Blackie took me to Harlem Hospital, where the doctors stitched and bandaged my hand. My neighbors had reported shots fired, he said. Then he took my statement and left me and Sam alone.
Sam wrapped me in his arms and hugged me tight. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I would’ve been there earlier, but the meeting. That damned meeting. It went on and on and on.”
I looked up at him. “What was it about?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? For hours?”
He hesitated.
“They were trying to fire you.”
“And?”
“I told them to hang on. That the story wasn’t done yet. And that firing you would be the best thing they could do for our competitors.”
“You didn’t.”
“Oh, but I did.” He raised my bandaged hand to his lips and kissed it.
“I’m fine. Really,” I said.
“Yes, you are,” he whispered, and the look in his eyes left no doubt as to what he meant.
“Take me home,” I said.
I had forgotten about the skylight.
Sitting in the car, Sam eyed my house and said, “You shouldn’t stay here tonight.”
“But I feel good here.”
“Even after being attacked in it—twice?”
“This is my home.”
He drew a deep breath and sighed.
“There you go again. Trying to do it alone.”
He turned to me and we looked deep into each other’s eyes. All I saw was kindness in his. He was such a handsome man, always so well-dressed, with simple but elegant taste. And the way he looked at me. I’d never dared hope to see that look in a man’s eyes again. I could fall in love with him so easily. So, very easily.
He put one gloved hand over mine. “Lanie, it’s one thing to have to go it alone. I understand that. But to choose to? That I don’t understand. You don’t have to be alone. I’m here, right now. I’m here and I want you to lean on me.”
His words touched me deeply.
“Give me, time,” I said. “Just a little more time.”
I kissed him goodnight and got out of the car before he could say anything more. I felt his worried concern as I climbed the stairs, so after unlocking my door, I put on a brave smile, turned around and waved to him. He waved back with a forced smile and reluctantly drove away. I closed my eyes, exhaled and let my shoulders drop.
Once inside, I took the broom and swept up all the glass. Still wearing my coat, I made myself a pot of tea, dragged the blankets off my bed and returned to the parlor, where I closed the doors and built a fire.
I slept like a stone. Maybe it was the relief of knowing that Echo was no longer a problem. Maybe it was the satisfaction of having beaten him. Maybe it was Sam’s comforting words. Whatever it was, I woke up bright-eyed, and while not exactly bushy-tailed, I did feel more light-hearted than the day before.
I threw back the blankets, sat up and gave in to a good head-to-toe shiver. The place was freezing. Of course, it was. The fire had gone out and icy air was pouring in through the roof. I’d have to get that skylight taken care of soon.
My hand throbbed. The doctors said the cut was relatively superficial, but it was still deep enough to cause some serious hurting.
From outside came the dull sound of metallic scraping. I went to the front window and saw that a thick layer of snow, ankle deep, had fallen overnight. People were busy scraping off their cars. Others were out with shovels, clearing their front steps. I’d have to do the same and do it before the snow hardened. I went out to the hallway and saw that the runners were all wet and small pools of water covered the stairs.
I sensed the beginnings of a headache. Downstairs in the kitchen, I set on a pot of water for coffee and threw a hamburger in the frying pan. After eating, I returned to the parlor and built another fire in the fireplace. The telephone rang. Instinct told me it was Sam and it was.
“How’re you feeling this morning?”
“Better than before.”
“I’m sending a guy over to fix your roof. The paper will spring for it.”
“Thank you.”
“And what do you say I come over after work today and clear your steps? That snow’s pretty heavy.”
That made me smile. “Thank you, but there’s a neighborhood man who always comes around and does it. He’d be really upset if I let someone else do it. He’d think I’d hired someone else — and that wouldn’t do at all.”
“Oh, I understand.”
“Sam?”
“Yes?”
“I wanted to thank you, for last night, for what you said.”
“I meant it.”
“I know.”
There was a pause.
Then he said, “OK, then. “I’ll just send the repairman. And don’t worry. I won’t invite myself over. Not as long as you promise that if you need anything—anything, at all— you’ll call me.”
“I will. I promise.”
I felt very alone after we hung up. I started to put on some Duke Ellington, but then I looked at the coffee table, still strewn with my notes from the night before and realized that I couldn’t afford distractions, especially anything sweet and sexy that would evoke memories of other late mornings spent lazing in bed with the man I loved, of afternoons spent picking out a Christmas tree, taking out decorations and hiding presents.
My home was so bare of anything resembling Christmas now. I hadn’t realized how bare until Sam walked in and asked about a tree. Maybe this year I’d try for one. But I said that every year, didn’t I?
I returned to the sofa and for several minutes, just sat there, holding the cup, warming my hands, and reviewing my notes. Then the oddest thought occurred to me.
All roads lead to Rome—or, in this case, to Goodfellowe House.
I took a sip and set the cup aside. The telephone rang. I glanced at it, sensing that it wasn’t Sam, and willed it to be silent. When it kept on jangling, I ignored it. I picked up a pencil, flipped the notepad to a blank sheet and began to do something I should’ve done earlier—set down a timeline. I started with the two most prominent dates, those of Esther’s kidnapping and the subsequent Goodfellowe heist. It was a good way of getting a handle on the case.
December 19
(Just past midnight) Esther is kidnapped
December 23
Goodfellowe mansion robbed
After due consideration, I added the approximate dates of Esther’s relationship with Whitfield. Then I set the notepad aside. Having finally decided to sit down and do this, I figured I might as well be thorough. I fetched the file containing my old notes and the newspapers clippings on Esther’s case.
The telephone rang. I ignored it. Half an hour later, it rang again. Once more, I ignored it. For the next couple of hours, it rang on and off. Finally, I took the receiver off the hook. In the meantime, everything got reread—every jotting, every comment, every article. I made some educated guesses and added new approximate dates to the ones I already had. Then I rewrote the dates, in order.
September 1 (Approx.)
Esther meets Sexton Whitfield at a party at Goodfellowe house
October 1 (Approx.)
Something goes wrong in relationship with Whitfield
1st week of December
Esther gets first threatening note
2nd week of December
Esther gets second note
December 18
(Just past midnight) Esther disappears
December 20
Police accept report
December 22
Det. John Reed decides that she ran away
December 23
(5 days after disappearance) Goodfellowe mansion robbed
December 30
(1 week after heist) Esther’s family receives 1st note
January 7
(1 week later) Esther’s family receives 2nd note
January 20
(3 weeks later) Katherine’s car is spotted
I studied the list of dates and something stirred. I sat quite still, letting the ideas float and dance and gently bounce off one another.
Esther’s affair and her disappearance. Her disappearance and the Goodfellowe heist. What were the connecting threads? How had the information been passed along?
I padded downstairs to the kitchen and poured another cup of java. I didn’t want it, but needed the movement. Actually what I needed was to put on warmer clothes. Fifteen minutes later, snug in a heavy sweater, thick stockings and a long wool skirt, I returned to the parlor to study my timetable. Minutes slipped by. I frowned.
A date was missing.
I flipped back through the notes I’d prepared before going to see Katherine Goodfellowe. Not seeing what I was looking for, I turned the pages forward again. There it was, the date I sought. I added it to the list and drew a line to indicate where it belonged.
October 6, 1923
Eric Alan Powell found shot to death
I sat back, considering. Mrs. Goodfellowe’s husband murdered, her favorite protégée kidnapped and her house robbed in a multimillion-dollar heist that was based on inside information, all taking place within months of each other.
Was it just a streak of incredibly bad luck or was there more to it?
It was late afternoon when I put my notes away and put the telephone receiver back on its cradle. I had just enough time to get to the library.