by Liz Freeland
Otto laughed mirthlessly. “By all means, let’s all devote our lives to keeping Teddy Newland from harm. I’ll apply to medical school so I can find the cure for the common cold so Teddy’ll never have to catch one.”
Callie glared at him. “Oh, are medical schools clamoring for songwriter applicants?”
“There’s no point in arguing,” I said before their sniping could escalate. “I’ve promised to look into the fire for Mr. McChesney, and I intend to follow through whether it benefits Teddy or not.”
Otto stabbed at his cake.
“You can’t let Teddy know what I’m up to,” I warned Callie.
“Why not?” she asked.
“I can’t risk the Van Hootens finding out that I’m looking into Guy’s death. They’ll clam up around me just as they will for the police.”
Callie’s eyes narrowed. “How are you going to manage to be around the Van Hootens, anyway?” she asked. “You were Guy’s secretary. I doubt you’ll be receiving many invitations into their social circle.”
“Mr. McChesney is close to the family. And now I’ve got another connection—Teddy.”
Callie studied me; then her eyes brightened. “Oh—I see. We’ll both be secretly investigating.” I’d worried that she wouldn’t want me to involve her in this scheme, but from her tone you might have pictured her rubbing her hands together in gleeful anticipation. She was in.
Otto groaned. “Here we go again.”
Callie took his empty plate and patted him on the head. “Never fear. Maybe you’ll get another hit song out of it.”
Even that possibility failed to lift his gloom. “Let’s hope it’s not a funeral dirge.”
CHAPTER 4
That evening I stayed home worrying I’d tackled something beyond my abilities. True, I’d succeeded in ferreting out a murderer last summer. But perhaps I’d just been lucky—if nearly being pitched off the top of the Woolworth Building could be construed as luck.
I reviewed what little I knew: On Wednesday night, Guy had stayed late at work, and the last person with whom he was seen was Leonard Cain. Cain was reputed to be a shady character, maybe even a gangster. But did he have reason to murder Guy?
From what I’d heard today, Jackson knew more about Cain than I did. He’d known Guy better, too. Before I interviewed anyone about Guy’s death, it would be worthwhile to ask Jackson some questions. I was eager to get started, but my mornings now belonged to Aunt Irene.
At nine o’clock sharp the next morning, I presented myself at my aunt’s, knowing she wouldn’t be up to greet me. She wrote late into the night and rarely stirred from her bedroom before eleven. Walter escorted me up to her office, where a small stack of handwritten papers lay waiting for me next to the hulking Remington. On the top was a note penned in Aunt Irene’s angular hand.
Louise,
If you have any difficulty deciphering these pages, apply to Walter. He’s accustomed to my chicken scratch. Bernice has been told to keep you watered and fed. Don’t let them boss you.
Irene
P.S.—I’ve been giving the matter some thought, and I really think you should begin your investigation by interviewing the coworkers who were closest to Guy Van Hooten. But we can talk more later!
Of course she’d decided I should talk to the coworkers closest to Guy. She’d probably come to that conclusion in half the time it had taken me.
I sat down to work. Irene Livingston Green, née Irma Mayer of Altoona, Pennsylvania, had made her name writing stories of girls whose stalwart hearts and plucky personalities saw them through all the romantic difficulty their picturesque small towns could heap upon their pretty heads. These paragons of virtue usually had flowery names that appeared in the title, like Myrtle in Springtime and Violet in the Shade. Looking forward to a cheerful respite from fiery death and gangsters, I cranked a blank white page onto the platen. Centering the title—I was never the best at that—I typed:
THE CURTAIN FALLS
Hmm. No flowery name. Maybe she was going for a change of pace.
The first paragraph reassured me—the heroine’s name was Lily, and even though she resided in New York City, not a small town, she was peppy and outgoing. In the scene, she and her roommate, Clarice, were returning from a party, discussing a handsome, brooding playwright they’d just met and bantering over Lily’s tendency to borrow Clarice’s clothes without permission. That last detail brought a smile. Aunt Irene had pinched my predilection for borrowing Callie’s clothes.
I clacked along, wondering whether Lily or Clarice would end up with the playwright. My money was on Clarice, since she was an aspiring actress. I had to redo one page because I noticed I’d typed b for v a few times, so that Clarice was scolding Lily for borrowing her kid globes without permission. As my aunt had said, I was far from a flawless typist, but the time passed pleasantly enough. The novel’s familiar setting diverted me. Lily and Clarice even lived in Greenwich Village, as Callie and I did, in a building similar to ours. In fact, the fictional pair were strikingly similar to Callie and me.
My fingers paused over the keys.
After a quick rap, the door swung open and Walter came in bearing a tray for me. At least, I assumed it was Walter. When I looked up, a bearded, pot-bellied man was placing the tray on Aunt Irene’s rolltop desk. A tremor of alarm passed quickly, and I smiled to myself and focused an intent gaze on the page in the typewriter. “Thank you,” I said.
He stepped back and cleared his throat. I didn’t look up from my work.
The air twitched with impatience. “Is there anything else you’ll be wantin’, miss?”
The unexpected, ludicrous Irish brogue shredded my composure. In my best leprechaun, I answered back, “Aye, how about a wee verse of ‘Molly Malone’?”
Walter, beneath his thick makeup and beard, scowled but steadfastly refused to break character. “What’s so funny, I’d like to know.”
I whooped. “Would you now?”
Giving up, he tore off a hank of beard. “The accent was what gave me away, wasn’t it?” He slapped the fake hair against his palm. “I shouldn’t have attempted it. It’s been years since I appeared in The Countess Cathleen. Was it too much?”
“A wee tooch.” Noting the slope of his shoulders, I made myself stop laughing. Walter, an ex-actor, prided himself on his mastery of disguises. “Don’t be discouraged. I knew it was you because—well, who else would bring me a tray of food?”
For the first time, I glanced down at the tray’s contents. A boiled egg in a cup, a piece of toast, and half a glass of milk. Bernice, who whipped up mouthwatering creations in Aunt Irene’s kitchen every day, wasn’t above telegraphing her mood through her culinary offerings. That egg and dry toast might as well have been a twenty-foot electrified billboard flashing her displeasure.
From Walter’s next words, I judged rightly. “Bernice is just anxious about our being involved in the investigation, which she thinks will bring trouble. You know what a doom and gloomer she is.”
“Cassandra of the kitchen,” I agreed.
“I, on the other hand, am willing to assist you in any way possible. After our success last summer, I’m sure we’ll be able to find the coward who burned down Mr. McChesney’s building.”
Last summer, Walter—in disguise—had delivered a message for me at a key moment, so I couldn’t object to his use of the word we. God knows I might need all the help I could get in the days to come.
Luckily for my stomach, I remembered I’d agreed to meet Otto for an early lunch. I finished typing the pages Aunt Irene had left and scribbled a note for her, which I placed on the newly typed stack.
Back in August, returning from a visit home to Altoona, Otto had discovered a sausage stand in the bustling area outside of Pennsylvania Station. The hulking granite and marble exterior of the station sprawled over nine midtown acres, and on the surrounding streets, passengers encountered merchants catering to their needs, from reading material and toiletries, children’s toys, hats a
nd stockings, and most of all, food. Food carts parked along the sidewalks released half a dozen mingling aromas. There, Otto had found Ziggy’s.
Around noon every day except Sundays, a steady stream of regulars queued up for the best bratwurst in town, and the most affordable. The only drawback was there was nowhere to eat once Ziggy handed over your wax paper–wrapped bundle of heaven, unless you were bound for a Pullman car. Otherwise you could eat standing on the sidewalk, commandeer one of the benches in the station, or claim a spot on the steps of the new post office across the street.
A queue had already formed at Ziggy’s when I arrived, and I spotted Otto in it, last in line but one. That one, a dark man of medium height, looked vaguely familiar, but it was his richness that struck me first. His coat, brown cashmere with a fur collar, seemed a bit much even on a brisk autumn day. Even swells were willing to battle the elements and the lowbrow mob to claim a bratwurst on a bun.
As I slipped in beside Otto, the man behind let out a sound of annoyance and spoke in a slightly nasal voice. “You’re cutting in line, girlie.”
“I’m with this man,” I told him, indicating Otto, whose face had gone as white as the post office granite. He tugged at my sleeve, a silent request to back away from the confrontation, but just because a man wore a coat that probably cost more than I earned in a whole year didn’t mean he had the right to play the big cheese in the bratwurst line.
“Are you going to eat, or just watch him?” Mr. Rich asked.
“Of course I’m going to eat.” My stomach was growling at the aroma of the smoke coming off Ziggy’s coals. “But you see, my friend here was going to buy for both of us whether I came to stand beside him or not, so I assure you that you won’t miss out on my account.”
The man’s lips turned down, but his dark eyes glittered in amusement. “Just assure my stomach that Ziggy won’t hand you his last brat.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” I said. “I’ve never heard such a baby.” Especially from a man whose lapel, I now noticed, boasted a diamond pin whose worth would probably buy a ten-cent lunch for every person within shouting distance.
“Louise . . .” Poor Otto looked like he was going to faint.
I wasn’t about to let the perturbed man off the hook. “Wouldn’t you expect a girl to stand beside you if you promised to pay for her lunch? Or, like a sultan, do you prefer your women to stay ten paces behind?”
The man laughed. “You’re giving me ideas.”
Otto, unable to contain himself, scolded me. “Louise, this is Al Jolson.”
I gaped, and the man’s face broke into a colossal smile. Al Jolson was Broadway’s sensation of the moment. The Honeymoon Express was the first Broadway show Otto and I had attended together, and Otto had spent the rest of the summer mimicking him singing “The Spaniard That Blighted My Life.” I felt foolish not to have spotted him right away. In my defense, our tickets were in the balcony’s back of beyond, so I hadn’t seen the man up close. And who would have expected a luminary of the Great White Way to be queuing up for sausage on a bun?
“This is quite a coincidence,” I said, recovering from shock. “I’m standing between two famous songsters.”
Otto writhed. “Louise . . .”
Jolson smiled warily and pointed a gloved finger at Otto. “Who—this kid?”
His skepticism brought out the promoter in me. “This kid wrote the song hit of the summer.”
“The song hit of the summer was ‘You Made Me Love You’ by yours truly.”
Mr. Jolson didn’t suffer for lack of ego.
“Okay, but you must have heard ‘My Tootsie from Altoona,’ ” I said.
His gaze fastened on Otto. “Wait a second—don’t tell me.” He concentrated and then snapped his gloved fingers. “Otto Klemper. That’s the name, isn’t it?”
Otto hadn’t looked so amazed since we were ten and a man at the county fair had guessed his weight. He reached out his hand. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Jolson.”
“It’s Al to my friends and colleagues.”
Otto’s face turned fuchsia. “Gosh, I can’t believe you would’ve heard of me.”
“I always know the competition, kid. That song of yours was a pip. Written any more?”
“Plenty,” Otto said. “Right now I’m working on a nifty novelty about the income tax.”
Jolson laughed. “I’d like to hear it sometime.”
I might have initiated the conversation, but I was out of it now. I edged ahead of them, keeping our place in line while they talked. Or, rather, while Jolson talked and Otto stared at him worshipfully as though he could absorb every syllable that fell from the great man’s mouth. When we finally got to the front of the line, Jolson insisted on paying for all of our lunches. From Ziggy’s eagerness and the amount of kraut he piled on our buns, Jolson must have been both a regular there and a big tipper. He wouldn’t stay and eat with us, though.
“Gotta eat on the hoof today. But you come find me when you have something to play for me, kid.”
Long after he’d walked away in a jaunty swagger, Otto stared after him. I worried his bratwurst would slip out of his hand and we’d end up at the back of the line again.
“That was Al Jolson,” he said in wonder.
“Uh-huh.” The air was nippy, and I looked longingly toward Penn Station. “Do you want to find a place inside?” Sometimes the cops would oust loiterers in the passenger waiting area, but maybe if we ate fast . . .
Otto remained planted where he was, in a daze. “How can I eat the bratwurst Al Jolson bought for me?”
“Would you rather have it bronzed?”
I managed to maneuver him to the post office steps. In the sun it wasn’t so chilly, and I liked sitting there amid those colossal stone buildings. It was like a postal Parthenon.
“Do you think he meant it, about me playing my song for him?”
“Seemed to.” I bit into my roll, savoring my first bite.
Otto followed suit, and for a moment we chewed silently, letting the flavors fill us with a shared nostalgia for the world we’d left behind. I wasn’t homesick, but on occasion my thoughts were fleet-winged swallows, returning me to Altoona. That city was my past, my childhood, the only world I’d known until my falling out with my aunt Sonja after I’d been assaulted by one of her boarders and ended up pregnant. There are times when you hope people will rise above expectations. Aunt Sonja didn’t. She’d blamed me and worried about what her friends and neighbors would say about her, the aunt who’d raised me. The only help she gave me was finding a home where I could have the baby and place it for adoption. I hadn’t seen or heard from her in well over a year.
Otto brought me out of my brooding. “Mr. Jolson seems like a stand-up guy, doesn’t he? Imagine him inviting me to play him a song. Why would he go out of his way to be so nice to me?”
“Because he’s an entertainer, and you might be able to provide him with material.”
“Oh.” From the look on his face, you’d think he’d just discovered Santa didn’t scooch down everyone’s chimney on Christmas morning.
“Doesn’t mean he’s not a nice man,” I pointed out. “Even the most talented people don’t rise to the top of their professions without keeping an eye out for themselves.”
“I guess you’re right,” said Otto, who didn’t have a calculating bone in his body. Sometimes I worried this town would eat him alive.
“Finish your food.” I gave him a playful nudge with my shoe. “I can’t sit out here in the cold all day. I’m a newly fledged private investigator with places to go.”
“Where are you going?”
I told him Jackson’s address, on Sixty-fifth near Amsterdam Avenue.
He frowned. “That’s San Juan Hill.”
He wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t know. One thing I’d learned backward and forward for the police exam was the geography of New York City. Jackson’s neighborhood had earned its name from the many skirmishes there between the local po
pulation and the majority Irish police. “So?”
“That’s a colored neighborhood,” he said.
“Won’t they allow me in?” I joked. “Strange, Jackson Beasley lives there and I can’t think how he manages to get in and out of his apartment if they don’t.”
“Jackson’s a man.”
“And I’m an adult, and it’s the middle of the afternoon. I’ll be as safe there as I am in Greenwich Village.”
“Maybe I should go with you.”
I laughed. “Some career as a detective I’m going to have if I have to haul a songwriter along for protection all the time.” Despite the bravado, I appreciated his offer. Having someone in this city who’d known me for so long and cared about me was a comfort. Even if I did keep a few secrets from him, I never doubted that I could turn to him if I was in trouble. “Believe me, if I need an escort, I’ll let you know.”
* * *
I didn’t regret turning down Otto’s offer. Jackson’s block held several run-down buildings, but nothing I wasn’t used to seeing in pockets all over New York. Small children newly forced into their scratchy woolens played hopscotch and kick the can. I weaved around them. Women and some men loitered on stoops, conversing and tracking my progress down the sidewalk. I hurried toward the address I’d written down when Mr. McChesney asked me to create a list of employee addresses after the fire.
During the months we’d worked together, I’d never visualized Jackson’s residence. Why would I? But now that I was face-to-face with the plain brownstone façade flanked by larger, unkempt buildings on both sides, I wondered why Jackson with his Southern gentleman pretensions would have settled here. There were better affordable neighborhoods, surely.
He lived on the second floor, but as I crossed the foyer to the staircase, something scampered in front of my feet. By the time my stopped heart started beating again, the mouse had already disappeared. I darted up the stairs.
