Kaminsky knew the location of every bar in New York City, Elizabeth thought as they watched the waiter walk toward them with Kaminsky’s shot of Old Schenley and a Budweiser chaser. Of course nearly every block had its neighborhood bar—they had sprung up like weeds when prohibition ended in 1933.
“Do you really think that woman committed suicide?” Elizabeth said.
Kaminsky threw back the shot of whiskey, coughed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Why? Are you thinking something different?”
Elizabeth toyed with the straw in her Coca-Cola.
“What woman goes to all the trouble of buying an expensive chuck roast for her husband’s dinner and then changes her mind and decides to jump out the window?”
“You’ve got a point there,” Kaminsky said, wiping away the foam on his upper lip. “But if someone pushed her, where were they when the cops arrived?”
“They would have had time to run downstairs and disappear around the corner before the alarm was sounded. The butcher said it took a while for the police to get there.”
Elizabeth thought about the husband who had arrived late to the scene, breathless and flustered.
“Maybe the husband did it. He pushed her out the window, ran down the stairs and away from the scene. Maybe he already had his raincoat on when he pushed her.”
A look of admiration spread across Kaminsky’s face. “Good thinking, Biz.”
Elizabeth felt a glow of satisfaction. Kaminsky was stingy with praise, but when he gave it, she knew he really meant it.
“I wonder if the police found the door to the apartment unlocked?” Kaminsky raised his eyebrows.
Elizabeth toyed with the wrapper from her straw, pleating it and folding it into an accordion shape.
“If the husband had left for work as usual that morning, Mrs. Tyler would have locked the door behind him.”
Kaminsky nodded in agreement.
“But if the husband killed her, he wouldn’t want to take the time to lock up in back of him. So he dashes out leaving the door unlocked.”
“That’s great thinking, Biz.” Kaminsky pulled his notebook from his pocket and began scribbling. “This story is going to be a lifesaver.”
Elizabeth swirled her straw around in her glass watching the bubbles rise to the surface and pop.
“Why do you say that?”
Kaminsky sighed and ducked his head. “There’s a rumor going around the paper that they’re going to pink-slip a couple of reporters.”
“You’re their best crime reporter. They wouldn’t do that to you.”
Kaminsky ran his thumb down the condensation on his glass.
“I don’t know. These young bucks have so much energy. It’s hard for an old guy like me to keep up.”
Elizabeth looked at Kaminsky’s downturned mouth and the droop of his shoulders, and she vowed to do something. They’d show the Daily Trumpet that Kaminsky shouldn’t be put out to pasture yet. They’d scoop every paper in town.
All she had to do was figure out how. An idea began to form in her mind and she turned it over examining it from every angle.
It just might work.
Kaminsky dropped into his desk chair and began typing as soon as they got back to the newsroom. Elizabeth hung her hat and coat on the hook in the wall and dashed into the darkroom with her camera. She would have to hurry if they were going to make the evening edition with the story.
Elizabeth swore to herself when she realized she’d left a thumbprint on one of the negatives. It was a good shot, too. She forced herself to slow down—she’d been in too much of a hurry and had been careless. Fortunately she had plenty of other photographs. Some of them were even quite good.
She was caught off guard when she realized she wasn’t actually seeing what was in the pictures—a body lying on the sidewalk covered with a sheet and oozing blood—she was seeing a possible front page photograph with her credit line. Had she become jaded already?
Tommy was outside the door to the darkroom when Elizabeth opened it.
“Sorry, miss,” he said when they nearly collided. “Oh, Miss Adams, it’s you.”
“Hello, Tommy. Please, call me Elizabeth.”
“Okay, then.” He shuffled his feet and gave her a bashful grin.
“I hope the police haven’t been around the boardinghouse again,” Elizabeth said.
Tommy shook his head. “No they haven’t.” He looked hopeful. “Do you and Mr. Kaminsky have any idea what’s happening?”
“I’m sorry, no. Only our own theories, I’m afraid.”
“Sure. I understand.” He shook his head. “Everyone at the boardinghouse has been in a tizzy over this. We’ve never had the police there before. Mrs. Lis isn’t taking it well. She said she’s sorry she ever rented a room to Noeleen.”
Elizabeth frowned. “It’s hardly poor Noeleen’s fault. I imagine it’s been hard for her cousin Orla as well.”
“Miss Cullen? You wouldn’t know it. I don’t think they got along all that well. Miss Cullen seemed jealous of Noeleen—especially of that job she got with the Posts. Of course Miss Cullen was supposed to interview for that job herself. Worse luck, I guess.”
Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Miss Cullen was meant to interview for the job at the Posts’?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Tommy shrugged. “I don’t know. She got sick, I guess.”
“Thanks,” Elizabeth said.
Tommy scratched his head. “What for?”
“You’ve given me an idea.”
Elizabeth dashed over to Kaminsky’s desk. He’d unwrapped his daily sandwich of egg salad and onions on rye bread and was about to take a bite. He smoothed out the wax paper and put the sandwich down when he saw Elizabeth bearing down on him.
“You look like your horse just won the fourth race at Belmont.”
Elizabeth was nearly out of breath with excitement.
“I talked to Tommy Schmidt and he told me that Orla was jealous of her cousin Noeleen.”
“And?”
“And Orla was supposed to interview for that job with the Posts, but she got sick.”
Kaminsky raised his eyebrows.
“Don’t you see?” Elizabeth began to pace in front of Kaminsky’s desk, her hands behind her back. “That gives Orla a reason to hate Noeleen. Or at least to resent her.” She turned to face Kaminsky.
He leaned back in his chair and it groaned loudly. “So you’re thinking that gives Orla a reason to murder her cousin.”
Elizabeth felt deflated. “When you put it like that…it does sound a bit melodramatic.”
“Maybe.” Kaminsky picked up his sandwich. “Let me finish this, and we’ll go have another talk with Miss Cullen. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this business, it’s that you never know.”
Trucks were densely parked along the streets of the garment district with workers unloading colorful bolts of fabric or loading finished garments. Horns blared as vehicles attempted to maneuver down the crowded streets while drivers shouted and waved their fists at one another.
Elizabeth and Kaminsky were making their way along Thirty-Sixth Street toward Seventh Avenue when Kaminsky grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and pulled her out of the way of a push boy barreling down the sidewalk with a rack of finished clothes.
“Sorry,” the young man called over his shoulder as he passed them.
“Have you ever been to the garment district before?” Kaminsky said.
“No,” Elizabeth said, darting to one side as a kid in a newsboy cap raced past her with a pile of dresses over his arm.
“Careful,” Kaminsky said, leading her around a rack of clothes and a pile of boxes that were waiting to be picked up. “I think this is it,” he said, squinting up at the twenty-five-story building. “Number four hundred ninety-eight Seventh Avenue.”
They stepped into the lobby, which was small and nondescript with an office off to one side. The door to the office flew open and a woman ran out.
“Can I help you?” she said.
She was wearing a starched red-and-white shirt with a high collar, a slim black skirt and plain black pumps. There was a pencil stuck behind her right ear.
“We’re looking for Samuel Kass Manufacturers,” Kaminsky said.
The woman pointed toward the elevators. “Tenth floor. Freight elevator is down the hall.”
Kaminsky raised his eyebrows at Elizabeth and she shrugged.
The elevator arrived and the grate made a loud screeching sound as the operator pulled it open.
“Tenth floor,” Kaminsky said.
The elevator operator nodded and said in a singsong voice, “Kass Manufacturers coming right up.”
The doors opened and Elizabeth and Kaminsky stepped out into a large room occupying nearly the entire floor.
Long wooden tables, placed close to the windows, ran down either side of the room. Operators sat on wooden chairs in front of the sewing machines pushing fabric under the needles with swift, sure motions.
It was hot and the noise was deafening. The air was choked with dust motes dancing in the sun coming through the windows.
In the center of the room were more wooden tables where cutters sliced through the layers of fabric that would be passed to the operators for sewing. Off to the side were the pressing machines sending puffs of steam into the already humid air.
A woman rushed toward Elizabeth and Kaminsky. She had a tape measure around her neck and bits of colored thread clung to the front of her dress.
“Can I help you?” she said with a look that indicated she thought that highly doubtful.
“We’re looking for a Miss Cullen. Miss Orla Cullen,” Kaminsky said. “Daily Trumpet.” He waved his press card in front of the woman’s nose.
The woman glanced at the large clock on the wall.
“Miss Cullen will have a break in five minutes. You can wait over there.” She pointed to several wooden chairs by the door.
Elizabeth and Kaminsky watched as the woman scurried over to one of the operators and leaned down toward her ear. The operator shot a swift glance in back of her, and they recognized Orla. She continued pushing fabric through the machine as she listened to the woman.
Elizabeth and Kaminsky took a seat. Elizabeth was struck by how hard the women were working in the hot, stuffy room. They barely had time to pause for breath before another bundle of fabric was dropped on the table next to them. No wonder Orla resented Noeleen having gotten the job with the Posts. It must have galled her to know that Noeleen was spending the hot summer days out on Long Island while she was cooped up inside, working her fingers to the bone.
A bell sounded and all the women pushed back their chairs at the same time, the wooden legs scraping across the factory floor. They rushed to the freight elevator calling to one another and laughing like prisoners let loose from jail.
Orla made her way over to Elizabeth and Kaminsky, the look on her face making it clear that she didn’t relish having her afternoon break interrupted.
“Can we at least go outside?” she said, wiping a handkerchief around the back of her neck. Perspiration stained the armpits of her faded dress, and the hair around her face was damp and curling.
“We appreciate your taking the time to talk to us,” Elizabeth said.
Orla shot her a withering look. “Do I have a choice?”
Elizabeth stopped short. “Of course.”
“Oh, never mind,” Orla said. “Let’s get it over with.”
The freight elevator was crowded and Elizabeth was squashed in the back behind a tall woman with short hair that was dyed a bright red. She was grateful when the doors opened and she was able to breathe again.
They followed Orla down a hall, past a luncheonette counter where a young boy was cleaning the stove, and out the door to the street.
Women clustered in groups, smoking cigarettes or holding their faces up to the sun. Orla led them to a quiet spot halfway down the block where she leaned against the wall of one of the buildings.
“Got a cigarette?” she said to Kaminsky.
Kaminsky pulled his Camels from his pocket and handed her one. He lit it, then put a cigarette between his own lips and held the match to it.
“Saw my picture in the paper,” Orla said, blowing out smoke. “Nice. People are saying I’m famous now. As if.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“So what do you want this time?” She fixed her gaze on Kaminsky.
“We heard a curious story,” Kaminsky began. “About how you were meant to interview for that job Noeleen got, but you came down sick. That must have been infuriating. Now you’re stuck here.” He motioned in the direction of the factory. “It must have irked you to think of her out on Long Island riding around in Duff Lambert’s sports car.”
Orla turned her head and spit on the ground behind her.
“It wasn’t fair.” Orla turned to Kaminsky, her face contorted with fury. “It was her fault I got so sick I couldn’t go to the interview.”
Both Elizabeth and Kaminsky were taken aback.
“Noeleen’s fault?” Elizabeth said.
Orla nodded. “She made me sick. It was all her fault.”
“Did she have something contagious?” Elizabeth said thinking of the time her sister had come home with chicken pox and had given it to her and James. Even poor Jones had come down with it, surprising everyone because he’d thought he remembered having it as a child.
Orla laughed. “No, nothing contagious. She made me sick on purpose,” she said, emphasizing the last two words.
“How did she do that?” Elizabeth said.
“She was very sly. Although you would never have known it to look at her. So devout and pure.” Orla clasped her hands as if in prayer and lowered her gaze to the ground in a parody of saintliness.
“What exactly did she do?” Kaminsky said. “I can’t imagine—”
“Oh, she was very clever,” Orla said, cutting him off. “She got some Ex-Lax from the drugstore. Do you know what they are?”
Both Elizabeth and Kaminsky nodded.
“Then she bought herself a big box filled with Whitman’s candy.” She inhaled the last puff from her cigarette, making a sucking sound, before dropping it to the ground. “She said Tommy Schmidt gave it to her, but I didn’t believe her. He steered clear of her after that one time he took her out for an ice cream.”
She ground out the glowing butt of her cigarette with the toe of her shoe. “I suppose she ate the candy herself. She was the sort to enjoy it piece by piece alone in her room. She would never have thought to share with the rest of us.”
“So what does the candy have to do with you getting sick if Noeleen didn’t give you any?”
Elizabeth could sense Kaminsky was getting impatient. It was about now that he would normally leave the office for the bar across the street and his shot of Old Schenley and a Budweiser chaser.
Orla held up a hand. “Noeleen was a sly one, let me tell you. Everyone was fooled by that devout posturing of hers—going to church every day, walking around with her rosary clasped in her hand.” She held her hand out to Kaminsky. “How about another cigarette?” She paused while Kaminsky lit a match “She did give me the box of chocolates in the end. Said she couldn’t finish them—she wasn’t feeling well.” Her face grew red at the recollection. “How was I to know she’d replaced the Whitman chocolates with Ex-Lax?”
Elizabeth had to stifle her immediate reaction, which was to laugh.
“I got as sick as an old dog, I’ll tell you. Up and down all night long—I didn’t sleep a wink. There was no way I could go to that interview with Mrs. Post.” She leaned forward as Kaminsky lit her cigarette. “Noeleen and I had signed up with Mrs. Sutton’s Irish Employment Agency at the same time. We were both looking for domestic work. So when I wasn’t able to make the interview, they asked Noeleen to come in instead.” She gave a bitter laugh. “And you know the rest, of course.”
“No wonder you were furious,” Elizabeth said.
“Right?” Orla took an angry puff on her cigarette. “I wanted to kill—” She clapped a hand over her mouth suddenly. “I didn’t mean that.”
Kaminsky didn’t say anything—just looked at Orla as he closed his notebook and shoved it back in his pocket.
The chattering female voices behind them grew more urgent like the chirping of birds at the arrival of dawn and the women began to move toward the factory door.
Orla threw her cigarette on the ground. Her face was pale now and she’d begun to shiver in the cool September breeze.
“I have to go.”
She turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd of women making their way back to work.