte saying, “Tell him to wait in the parlor, Elsie.”
Louise whispered, “No!”
“Tell him to wait.”
I got out of my chair and opened the kitchen door, pausing to gesture to Elsie that she should stay where she was. Then I went as quietly as possible down the hallway to find William standing at the door. I hurried him into the parlor and said, “Why are you here?”
“To speak with Louise.” He turned his hat in his hand; Elsie should have taken it. I held out my hand and he gave it to me. No, I thought, reassured. This is … William. Awkward, over-tall, well-meaning, and yes, kind, William Tyler.
“What will you say to her?” I asked him.
Death of a New American--A Novel Page 19