Built on a northeast corner of Park Avenue, set slightly back from the street behind a tall, sturdy wrought-iron gate, Goodfellowe House was one of the most imposing displays of ostentatious architecture in Gotham. Five stories high, it had a conspicuous façade of limestone and redbrick; detailed, decorative moldings; floor-to-ceiling windows; and two curved towers.
Since my last visit, something new had been installed: a guard’s station, set just outside the front gate. A man dressed in a cowboy hat, heavy gray wool coat, and black lizard-skin boots stepped out to meet me. He was the best-dressed guard I’d ever seen. He was all cowboy, from the slanted hat to the cobbled leather boots. His face was leathery, lined and craggy; his eyes slanted downward at the outer ends, where crow’s feet creased the skin. The only thing missing was a bit of straw dipping from one corner of his mouth. For a fleeting moment, something about him seemed familiar.
“Yes?” he asked with a charming smile. His lizard green eyes raked me up and down.
“Lanie Atkins Price. Mrs. Goodfellowe is expecting me.”
“She told me. My name’s Denver Sutton.” He was tall, about six-foot-two, and his handshake was strong. “I’m Mrs. Goodfellowe’s private security chief. You got any ID?”
Since when did she have a private security chief?
I showed him my newspaper identification. He actually read it before handing it back to me.
“It looks fine. I’m going to have to pat you down, though.” There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye as he said this.
I raised an eyebrow. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, but I am.”
I expected him to try something, but he didn’t. His touch was sparing and professional. Satisfied, he unlocked the gate and escorted me to the front door.
Like Goodfellowe House itself, the huge Christmas wreath that hung on the mansion’s front door was grand and meant to impress. It left no doubt that the home and its owner were to be taken seriously.
Sutton rang the doorbell and I felt the sound—not heard it, but felt it—echo deep within the house. A moment later, a tall, slender butler with a bald pate answered the door: Roland.
“Why, hello, Miss Lanie. It’s good to see you again.”
Five minutes later, I found myself seated in the so-called Red Room. It was called that because it was … well, red: velvet drapes of ruby red, sofas covered with burgundy brocade, a deep Persian carpet of burnt sienna dappled with orange. The room was larger and the ceiling higher than some cathedrals I’ve seen, but it still managed to be claustrophobic. It was chock full of furniture, with lace doilies draped everywhere; mosaic tiled tables; stain-glass windows and Tiffany lamps. Steuben glass vases filled with dark red roses and small gold-framed photos decked the gleaming black baby grand piano in one corner. A dense, richly green Christmas tree, hung with gold ornaments and miniature porcelain figurines, towered nearby. The room was chilly, despite the huge fire crackling in the fireplace.
A large oil portrait of Solomon Goodfellowe hung over the mantelpiece. The painting itself was traditional and predictable, the kind of thing the nouveau riche have done when they’re trying to ascend the social ladder. Like many such works, it was a sophisticated portrait of a very unsophisticated fellow. Solomon Goodfellowe had earned his money as an oil rigger. By all accounts, he was as rough and rowdy as they come. He’d made his first million by the time he was twenty-two and lost most of it in reckless poker games by age thirty-four. Eight years later, he was back on top, older and richer, but not particularly wiser. This time he didn’t lose his money; he lost his life. He decided to spend his forty-second birthday in bed with a prostitute. She tried to rob him and ended up shooting him. He died on the spot and she died in prison.
Katherine Goodfellowe took her husband’s death in stride. She had his daughter to raise and his remaining investments to manage. Apparently, she was astute at both. A regal woman, she was a Boston Brahmin. Her belief in her infallibility was ingrained in her bones. She did well until fate dealt her another blow. Her daughter, a talented pianist, died of leukemia. The girl was only nineteen.
Mrs. Goodfellowe turned out to be one of those people who are dogged by tragedy. Within four years of her daughter’s death she would remarry and less than one year later, again be widowed. This second husband, Eric Alan Powell, was twenty years her junior. Like her first husband, Powell would also end up being shot to death. But in his case, the killer was never found.
Powell’s scandalous death in the fall of ‘23 was a huge emotional and social blow. It rocked Katherine to her blue-blooded core. It was not the blow that would undo her, however. That would come later.
When one pondered that time in Katherine’s life, at the risk of getting gothic, it was easy to envisage her roaming the halls of her great mansion, haunted by the images of her lost loved ones. Easy to imagine her desperate to find a way to fill her time, to do something significant, to understand her interest upon learning about Esther.
The social grapevine was strong in those days and white patrons were rushing to find young colored talent. Someone mentioned Esther to Katherine and the next thing Esther knew, she was being invited to Goodfellowe mansion. Mrs. Goodfellowe interviewed her and then offered to cover her expenses while she pursued serious musical studies. Esther was leery at first, Ruth said. Esther had heard how some of these patrons tried to control their artists, but in the end, Esther’s family convinced her that Mrs. Goodfellowe’s offer was too good to pass up. What future did Esther have? She was a single mother with a young son and few work skills, faced with the ever-present threat of unemployment. Maybe with this rich lady’s help, she could climb out of the muck and mire. Maybe she could even reach the stars. Esther had laughed at the thought, Ruth said, smiling sadly at the memory.
“It’s our fault she ended up with that woman. We pushed her. Maybe she knew. Sensed something. We just wanted things to be good for her...”
But just as she’d feared, Esther became caught like a fly in a Venus flytrap, lured by the money only to be held under creative control.
For Katherine Goodfellowe, the combination of Esther’s disappearance and the subsequent heist formed the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. It was a period of personal loss and intense embarrassment. She made fewer and fewer appearances and lost her place as the queen of the upper crust. Once the doyenne of New York society, she became its laughingstock. After the spoiled auction, she withdrew, hurt, embarrassed and no longer confident of her ability to judge people. She was now a virtual recluse. There were few recent photos of her, and those few showed her with her lips pressed tightly together in a fine bitter line.
When she first put out the reward, she said she was doing so, not because she believed that Esther had taken part in the robbery, but because she wanted to prove Esther’s innocence. But I wondered. In her heart, Mrs. Goodfellowe must’ve had doubts, especially after the car business.
I admired her for having stood by Esther, but of course I suspected her motives were as much self-preservation as altruism. Even with regard to the heist, my sympathy for her was limited.
Mrs. Goodfellowe had maintained that the auction was set up for purposes of charity, but common sense had always made me doubt it. I didn’t know her well, but in the few minutes I’d interviewed her, I’d gotten an impression of a headstrong woman. That auction was as much a matter of social conceit, as it was of philanthropy. It wasn’t about the jewels or charity or even trust. It was about showing off. Mrs. Goodfellowe had spent years making a name for herself as a patron of the arts and charitable causes, but she’d played the game according to other people’s rules. Now she was going to do it her way, on her territory. Mrs. Goodfellowe called for such an audacious auction because she had the power to do so and wanted the world to know it. If everything had gone according to plan, no one would’ve dared challenge her place as the head of New York society. It was the bold plan of a bold woman and it might’ve worked, if it hadn’t ended in death and scandal.
I was about to turn away from the mantel when the photograph of a young woman caught my eye. She so resembled early pictures of Katherine that I thought it must be her, but then I saw the signature in the corner, a small elegant script: “To Mommy and Daddy, with love, Elizabeth.” So this was Katherine’s long lost daughter. Photographs of her were rare, very rare. The photograph showed a woman-child with soft, dark eyes and a gentle, luminous smile. Having recognized Katherine in her, I stepped back to compare her features with those of her father. The resemblance was there, too, but—
“Do you like it?” a dry voice asked behind me.
I turned, surprised at the voice—and its owner.
She had changed far beyond any photo had shown. She sat in a wheelchair, her large frame reduced to skin and bones. The left side of her face was slack and her left hand lay unmoving in her lap. Her right hand rested atop her paralytic left one, gripping a lacy white handkerchief and a little bell. She wore a crocheted red shawl over a gray silk blouse with a large diamond-and-ruby brooch at the collar. A red-and-green plaid wool blanket had been laid across her lap. Roland stood behind her, tuxedoed and proper, his hands clasping the handles of her wheelchair.
“My husband’s portrait,” she rasped, “do you like it?”
Katherine Goodfellowe did not have the reputation of caring about anyone else’s opinion, so why was she asking for mine? Was it a test, perhaps? I chose to be blunt.
“It’s pretentious. I don’t like pretentious things.”
It was outrageous to talk to a white person like that, but sometimes outrageousness paid off. I was gambling that it would this time.
The right side of her lips curled upward. The left side stayed immobile. It was a sour smile, but the best she could do.
She raised her right hand and flicked her index finger. Roland pushed her forward and parked her to one side of the fireplace. The dancing flames cast hellish shadows on her profile. She gazed up at the painting.
“I’ve always hated it. Pretentious? Yes ... not like him at all.”
She had a high forehead, a straight, sharp nose and square-cut chin. Her skin was milky white and had an unhealthy waxy sheen. She wore her gray hair coiled on her head. Roland bent and adjusted the blanket covering her lap, gently lifting her useless left hand. His tenderness was striking. She shooed him away, in the voice of someone who treasures the attention but cannot admit to it.
“My hot chocolate,” she told him, and then asked me, “You’d like some, too, I suppose?”
“No, thank you.”
She gave him some last instructions and sent him away. Her voice was scratchy and her words slightly slurred. A thin line of spittle trickled from the left corner of her mouth. She dabbed it away with the handkerchief.
“You’re here about the dinner?”
“Well, actually, no. I’m here about Esther.”
She blinked, dumbstruck. Her mouth opened again, but nothing came out. So I spoke. I told her about Ruth’s visit and what she wanted. I told her why I was there and what information I hoped to obtain. By the time I was finished, she’d found her voice again.
“I … No, I don’t talk about that—ever. And I think it’s rather callous of you to—”
“I’m not writing this story for myself. Esther’s family asked me to. They want to know whether she’s alive and where she is. They’re hoping that someone out there will remember something.”
She gave a harsh chuckle. “I think not. No one remembers. Just liars who come here. And reporters who want a story.”
I ignored that.
“You must still have some hope,” I said. “You’re still offering the reward. Twenty-five hundred dollars for information leading to Esther—or the recovery of her body. If you don’t believe anyone remembers anything, then why do you keep it out there?”
“Because I’m a fool, a stubborn old fool.”
She gazed at the orange flames, her thin frame soaking up their radiant heat.
“All my friends,” she whispered. “Supposed friends. They laughed at me. ‘How could I have trusted Esther?’ ‘Why did I tell her about the auction and my safes?’ But I didn’t tell her. I didn’t. And I told them that, but they didn’t believe me.”
She’d dared to care about someone that society deemed unworthy of the slightest concern. She’d dared to be different and had paid a high price for it. I felt a surge of sympathy for her.
She drew a deep breath. “I guess I can’t blame them. First, I marry two men who get themselves shot. Then I practically adopt a Negro and give her free run of the house.”
My sympathy evaporated. I could overlook the flash of resentment toward her murdered husbands, but I couldn’t ignore how she’d referred to Esther, as though she’d been a pet. Had the insult been intended, or was it simply one of those instances when a self-described forward-thinker accidentally reveals entrenched prejudice, even contempt, for the cause she advocates?
Roland entered with a silver service, laden with delicate porcelain cups and a sterling teapot. He set it down on the mahogany coffee table and poured a cup of chocolate for each of us. He placed one cup and saucer in the upturned palm of Mrs. Goodfellowe’s paralyzed hand. Then he handed me a cup and withdrew with a silence deeper than that of a church mouse. As he closed the doors, I wondered if he would stand outside, listening. An unworthy thought, perhaps, but that’s what I would’ve done.
“So, Mrs. Goodfellowe, have you changed your mind about her? Do you now think she was in on the heist?”
She sighed. “No, you can’t say that.”
“What could I say then?”
“I told you. I don’t want to talk about it. Any of it.”
I set down my cup. “Please, listen. I’m exploring the possibility– the very strong possibility—that Esther’s disappearance really was a kidnapping and that it had nothing to do with the heist. I know the two events have been strung together, but I have new information that they were totally separate, unfortunate events. If I assure you that I’ll only ask questions about Esther, will you answer them?”
She used her good hand to raise her cup to her lips and took a sip. A slight look of dissatisfaction flickered across her face. She lowered the cup to the saucer with care. Her right hand had a slight tremor that underscored the utter stillness of her left.
“All those jewels … gone. All those people, blaming me. But to be honest, I didn’t care. At the time, I really didn’t care about them. I didn’t miss those people’s company, either. It was Esther I missed—Esther and her music. All that talent … wasted.”
She was silent, staring into her cup. I waited, hoping she’d say more. A few seconds passed and she shook her head.
“I don’t see the point of a new article. I don’t want new publicity about that time in my life. It was very painful. What good would it do me?”
“It might prove that you were right. Right to trust Esther, right to believe in her. It might prove that the others were all wrong.”
She gave a snort. “What do I care what others think?”
But she did care. It was in her eyes. She cared very much. For a moment, despite her denials, I saw the thoughtful gleam in her eye and was hopeful.
“No,” she said. “It’s too dangerous for me. I don’t want the whole thing raked up again. I want my peace.”
“Is this really the kind of peace you want?” I glanced pointedly around the room. “The peace of an expensive mausoleum?”
She gave another paralytic smile. “You’re very blunt, aren’t you?”
“Listen, you don’t have to do this for yourself. You can do it for someone else.”
“Like who?”
“Esther’s son.”
“Don’t tell me you care about that child. You’re only interested in selling papers.”
“That’s right. I am. I want to sell papers, lots of them, and I aim to write a fantastic story, one that lots of people will read, and talk about. A story that’ll make people remember Esther, and come forward.”
She regarded me with pity. “I did everything a person could do. I pushed the police to investigate. Put out a reward. Even hired a private detective. None of it helped. The cops didn’t turn up anything. The reward didn’t make anyone come forward. And the private investigator found nothing. What makes you think you’ll succeed? You’re just a columnist at a small Negro newspaper. How many people actually read it? How many who might make a difference?”
That was a slap. I thought of all the donations she’d given to black publications. Was it all a pretense? Had she no faith in the cause she supposedly supported? I guess the Todd case and the heist had really done her in. What would the folks about to grant her an award say if they could hear her now? Or did they already know? Did they even care, as long as they got her money?
“Sometimes, all it takes is one person to start a landslide,” I said, “One thread to unravel the Gordian knot.”
“Hmph. That’s the kind of thing my daughter would’ve said.” Her gaze shifted to Elizabeth’s photograph. “They were so similar. Both young and talented and …” She paused. “Dependable.” Her eyes met mine. “Esther never would’ve stolen from me. Never.”
The room was silent, except for the crackling of the flames.
“All right. I’ll talk to you—but on one condition: Whatever you learn, you bring it to me first, before you print it.”
I’d felt a moment of hope, but at that, I shook my head. “No.”
“I think it’s reasonable. I’ve been burned by too many reporters in my time. Why, when I think of that other one, that Carter fellow. The charges he made! The questions! Reporters. When it comes to them, I’ve learned that trust is wonderful, but control is better.”
“I’m not Carter, whoever he is.”
“No, you’re not. But you are one of them, a reporter.”
I put my notepad back into my purse and stood up. I took in her shrunken face and the outline of her withered legs under the blanket and felt sorry for her. In spite of all the grief and agony she’d known—and still knew—she hadn’t learned to empathize with the pain of others.
“Mrs. Goodfellowe, only one person gets to look over my shoulder, and that’s my editor. However, I will do you the courtesy of telling you this. My column will be about Esther, not you. To the extent that it mentions you at all, it’ll state that you refused to comment.”
“That’s all?”
I nodded. “That’s all. Of course, it could also say that you referred to prior bad publicity. That you showed concern—no, fear—that renewed attention to Esther’s disappearance would hurt you. Then some readers might infer that you’re more concerned about your reputation than Esther’s fate. Or that you have something to hide. If I were a certain type of reporter—the kind who wanted to ‘burn’ you—I would add that. Aren’t you lucky that I’m not?”
She stared at me. I stared back. After a while, I got tired of it.
“I’ll find my way out.” I was in the front entryway when her voice stopped me.
“You’re going to write about this whether or not I talk to you, aren’t you?”
She sounded weary. I simply nodded.
“All right,” she sighed. “What if I did agree to talk? What would you want to know?”
I turned. “Everything. Everything you think you know and more.”