we sent Mr. Townley into a state of high alarm, but he was able to compose himself long enough to assure us of his readiness to file a divorce suit against his wife. Geraldine warned him that the next step was the most delicate: photographs of the erring couple must be taken and entered into evidence. She begged him to stay calm, and if he happened to see Charles Kayser or Virginia, to act as if nothing was amiss.
“Why, I’ll be on a train to Scranton with Charlie in another week,” he said, red-faced. “I’m not any kind of actor. What’ll I do about that?”
“Change your plans,” said Geraldine. “Come down with a case of dyspepsia or a head cold. Just stay away from him. And if your wife comes back—”
“She won’t,” he said dispiritedly.
“If she does, act as if nothing’s wrong. Make it easy for her to go out again. The picture’s the thing, Mr. Townley.”
When we left his office, Geraldine pulled a scrap of paper from her purse. “This is going exactly as I’d hoped. The trouble is that I don’t know a reliable photographer in New Jersey, and the rates to send someone over from New York would be awfully high. But there’s an attorney in Paterson who handles divorce cases, so I’ve made an appointment for us. It would be better for him to represent Mr. Townley anyway, and I’ll take Anna Kayser.”
“Who’s the attorney in Paterson?” I asked.
She showed me the paper. “John Ward. Do you know him?”
I had to admit that I did know him. For a brief time, John Ward represented Henry Kaufman, the man who harassed my family a few years earlier. Mr. Kaufman fired him, and went into court with a poor defense, which seemed to have worked in our favor as we won the case. Sheriff Heath and John Ward were friends of many years, although the two men couldn’t have been less alike. The sheriff served divorce papers on behalf of John Ward’s clients, and sought Ward’s advice on legal matters pertaining to the sheriff’s office.
“I know him,” I said. “And he’s expecting us this afternoon? You must have been awfully confident about our meeting with Mr. Townley.”
Geraldine waved her hand in the air dismissively. “Poor old Joe. What choice did he have?”
We arrived in Paterson with little time to spare, and walked right up to John Ward’s office. I’d been there only once before but knew the way.
The door bore the name of the firm, Ward & McGinnis, in fresh stenciling, and when we walked in, I was astonished to see that the office had been completely transformed and that a new girl sat at the desk. Gone were the red carpets and the mahogany panels. Gone were the Chinese lacquer pots and the fan palms. The room had been made over entirely in white and gold, with a pale carpet of the faintest green, and a delicate chandelier dripping in gold filigree that hung over a desk of honey-colored wood.
Sitting at that desk was a Scandinavian beauty with aquamarine eyes and hair as white as corn-silk. Even Geraldine seemed taken aback.
“Have we come to a law office?”
The girl gave a little gasp. “What do you think of it? I’ve only just had it redone.”
Geraldine turned around in a circle and said, “It is the most beautiful office I’ve ever seen. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been in a room quite like it.”
The girl looked pleased. “Mr. Ward told me to spend whatever it cost. He wanted all traces of the former . . . well, of the old ways taken away.”
I thought the last receptionist was the prettiest girl I’d ever seen, until I met this one. I was beginning to suspect a pattern.
“I believe we have an appointment,” I told the girl, and gave our names.
She consulted a little white calfskin appointment book. Just as she did, a crash came from the room behind her, and the sound of breaking glass. She looked up as if she hadn’t heard it. “They’re waiting for you.”
“They?” Geraldine asked.
“Mr. McGinnis is in today as well.” Something hit a wall with a dull thud, followed by muffled laughter. She lifted an eyebrow in the direction of the noise and said, “They found a game of parlor croquet in a closet, and they play it violently. It’s best to knock.”
She did so, rapping on the door behind her desk officiously. That brought about the sound of furniture sliding around and a low but animated argument between two men. Geraldine wore a look of delighted fascination.
“They share an office,” I explained. “They always have.”
At last the door opened, and we were greeted by a flushed and panting Peter McGinnis. He was a round-faced, red-haired jovial man whose green eyes and freckles made him look perpetually boyish. John Ward came up behind him, a lanky man with curly hair that flopped over his forehead and a scheming squint to his eyes. He wore a wide grin and kept a pipe clenched between his teeth.
“Ladies!” Mr. Ward called, opening the door wide. “Petey was just letting me beat him at croquet. Miss Ericson, what do you suppose these ladies might take at this hour? My aunt takes a drink called a Presbyterian, with Scotch and mint and enough ginger ale to hide the color of the Scotch. Could we interest you girls in a thing like that?”
“I don’t know where I’d find the mint,” Miss Ericson said anxiously.
“No one bothers with the mint,” Mr. Ward said, grinning at Geraldine.
Mr. McGinnis took his croquet mallet—it was one of those toy-sized mallets, with the paint chipped off—and bent over to knock a ball against Mr. Ward’s feet. “You’re offering drinks to a sworn officer of the law, Jack. She’s a deputy now.”
“Yes, and I’m on duty myself,” Geraldine said. She swept into the room and bent down to scoop up the ball and hand it back to Mr. McGinnis. “Where would you like us?”
The chairs had all been moved out of the way to make room for the croquet hoops. Mr. McGinnis hastened to put them back where they belonged, and we each took our seats. The men sat at either end of an enormous partner’s desk, where a rudimentary game of table-top croquet had been set up, with golf balls and little paper tents.
“I thought a Presbyterian was gin and ginger,” said Mr. McGinnis.
“It might be. A Methodist is the same drink, only with sarsaparilla. Say, now, Miss . . .” Mr. Ward turned to us, leaning across the desk on his elbows, “Geraldine, is it? I’m sorry . . .”
“Miss Rodgers,” Geraldine said. “I’ve come to bring you a client. He might just like one of those drinks of yours.”
“Divorce, isn’t it?” said Mr. Ward. “It’s a specialty of ours. I don’t know any drinks particular to the institution, however. We should have one called the Willful Deserter. Write that down, Petey.”
Mr. McGinnis did. “Yes, and what about Failure to Support?”
Mr. Ward said, “It sounds like a stingy drink, but that describes half our clients. I hope this one has some money.”
I was beginning to remember why Sheriff Heath tried to avoid afternoon meetings with Mr. Ward. They started into their liquor early and rarely got anything done after three.
Geraldine said, “I’m afraid we have an ordinary adultery case for you. There are pictures to be taken, if you can manage it.”
Mr. McGinnis straightened up a little in his chair. Mr. Ward said, “We manage it better than anyone else on the Atlantic seaboard. Petey’s a champion photographer and a master illusionist. We’ve dressed him up as a theater usher, a milk-man, and a cleaning lady, all in pursuit of the truth.”
“A cleaning lady!” Geraldine said. Mr. McGinnis smiled, pleased, his cheeks pink behind their orange freckles.
“I loaned him my best pink duster. He filled it out nicely,” Mr. Ward said.
“The milk-man will do just fine,” Geraldine said. “But the lady spooks easily, so get it right the first time.”
“They all spook easily,” Mr. Ward said. “Why does this one have the attention of the Gentlewoman Deputy?”
I told him about Anna Kayser’s commitment to Morris Plains and he gave a low whistle. “Had his own wife committed? It’s an old trick, but a dependable one. My great-uncle Pop sent his first wife away and got another one just like your fellow did. Used to call it the poor man’s divorce. All it took was a doctor willing to take payment in chicken eggs or pork bellies.”
“You never told me about any Uncle Pop,” Mr. McGinnis said.
“His name was Whatcoat, but he wouldn’t answer to it.”
If we didn’t leave soon, I feared we’d be there all afternoon hearing about Uncle Pop. “The picture, gentlemen,” I said, rising to my feet. They jumped up and Geraldine followed suit. “This week, if at all possible. We have a perfectly sane woman in an asylum who would very much like not to sample the electrical therapy or the lithia tablets. Let’s do her a good turn. And please keep this to yourselves, as I am involved in an unofficial capacity.”
“Do you mean to say that Mr. Sheriff doesn’t know you’re here?” Mr. Ward said delightedly. “I didn’t know you were capable of running a con, Miss Deputy.”
“It isn’t a con. Only—I’d appreciate your discretion.”
I meant to leave in as dignified and expedient a manner as possible, but before I could, Miss Ericson knocked at the door and came in wearing a chinchilla set. Mr. Ward shrieked and Mr. McGinnis collapsed in laughter.
“You know that thing terrifies me,” Mr. Ward said, rushing to the door and batting her away, while keeping one hand dramatically over his eyes. “I was bitten by a weasel as a small child and I can’t go near them.”
She giggled. “It isn’t a weasel, and it can’t bite you.” She waved the snout at him and he fell back in horror.
“I don’t know how you afford to feed that thing. We pay you too much, Miss Ericson.”
“Yes, you do,” she called, and waved good-night. “Lock the door when you leave.”
Geraldine handed Mr. Ward her card. “Telephone the minute you have those photographs.”
“I’ll get them tonight, if it means I can telephone you,” Mr. Ward said. “What does a lady lawyer get up to in the evenings in New York?”
“What does a married man get up to in Paterson?” Geraldine retorted.
“You’d never guess,” Mr. Ward said, bouncing his pipe up and down between his teeth.
“Oh, I might.”