She made me wait another two seconds, then nodded. I went back, sank down on her sofa, and took out my notepad and a pencil.
“Did you notice whether she had any male admirers?”
At first glance, a daily schedule like Esther’s was so packed, so jammed with responsibility, that you’d think it was impenetrable. But when you look at anybody’s schedule, really look close, you often find little cracks in time, those moments when the unexpected can slip in. A lot can happen in a crack in time. In Esther’s case it might’ve been crossing paths with a man she normally wouldn’t have met. If so, then what started out as an unexpected meeting might’ve turned into a deadly and secret love affair.
My question surprised her. Apparently, no one had put it to her before.
“No, of course not. She didn’t run around like that. She didn’t have time. And she wasn’t that kind of girl. She was a serious artist.”
I was glad to hear her defend Esther so vigorously. I tried to ignore the wicked little inner voice that kept saying that any defense of Esther was a defense of herself.
“You used to give parties, didn’t you? Every two weeks. And Esther used to play?”
“Yes. So?”
I tried to think of a tactful manner in which to put it, but I’m not a tactful person.
“So, did any of your guests, male guests in particular, seem to … especially admire Esther’s talent?”
“They all admired her talent. She would have been tremendous if this—this thing hadn’t happened.”
“But none of your guests ever–”
“No. Never. I wouldn’t have permitted it.” She gave me a stern look. “You said you wanted to help. But you aren’t helping her. Not like this.”
“I’m not afraid to learn something ugly or impolite about Esther, not if it means bringing her back.”
“You’re a fierce one, aren’t you?”
“I try.”
“Your chocolate,” she said, “it’s getting cold.”
She took a sip of her own, tasted it, then took another and frowned down at the cup. “This really needs a kick.” She directed me to a writing desk across the room, told me where the key was and instructed me to unlock it. Inside I found a bottle of twenty-year-old Scotch, half-empty. It was Prohibition, but everybody—especially the rich—had a little something on the side.
“Bring it here.”
I did so.
“Pour it in.” She indicated her cup.
I gave her a generous dollop.
“Don’t you want any?” she asked.
“No, thank you.” Resuming my seat, I continued. “I’d like the names of everyone who knew the details of the auction. Who took care of the inventory list? The guest list? Most important, who knew where the jewels would be stashed?”
She shook her head. “I can’t tell you that.”
It took an effort to check my temper. “I could understand why this information was withheld at the time of the heist. But three years have passed.”
Again, she shook her head, this time more vigorously. “These families are old. They value their privacy. Right now it’s just a matter of speculation as to who lost what. If I confirmed, or even denied, any of those reports … If I, in any way, gave any of them validity, it would be a betrayal on the most intimate level. I cannot and will not disclose that information.”
The door opened and Roland entered, carrying a little silver tray. It held a glass of water and a saucer with two little pills.
“Excuse me, Miss Katherine, but it’s time for your medicine.”
She gave a shaky nod. Her right hand trembled as she put the pills in her mouth using her right hand. Roland held the glass to her lips and she sipped carefully from one side of her mouth. Despite her care, a trickle of water escaped. Roland produced a handkerchief from nowhere and gently dabbed the moisture away.
“Thank you,” she whispered in a voice so low I almost didn’t hear it. Again, sympathy tugged at my heart. How many members of her class ever thanked a servant for anything?
In a somewhat gentler voice, I picked up where we’d left off.
“What about the private detective?”
“He’s dead. If you’re thinking about his files, I’m sure they’re long gone.”
“But—”
She shook her head. “There’s no point in looking in that direction.”
I drew a deep breath. “Then I’d like to speak with Beth Johnson.”
“Beth? Why, she hasn’t worked here in ...” She turned to her butler. “How long’s it been, Roland?”
“Quite some time, ma’am. You released her two years ago, this past spring. It was in April, if I remember correctly.”
“Yes, that’s right.” She looked at me. “Why in the world would you want to talk to her?”
“I’m hoping she’ll remember something from that night.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you there.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, why did you ... ‘release’ her?”
Katherine Goodfellowe actually averted her eyes. With her good hand, she readjusted her shawl around her thin shoulders. Then she gave Roland a pointed glance and he left the room. When he was gone, the doors closed behind him, she cleared her throat.
“I had to send her away.”
“She did something wrong?”
Mrs. Goodfellowe drew herself up. “I’m a Christian,” she said, her voice quietly strict. “I’m in good standing with my church community and my God. I follow the teachings of the Bible and I expect my servants to do the same.”
Interesting. Mrs. Goodfellowe was not known for her religious beliefs.
She fussed with her shawl some more and squirmed in her chair, as much as she could. There was movement in her legs. So, she wasn’t paralyzed, just debilitated.
“The silly girl went and got herself in trouble.” Mrs. Goodfellowe looked angry just thinking about it.
The news dismayed me. Mrs. Goodfellowe went on, trying to justify her self-righteousness. I half-listened, worrying. Beth, a single mother, and losing her job when she most needed it: Where was she? How was she doing? How would I find her?
“It was such a shame,” Mrs. Goodfellowe was saying. “She was an excellent girl, you know. Quiet, obedient. Efficient. Very dependable. I don’t know what happened. She tried to keep it from me. If she’d come to me, told me what she’d done, then maybe I’d have ... I could’ve helped her. I certainly would have tried.”
“Tried how?” I was genuinely curious.
“Well, I would’ve made sure she had a place in one of those homes. You know the ones, where girls like her, girls who’ve made a mistake, can go and get taken care of. Then later, when it’s all over and done, they can come back.”
“And you would have taken her back?”
“Perhaps. That depended ...”
“On what?”
She was silent, so I answered my own question.
“On whether she gave up her child?”
She turned her steely eyes on me. Guilt battled self-righteousness.
“Don’t you understand? She wasn’t married. She couldn’t even tell me who the father was.”
Couldn’t? Why not simply wouldn’t? Had she assumed that Beth had slept with so many men that she couldn’t identify the father? Would Mrs. Goodfellowe have made the same assumption if Beth were white and not poor?
“How far along was she when you, uh … ‘released’ her?”
“Stop saying it like that. It was the best thing I could’ve done for her. She wouldn’t have fit in, anymore. Everyone would’ve talked about it.”
Yes, of course. That was a consideration.
“How far?”
“Maybe six months, maybe seven. I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“And you haven’t heard from her since?”
“Of course not. She knew better than to come back here. Not without ... you know. Now is that all?”
I left her sitting by her fireplace, trying to absorb the heat of the flames. I was tempted to tell her it was a lost cause. Somewhere along the line, a sliver of ice had slipped into her heart. It would take more than nesting by the hearth to melt it.
Roland appeared out of nowhere to return my coat and open the door. The temperature had dropped outside. I had forgotten my gloves at home, so I tucked my purse under one arm and stuffed my hands in my pockets. An unfamiliar piece of paper tickled my fingertips on the right side. I drew out the torn square and squinted at it. Handwriting I didn’t recognize, but a name I did.
Beth Johnson
410 St. Nicholas Ave, Apt 59
I turned back to the house. Roland stood at a ground-floor window, between parted curtains, watching.
“Thank you,” I mouthed.
He gave an answering nod, then let the curtain drop and stepped back into the shadows.