Elizabeth stood in front of the mirror and carefully adjusted the new hat Irene had made for her. But it didn’t give her the pleasure she’d anticipated. Despite her fatigue, she’d been unable to sleep the previous night until she’d finally heard James come home and tiptoe down the hall to his room. A glance at her bedside clock told her it was after two o’clock in the morning.
The despair of knowing that Theo, Whit and Bobbie were all lost kept her tossing and turning. They haunted her dreams—visions of their bodies floating lifeless in the water mingling with scenes of the makeshift morgue at the Westhampton Country Club.
She hadn’t known any of the boys all that well, but she did remember their spirit and their broad smiles. Whit had had a gap between his two front teeth that lent him a boyish charm and Bobbie had a twinkle in his eye that always made everything seem like fun. The fact that they were gone was breaking her heart.
Jones looked at her a bit strangely as she prepared to leave and Elizabeth realized she’d dressed, without being conscious of it, all in dark colors—a black pleated skirt, a black cashmere sweater with a white peter pan collar and black low-heeled pumps.
The day was bracing, with a nip in the air, and Elizabeth felt her spirits rise slightly as she walked out the door and headed to the subway. The sky was blue and cloudless and it was hard to believe that a few short days ago the weather had turned so deadly that seven hundred people had lost their lives.
Kaminsky was already slouched at his desk slurping coffee and chewing on a buttered roll when Elizabeth arrived at the office.
“Rough night?” he said when she walked in.
Elizabeth felt tears pressing against her eyelids. “Yes.” She covered her mouth and yawned.
“What you need is some excitement. I thought we would go and interview some of the people who knew Noeleen Donovan, starting with the residents of the boardinghouse where she used to live.”
Elizabeth stopped with her hand on her hat. “Let’s go then.”
The train ride up to the Bronx where Noeleen had lived was long, and more than once Elizabeth found her eyes drifting closed. Kaminsky sat next to her, his long legs outstretched in the nearly empty car. He’d taken a well-thumbed book from his pocket and begun to read. The cover was so worn Elizabeth couldn’t make out the title or the author.
She was dozing when the subway jerked to a stop and Kaminsky poked her.
“This is where we switch.”
Elizabeth jumped to her feet and followed Kaminsky out of the car and to the White Plains Road line, which would take them to Westchester Avenue in the Bronx.
The street where Noeleen had lived was bustling with activity. The bells of the Catholic church nearby were ringing and the adjacent schoolyard was filled with children in gray blazers and skirts or pants, vying for a turn on the swing set or playing catch, their joyous shouts filling the air.
The brick walk-ups and apartment buildings were modest but well kept with trees shading the sidewalks out front. Women sat on the stoops, holding their faces to the still-warm September sun, housework momentarily forgotten.
“I think this is it,” Kaminsky said, stopping in front of a red-brick building with lace curtains in the window.
They walked up the steps and before Kaminsky was able to ring the bell, the door opened and a young man in a cheap pinstripe suit stepped out. He looked startled to see Elizabeth and Kaminsky on the other side of the door.
“Mr. Kaminsky,” he exclaimed.
“Hey, Tommy. I didn’t know you lived here.” Kaminsky leaned against the stair rail.
“Yeah.” Tommy’s eyes darted to Elizabeth. “I thought it was time to move out of my folks’ apartment. Living there kind of put a damper on things, know what I mean?” He winked at Kaminsky. “My mother was convinced I was going to the devil when I brought home a pint of Old Forester on a Friday night. I had to remind her that Prohibition is long over.” He shook his head. “She ran to her room crying anyway.”
A flush rose up his neck to his face.
“I’m so sorry, miss. I hope I didn’t offend you.”
“Tommy, this is Biz Adams, the Daily Trumpet’s newest photographer. Biz, this is Tommy Schmidt, one of our advertising salesmen.”
Tommy belatedly whipped off his hat and gave Biz a half bow.
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Do you have a couple of minutes?” Kaminsky said. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Tommy glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry. I’d better shake a leg or I’ll be late.” He grinned at Elizabeth.
“I’ll catch up with you later.” Kaminsky jerked his head toward the door. “Is the landlady in?”
Tommy glanced over his shoulder. “Mrs. Lis? Sure.”
“We’ll go on in then,” Kaminsky said. He’d grabbed the door before it could close all the way.
Tommy saluted and trotted down the steps, quickly disappearing down the street.
Elizabeth and Kaminsky stepped into the foyer where the tile floor was covered by a worn but clean rug. A dining room was on the left—the plain wood table long enough to sit a dozen people. The room was empty but the smell of food lingered in the air.
The parlor was on the right, outfitted with an old-fashioned settee and two armchairs covered in dark brown horsehair. A small electric fire sat on the grate in the fireplace and a nondescript painting of a landscape hung over it.
“Hello?” Kaminsky called out as they moved farther down the hall toward a door at the end.
The door opened and a woman came out. She was tall with a large frame and blunt features that gave her a mannish appearance. She had an apron tied over a faded and shapeless housedress and her gray hair was pinned up helter-skelter with strands protruding here and there and a piece coming down on the side. She tucked it behind her ear as she walked toward them.
“Mrs. Lis?” Kaminsky said.
“Yes. I am Mrs. Lis. Can I help you? I’m afraid there are no vacancies at the moment.”
She had a deep voice that Elizabeth found very pleasant.
Kaminsky pulled his press card from his pocket.
“We’re from the Daily Trumpet and we hoped we might speak to you for a few minutes.”
“This will be about Noeleen Donovan, won’t it?” Mrs. Lis gestured toward the parlor. “We might as well sit down.”
Elizabeth and Kaminsky followed Mrs. Lis into the parlor and took a seat. Mrs. Lis, Elizabeth noted, merely perched on the edge of the settee cushion as if she was prepared to jump up and flee at any moment.
“I take it you run this boardinghouse?” Kaminsky said, pulling his notebook and pencil from his pocket.
Mrs. Lis raised her chin. “It’s a respectable place. I won’t rent to anyone without a reference.”
Kaminsky held his hands up in a placating gesture. “I’m sure it is. You certainly keep it clean.”
Mrs. Lis smiled broadly and the effect was so astonishing that Elizabeth almost gasped.
“I do my best,” she said modestly, bobbing her head. She reached up, removed a hairpin and secured an errant strand of hair.
“Had Noeleen been living here long before she took the job with the Posts?” Elizabeth said.
“Not very long, no. Only a month or two. Both girls were looking for jobs. Noeleen was hoping to live in and save the cost of lodging.”
“Both girls?” Kaminsky’s head popped up.
“Noeleen and her cousin Orla Cullen. Orla’s been living here with us for almost a year now. She was taking care of an elderly gentleman during the day, but the poor man died suddenly so she was back to looking for a job.”
Mrs. Lis smoothed her apron with rough, red hands.
“Before Noeleen came over from Ireland, she and Orla would send letters back and forth to each other. Orla was always waiting by the door when the postman came. She would be so happy when she had word from her cousin. Noeleen’s parents were gone and her last relative in the old country was an elderly aunt. When she passed, Orla persuaded Noeleen to come to New York.”
“What was Noeleen like?” Kaminsky said.
“She was a good girl.” Mrs. Lis sat up straighter and threw out her chest as if she expected an argument. “She was brought up with religion—a good Catholic girl. Before she went to live at the Posts’, she attended Mass at St. Patrick’s right down the street. Never missed a Sunday and went most weekdays as well.”
“Mrs. Lis,” Elizabeth said as gently as possible. “Would it surprise you to know that Noeleen was in the family way?”
Mrs. Lis looked as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water at her. Her jaw went slack and her mouth opened as if to protest.
“That can’t be. I told you—Noeleen was a good girl. She would never…” Mrs. Lis stared Elizabeth in the eye. “Who told you that? They must have been lying.”
“I’m afraid it’s true,” Elizabeth said quietly. “The medical examiner reported it.”
“The medical examiner!” Mrs. Lis made an exclamation that sounded like a cry of pain. “I can’t bear to think of them cutting the poor girl open. There was no need. She was a good girl. She deserves a decent burial.”
“Why don’t you tell us about Noeleen?” Elizabeth said. “It sounds as if you were fond of her.”
Mrs. Lis relaxed slightly. “She had a quiet way about her. And she was tidy. She kept her room just so. Not like some of them.” Mrs. Lis cast her eyes upwards.
“Can we see her room?” Elizabeth said. “And if I could take a picture?”
“The room’s been let but they haven’t moved in yet. I’ve some of the things Noeleen left behind in a box. I can show you that if you like. She said she was coming to get them but she never did. And now it’s too late.” Mrs. Lis put her hands on her knees and heaved herself out of her chair.
Elizabeth took her camera out of its case as they followed Mrs. Lis up the stairs. The top step creaked loudly and Elizabeth jumped. Mrs. Lis pointed to it.
“I can hear if someone comes in late. We have a curfew of eleven o’clock. I don’t want to be woken up at all hours with tenants coming and going. I work a long day, and I deserve my rest.”
“Was Noeleen ever late?” Elizabeth said as they walked down a long corridor with numerous doors on either side.
“Not while she was here, she wasn’t. It wasn’t like her to go gallivanting around and stay out till all hours.”
They were almost to the end of the hallway when Mrs. Lis stopped and opened one of the doors. She stood aside to let Elizabeth and Kaminsky enter.
The room could have belonged to anyone—there was nothing to distinguish it. A single bed covered with a worn but clean white chenille spread, and with a headboard that reminded Elizabeth of the beds in the hospital where she’d spent so much time, was against one wall. A plain but serviceable bureau was against the other. Scratches on the top of the bureau showed plenty of use had been gotten out of it already. A small desk was the only other piece of furniture.
The cream-colored lace curtains in the window looked frivolous when compared to the sterility of the rest of the décor. For some reason, they made Elizabeth sad. Everything was very clean but also soulless.
She snapped a few pictures and then put her camera way.
“You said you had a box of Noeleen’s things?” Kaminsky said.
Mrs. Lis nodded. “Yes. I’ll go get it. You can wait in the parlor.”
Elizabeth and Kaminsky headed back downstairs.
“What did you think?” Elizabeth said when they’d perched on the sofa again. It was stiff and uncomfortable and felt scratchy against her legs.
“I’ve seen prison cells with more personality,” Kaminsky said, fidgeting with his pencil. “But surely when Noeleen had the room there were pictures up—you know movie stars and the like that all you young girls go for.”
“I hope so.”
But Elizabeth wondered—that didn’t accord with the picture Mrs. Lis was painting of Noeleen.
The top stair creaked and seconds later Mrs. Lis came into view clutching a small cardboard box hardly bigger than a shoebox.
Elizabeth felt another wave of sadness. Were the contents of that box really all that was left of Noeleen?
Mrs. Lis shoved the box at Elizabeth. “I don’t know what to do with these things now that Noeleen is gone.”
“I wonder why Noeleen didn’t take everything with her when she moved to the Posts’?” Elizabeth took the lid off the box and stifled a sneeze as dust rose in the air.
“I think she missed these things,” Mrs. Lis said, kneading her hands.
Elizabeth began taking the contents out of the box one by one. There was a prayer card with a picture of the Blessed Virgin Mary on the front. One of the corners was missing and there was a crease across the middle. Elizabeth turned it over and read the name on the back—Siobhan Mary Ryan and the dates September 10, 1899–March 9, 1935.
Mrs. Lis pointed at the card. “I found that wedged in one of the drawers. No wonder Noeleen didn’t see it.”
Elizabeth handed the card to Kaminsky. “Her mother?”
Kaminsky glanced at it. “Probably.”
Elizabeth looked in the box again. There was a small statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Much of the color had been rubbed off as if it had been handled repeatedly. Underneath it was a blue tin of Ex-Lax and a box of Smith Brothers cough drops. Elizabeth held them up.
“Was Noeleen sick a lot?”
“No more than most I’d say.” Mrs. Lis frowned and rubbed the palm of her left hand with the thumb of her right.
“Was Noeleen friends with any of your other tenants?” Elizabeth returned the items to the box and put on the lid. “Other than her cousin Orla?”
“Ruby, Barbara and Jane liked to go to the pictures on Saturdays, but I don’t think Noeleen ever joined them. She wasn’t the sort of girl to be interested in the pictures and things like that.”
“I thought all girls liked the movies,” Kaminsky said.
“The other girls did, but Noeleen was different. She was quiet. She spent her time in her room.”
“Did she have a fella?” Kaminsky said.
Mrs. Lis looked startled. “A suitor, you mean? I don’t think so. I don’t allow strange men in the house. It only leads to trouble.”
“What about the men who live here?” Kaminsky said. “Did she seem interested in any of them?”
“Are you going to put all this in your story?” Mrs. Lis said, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t see what any of it has to do with poor Noeleen being killed the way she was.”
“We have to paint a picture of the victim, see—to get the readers’ sympathy.”
Mrs. Lis nodded, seemingly satisfied.
Elizabeth didn’t think they were going to get more out of her. Kaminsky was obviously inclined to agree because he put his notebook and pencil back in his pocket and stood up.
“Is there any chance we could speak to Noeleen’s cousin Orla?”
Mrs. Lis also got to her feet. “She’s not in at the moment. She’s gone off to work.”
Elizabeth glanced at Kaminsky. “Where does she work?”
“Samuel Kass—it’s a garment manufacturer over on Seventh Avenue and Thirty-Sixth Street, but she won’t want you visiting her there. She’ll be back by five-thirty, but I put dinner on the table at six and she’ll be wanting to eat.”
“We’ll come back then.” Kaminsky stood and picked up his hat.
Mrs. Lis showed them out and waited on the stoop watching as they headed down the street.
Elizabeth was glad to be back in the fresh air and sunshine. The dark and brooding atmosphere of Mrs. Lis’s parlor had made her feel claustrophobic.
They were walking toward the subway entrance when Kaminsky stopped and fished around in his pocket for his pack of Camels. He shook one out, lit it and narrowed his eyes as smoke rose from the tip.
“It certainly seems like this Noeleen was a real religious type of dame, don’t you think? Her landlady mentioned it. Mrs. Brown, the Posts’ cook, said she went to early Mass every day….And then there was that statue Mrs. Lis found. It looked as if Noeleen had had it for a long time.”
“Yes. The paint was all worn off.”
“I think our story is this,” Kaminsky said, propping his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and gesturing with his hands as if he was writing a headline across the sky. “ ‘Good Catholic Girl Finds Herself Pregnant.’ Or better maybe—‘Pregnant Catholic Girl Brutally Stabbed.’ ” He glanced at Elizabeth. “What do you think?”
“I think that’s horrible,” Elizabeth said, appalled. “That makes Noeleen sound like some sort of loose woman.”
Elizabeth had been touched by the contents of Mrs. Lis’s box—the obviously cherished prayer card, the worn statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. “I don’t think that’s true at all.”
“How did Noeleen find herself pregnant then?”
“I don’t know.” Elizabeth bit her lip. “Maybe she was forced against her will.”
Kaminsky gripped his cigarette between his thumb and index finger and took a long drag. He blew out the smoke. “You’ve got an interesting idea there, Biz. I think you have the nose to be a reporter.” He tapped his own nose. “So maybe some lothario forces himself on Noeleen even though, being a good Catholic girl, she says no. She gets pregnant.” He dropped his cigarette on the pavement and ground it out with the heel of his shoe. “She begs him to make an honest woman of her. He refuses. She insists.” Kaminsky balled his fists at his side. “So they fight and, in the heat of the moment, he stabs her.” He made a slashing motion with his arm. “The hurricane provides the perfect cover-up until the caretaker comes along and finds her body.”
Elizabeth rolled a pebble around under the toe of her shoe. “Before you write anything, we need to find out what really happened. We owe it to Noeleen.”
“That’s a great idea, but the boss is clamoring for a story yesterday.”
Elizabeth lifted her chin. “We’d better get going then. Mrs. Brown said the Posts had sent her priest to comfort her. I wonder if he was Noeleen’s priest as well and if he can tell us anything.”
“You know as well as I do that he’s not going to tell us anything Noeleen told him in confidence.”
“No, but he might be able to paint a more complete picture of Noeleen. Things don’t add up the way they are. Anyway, it’s worth a shot, don’t you think?”
“By any chance do you remember the name of the church Mrs. Brown mentioned?”
“St. Vincent Ferrer. A college classmate of mine was married there. The priest was Father McGrath.”
“Well don’t just stand there. Let’s get a move on,” Kaminsky said as he headed toward the entrance to the subway.