by Gail Meath
Laura lost her smile. “Are you still upset with me, Margie? I’m sure Missus Ashworth pulled strings to get me the part. That’s the only reason the director chose me over you.”
“Aw, honey...” She leaned over and pecked Laura on the cheek. “I was just kidding. You’re perfect for that part. Here, I bought a few newspapers for you on my way over. You probably already saw your reviews from last night’s performance, but I thought you’d like extra copies.” She sat down and dropped the papers in front of her.
Laura spotted a picture of Samuel Sanders on the front page, pulled it closer, and started reading the article. “I forgot all about them...”
“How could you forget? You were a smash, of course. The audience loved you.”
Jeanie leaned over Laura’s shoulder. “Does it say how he died?”
“Are you reading about the playwright?” Margie asked. “That’s a crying shame,
isn’t it? He was a talented composer.”
“It was a heart attack,” Laura said thoughtfully. “I saw Mister Sanders the night he died. He left me a note asking me to meet him, and he looked perfectly healthy.”
“What?” Jeanie practically fell out of her seat. “No wonder that cute detective jumped to the conclusion that something more was going on between the two of you.”
“It wasn’t anything like that, Jeanie,” Laura defended. “Mister Sanders just wanted to talk to me about his new script again, the one I told you about last week.”
Margie snatched her hand. “What cute detective? C’mon, doll, fill me in on all the gooey details.”
“Last night, a private detective came to my dressing room to question me about Mister Sanders. It still doesn’t make sense why he would be snooping around asking personal questions if the poor man died of ill health.”
“The gumshoes in the books I’ve read are always digging around even after an investigation is over with,” Jeanie chuckled. “That’s what makes them so good. They usually come across a piece of evidence that the police overlooked.”
Laura read the paper again. “The article says that Mister Sanders and his wife live in Manhattan. I wonder what he was doing with a separate apartment on the Lower East Side?”
Margie laughed. “I’ll tell you what he was doing. What every married man in the city does when they get bored. Fool around, that’s what. You’re such a bluenose, Laura. I grew up in Brooklyn, and your tiny town of Millbury is a far cry from here.”
Jeanie nudged Margie. “I’m from Millbury, too, and we’re not backwoods. But I agree that having his own apartment is pretty suspicious.”
“That’s not why he wanted to meet with me!” Laura spouted indignantly.
“Okay, doll, if you say so,” Margie kidded, patting her hand.
“You’re getting yourself riled up over nothing,” Jeanie told her. “The man died of a bad heart. It’s not like he was murdered or anything.”
Jeanie’s words didn’t make her feel any better. “Well, that detective was fishing around for something. And now I’m trapped into going with the Ashworths to the funeral tomorrow. They’re always so depressing even when you don’t know the person well. Can you go with me, Margie? Please?”
“Not on your life, honey.”
Laura let out a heavy sigh. “I owe Missus Ashworth a lot, but I barely knew Mister Sanders. And the thought of going to another funeral...”
“No favor is without its cost,” Margie quipped.
As Laura headed back to her apartment, Margie’s last statement hounded her. Missus Ashworth was a millionaire, owning acres of real estate in the city, plus owning the Ambassador and several department stores. She lived in an enormous mansion that spread across an entire block on Fifth Avenue. And she was never seen in public without her priceless collection of diamonds and pearls adorning her neck and wrists.
Last Christmas, her personal advisor happened to see Laura’s performance at the Whalom Playhouse back in Millbury. He’d made a quick call and before she knew it, she was traveling with him on a train to the city for an audition with the Ziegfeld Follies.
Yet, Missus Ashworth’s very generous favors were not without their cost. After she arrived in the city, she had nowhere to stay. So, she lived with the woman and her son for a week before moving into the apartment down the hall from Jeanie and Margie’s. Whenever the woman snapped her fingers, everyone within hearing distance was expected to jump. Including her. And Missus Ashworth’s constant demands drove her crazy. She didn’t know how Robert put up with it.
Laura stopped walking. There was something else plaguing her, too. The music score in her handbag. She suddenly changed her mind about going back to her apartment. She hurried across the street to catch the Manhattan Trolley that traveled from Brooklyn to the theater district on Broadway. She knew it was a moot point now, but she was aching to hear the tunes that Mister Sanders had written. It was such an honor that he’d had her in mind when writing it.
She got off the trolley on West Forty-Ninth Street and walked down the alley beside the Ambassador Theater. Even though all performances had been canceled for the weekend, she knew at least a few of the maintenance crew would be inside. She slipped through the back door and tiptoed up the stairs. When she reached the wings, she stood there a moment, gathering her nerve.
She eyed the mahogany upright piano at the rear of the stage. Mister Beacham’s piano. She started biting her bottom lip as she glanced around to see if anyone was wandering about. When all remained quiet, she made her way across the stage, pulled out the piano bench, and spread a few pages of the music score across the piano rack.
As soon as she started playing the first tune, the entire world slipped away. It was such a beautiful ballad she didn’t even sing the words. She just hummed along, grasping the full essence of it. She played it again, and this time, she sang out loud without any concern that someone might hear. She couldn’t help it as the words and music captivated her. Page after page, she sang every tune with her heart beating wildly. She became so engrossed in the songs she could almost imagine George Mitchell singing the alto with her for the two duets included. And she didn’t stop until she had sung every tune to the end.
Then, she sat there staring at the musical notes, hypnotized by them and relishing in what could have been.
She heard applause and jumped to her feet. Mister Beacham and Jimmy, one of the stage crew, stood a distance away, smiling. Her face flushed with embarrassment. “I didn’t know anyone else was listening.”
“That was exquisite,” Mister Beacham said as they joined her.
She quickly slid the music back into her handbag. “They’re just a few pieces I happened upon. Nice to see you, Jimmy. I’ve been meaning to thank you for all you’ve done for us these past few months.”
“I appreciate that, Miss Graystone. Glad to help.”
Mister Beacham rested his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Jimmy, would you mind putting that crate in the music room for me?”
He nodded. “Sure thing. See you later, Miss Graystone!”
Mister Beacham waited until he was out of earshot, then looked at her. “Tell me, my dear, where did you come upon that music?”
She held her head down. “I can’t say. I’m sorry.”
He took his spectacles off. “They are from Sam’s new musical, aren’t they? He gave me a copy of the score last weekend and asked me not to breathe a word about it to anyone yet. But he was hoping that production would begin in a few months, and he wanted me to work closely with you if that were the case.”
“He did?”
“Yes. I was anxious to hear those tunes, myself, and now that I have, they impressed me as much as they did you. Sam was an extraordinarily talented man. It is obvious that he wrote this script from the depths of his heart. Which is how you sing. It was a match made in heaven that ended too soon.”
She hated to ask yet couldn’t help herself. “Do you know if he gave a copy of the script to the theater director?”
> “I wondered the same thing and spoke with Director Rosenberg about it. He was unaware Sam had written a new script, so I promised to give him my copy later this afternoon. With good reason, Sam had high hopes for this play. He deserves to have this final production on stage as a tribute to what a genius he truly was.”
5
The Widow
The housemaid at the Sanders’ apartment asked Jax to wait in the vestibule while she informed Patricia Sanders of his visit. He watched her walk down the hallway into the living area and knock on the double doors to an adjoining room. It was a large apartment from what Jax could see, with additional hallways to both his left and right. And it was expensively furnished judging from the two oil paintings, a three-foot-tall marble sculpture, and the longcase pendulum clock just in this small space.
Patricia Sanders opened the doors. After the housemaid spoke to her, she leaned forward slightly to get a look at him. Then, she quickly glanced behind her before whispering to the maid and closing the doors again. The housemaid returned to him and said that he needed to wait there for a few more minutes. It was exactly that by the time Patricia Sanders stepped out of the room and motioned for him to join her.
Appropriately, she was wearing a slender black gown with her blonde hair tied back in a tight bun. “I wasn’t expecting you today, Detective,” she said curtly. “It would have been far less tacky if you had waited until after the funeral to collect your payment.” She spun around, went back into the room, and sat down on the rose-colored sofa. She opened the top drawer of the end table beside her and pulled out an envelope.
“My apologies, Missus Sanders,” Jax replied. “I guess I need to brush up on my courtesy skills.”
“Don’t be flippant. Here.” She tossed the envelope to him. “It’s the amount we agreed upon even though you came up empty-handed. I trust that also covers the cost of your confidentiality?”
He studied her closely without replying, noting her brusque responses matched the lack of remorse on her face, exactly. There were no remnants of tears having been shed. No tissues close by in case they came without warning. No cherished photographs balancing on the fireplace mantel or anywhere in the room. And not one photo album in sight that she had pulled out of storage so she could immerse herself in treasured memories, which seemed customary for most couples when they lost their spouse.
The woman was obviously angry with him for showing up here unannounced, that much was clear. Even more apparent was the fact that someone else had been in this room with her when he arrived. Someone she didn’t want him to know about since that person was hiding on the other side of a second door into the room. He could see the shadow of someone’s shoes moving along the bottom.
“The officer who informed me of my husband’s death said that you were the one who found him, Detective,” Patricia said. “There wasn’t anything suggesting foul play?”
Without being offered, Jax sat down in the wing-back chair and set his hat on the oriental rug at his feet. Then, he pulled out his notepad and flipped through it. “Your husband’s whereabouts the past few weeks have been pretty routine, Missus Sanders. Monday through Thursdays like clockwork, he was at the theater from eight o’clock in the morning sharp until five o’clock. That’s when he headed to the apartment on Canal Street, staying there anywhere between eight and midnight before coming directly home. There was only one night he swayed from that schedule and ate dinner at L’Aiglon’s Restaurant before going to his apartment.”
“And you’re telling me that he didn’t have any visitors?”
“No, Ma’am.”
She stood up and wandered over to the casement windows. “Well, I still think he was having an affair. Why else would he rent that apartment? I’m sure it was someone from the theater, like that new singer. She’s all Sam talked about lately.”
“What singer?” he asked as he pulled a pencil from his vest pocket.
“Laura something-or-other.”
“Did you ever see them together?”
“I never ventured to the theater during working hours.” She turned around to face him. “Do the police know I hired you?”
“The topic hasn’t come up yet.”
“Well, hopefully, it remains between us since none of this matters any longer, does it? I’m rather tired, Detective. I’m sure you don’t mind showing yourself out.”
Jax tucked his notepad into his pocket, grabbed his hat, and stood up. He watched the woman collapse on the couch and drape her arm across her forehead as though utterly exhausted. But he wasn’t buying it.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” He started to leave, then poked his head back into the room. “Oh, one more question, Missus Sanders. Was your husband accustomed to wearing any jewelry or accessories, like a wristwatch or a ring? I want to make a note to ensure that all his valuables are returned to you.”
“He wasn’t one to fuss with his appearance, but he always wore his father’s gold ring. There are diamonds set within the etchings, and it’s worth a small fortune. So, yes, please make sure that is returned to me.”
As Jax climbed down the front steps, he studied the elaborate flower gardens that skirted the perimeter of the building, noting the vast assortment. Then, he walked in front of Sam Sanders’ Fiat, which now belonged to his wife, to cross the road. But his attention was again drawn to the shiny Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost parked not far up the street, one of the most expensive cars on the road. He’d noticed it when he arrived. He wondered now if it belonged to a wealthy tenant in the next building. Or the person hiding in the other room in Patricia Sanders’ apartment.
He got into his car, yet he sat there for a minute. “So, why did the woman hire us, Ace?” He reached over to pet him. “And why continue to insist that her husband was having an affair after the poor sucker died? Especially if she was the one cheating on him?”
He’d been hired by a few wives and husbands who suspected their spouses were unfaithful. Usually, their purpose was to gather proof for divorce, since adultery, bigamy, or impotence were the only grounds available for a successful divorce these days. It seemed strange for someone to go to all the trouble and expense of hiring him when they were the guilty party.
Still, he didn’t like leaving any stone unturned, and her accusations just gave him another idea. He started his car and headed back to the Lower East Side. When he stood in front of Sam Sanders’ apartment building, he pounded on the door until the landlord finally opened it.
“What do you want?” the man snapped at him.
“I’m Detective Diamond. I just have a couple more questions for you about Mister Sanders then I’ll get out of your hair.”
“What questions?”
“I wondered if he had moved any furniture out of his apartment recently.” The man eyed him suspiciously. “Sir, it’s important.”
“I do not keep tabs on every tenant, but they are each given a small storage space in the basement for additional belongings.”
“Would you mind if I took a look at his? I could get a judge to sign a warrant, then have a bunch of police here to search the entire premises if you’d prefer.”
The landlord grumbled and opened the door. He led the way through the hall and down the cellar stairs. To the left, there was a large room partitioned with sections of chicken wire separating each tenant’s storage area. Midway, the landlord found Sanders’ room number and pointed to it. Then, he stood there with his arms folded around his potbelly and his foot tapping impatiently.
But Jax noticed the small space was empty while most of the other stalls were crammed with items. He heaved a sigh and headed towards the stairway, but he came to an abrupt halt when he saw a back door on the far side of the adjoining room. “Do the tenants have a key to that door?”
“Certainly not,” the man stated.
Jax wandered over to see if it was locked. He examined it for any signs of forced entry, but it was securely locked.
Within the hour, he was heading for Sunset Par
k in Brooklyn. He put his speculations aside for now and concentrated on his next stop, paying Louis Godfrey a visit, the man whose name he’d found in Sanders’ drawer. He had called the number and spoke to a lovely woman named Dolores who sweetly told him that the man was an attorney.
After he pulled up to the curb, he entered the building and walked down the small hallway. When he reached the third door, he saw the man’s name plate and entered the office. A young woman sat at the front desk. She was in her early twenties he’d guess, conservatively dressed, and wearing wire-framed eyeglasses. “Excuse me, is this Mister Godfrey’s office?”
“Yes, sir. I’m Dolores.”
He smiled at her. “My younger sister’s name is Dolores. It’s a beautiful name.”
She blushed. “Thank you. How can I help you?”
“Would Mister Godfrey be available?”
“I’m sorry, but he has appointments out of the office all day. Did you want to leave a message for him?”
“Yes, if you don’t mind.” He dragged a chair over and sat beside her. “I think I spoke with you on the telephone yesterday. My name is Detective Jax Diamond. I’m investigating Samuel Sanders’ death and I wondered...”
Her dark eyes grew wide. “My girlfriend just told me about the man’s death this morning. Such a tragedy. Was he Patricia Sanders’ husband?”
Her response surprised him. “Yes. Is she one of Mister Godfrey’s clients?”
Dolores nodded.
“Do you know why she needed his services?”
Dolores hesitated. “I’m not at liberty to say, Detective Diamond.”
He grinned at her. “Please, call me Jax.” When she smiled coyly in return, he leaned closer. “Is that Chanel perfume you’re wearing?”
She slid her glasses off. “Why, yes, it is. How did you know?”
“It was my sister’s favorite, and you’re just as pretty as she is.”
Dolores giggled and batted her eyes at him.
