by Liz Freeland
But when she opened the door and I greeted her with an overly bright, “Hello, Mrs. Beasley,” her face tensed warily.
She turned and called into the room. “Someone to see you.” To me, she said, “Come in,” and stepped back a pace.
“I did come to see Jackson,” I began awkwardly, “but I was hoping to be able to chat a little with you, too.”
“I’m fixing lunch.”
“Oh, well.” At a loss, I held out the flowers. “I brought you these.”
“Flowers?” Jackson boomed from behind us. “Trying to woo my wife away from me, are you, Louise?”
His eyes had that glassy look again. I was relieved he still seemed to be grooming himself, unlike Mr. McChesney, but he’d clearly been drinking and it wasn’t even noon yet.
“I’ll take care of this,” he told Miriam.
One of her lips curled sourly at being dismissed, but she left us.
I was offended for her, and also for myself at this not-so-subtle hint that my visit was unwelcome. “I tried to call,” I said. “They told me you no longer have telephone service.”
“I had it taken out, at least until I find another job. Economizing, you know.”
“I understand.”
His flat stare fixed on me. “Well, you’d best come in and sit down.”
“Thank you.” He pointed me to one of two matching armchairs facing each other by the unlit fireplace and settled into the other himself.
“I assume this is about your investigation.” He smiled. “From secretary to Sherlock Holmes in a petticoat in one short week.”
His soft drawl didn’t disguise the belittling intent of his words. “Yes, it’s about Guy,” I said. “Do you know if he had any lady friends?”
“A man in Guy’s position never lacked for female attention. Didn’t even matter how he treated them. Women are fools.”
My instinct was to answer his misogyny by going full-on suffragette, but I reminded myself that I was here to gather information, not to proselytize. “How did he treat them?”
“Who?”
“These ladies you were speaking of.”
“Negligently, I imagine. The same way he approached everything in life.”
He imagined. I needed more than musings. “Do you know any of their names?”
“Good heavens. This was back in college—a decade ago.”
“I was hoping you would know something about his recent life.”
He frowned at me. “You saw how it was, Louise. We worked in the same office. Did Guy confide in you?”
“I was only his secretary,” I said, gambling that feeding Jackson’s ego might enhance his memory. “He would be much more apt to open up to you—a male colleague, his equal.”
He shifted, and looked at his hands as if weighing whether to reveal more. “As it happens, he did tell me once that there was a particular girl he took an interest in.”
I inched forward on the chair. “Who?”
“I never met her. I doubt any of his friends did, either. According to him, she wasn’t the type he could take home to mother.”
“Why did he tell you about her?”
“I suppose he wanted to unburden himself to someone who might understand a little about it.” He drew up. “That’s why I can’t tell you much more. I didn’t encourage him comparing my situation to his tawdry affair.”
“Then it was an affair?”
“Oh, certainly.”
That might account for Guy’s needing to approach his brother for money and then investing in Cain’s “business.” Perhaps it also explained where the three thousand dollars went. “When did he tell you this?”
“Months and months ago.” He squinted at the ceiling in thought. “Last spring?”
“What happened to her?” I wondered aloud.
“Same thing that happens to most women of her kind. He probably tired of her, and that was the end of it. Life isn’t a fairy tale.”
“No,” I agreed.
He stood. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”
He was halfway to the door by the time I got to my feet. “Maybe you can come again some time when we’re more at leisure to entertain,” he said.
I murmured something to the effect that this sounded nice. Actually, it sounded like a brush-off. Still, I couldn’t complain. I’d dropped in without warning, and he’d given me a tiny tidbit of information. Guy had had a mistress.
“Did Guy mention what kind of personality this woman had?” I couldn’t help asking even as he hustled me out.
Hand on the doorknob, he looked down at me. “What do you mean?”
“Well, for instance, perhaps this woman had a temper.”
Jackson laughed. “Is there a woman in the world who doesn’t?”
He was right. Neither sex had a monopoly on temper. Pushed far enough, anyone could reach a boiling point.
It had been cold and cloudy when I left Greenwich Village, but now the sun was shining. By the time I walked to Mr. McChesney’s flat, I felt I was baking inside my coat, and I took off my hat as soon as I was in the foyer of my old boss’s building. When I looked up, the birdcage elevator was coming down, with Bob Sanders, the accountant, inside. It seemed apropos, since Bob had always reminded me of a nervous bird.
He tilted his head in surprise when he stepped out and saw me, and shifted the coat he was carrying to his other arm, covering something he was already clutching there.
“I didn’t expect to run into you here,” he said in his light, rushed voice.
“I tried to visit yesterday, but Mr. McChesney was with the doctor.”
His smile disappeared. “He’s taking it all very hard, and I’m afraid my visit didn’t raise his spirits any. I counseled him to declare bankruptcy—a liberty, I know, and perhaps not my place, but no one knows better than I how the company’s barely been scraping by these past years. I thought perhaps he’d welcome encouragement to lay down the burden of keeping the business going.”
“He’d consider bankruptcy a blow.” Yet what other choice was there?
“I shouldn’t have distressed him, poor man.”
“Did you go over the books with him?”
His body stilled. “What books? The books burned in the fire.”
“Mr. McChesney said he kept a few records here at his flat. I thought he asked you to look at them.”
His eyebrows twitched. I kept my gaze trained away from whatever was under his coat, and yet both of us seemed focused on it without looking. Bob was always such a bundle of nerves, it was hard to discern if this was him being sneaky or just normal Bob awkwardness.
“He didn’t have them after all,” he said.
“Did the police take them?”
“Mr. McChesney didn’t say.” He shifted his weight. “He told me that you’re . . . well, that you’re looking into the fire?”
“Informally. In fact, you might be of some help to me. Did you know the woman Guy was seeing?”
His eyes behind their round frames grew big. “Me? No, of course not.” He chuckled lightly. “Guy and I didn’t exactly travel in the same social circles.”
“You never heard him mention a woman’s name?”
“No, no, I didn’t. He made some lascivious remarks about the Dolly Sisters once, and I told him I didn’t appreciate that kind of talk. But I don’t think he ever got closer to the Dolly Sisters than first-row orchestra seats.”
“Have you started looking for a new job?”
“Yes, I have a family, you know. Children.” With his free hand, he poked his spectacles back up to the bridge of his nose. “Needs must.”
“How are they?”
“Middling. My little boy has a bit of a cough. Colder weather setting in usually causes problems.”
It had to be a strain. “I’m sure you’ll find something soon. You were always so valuable to Van Hooten and McChesney.”
“It’s kind of you to say so.” He aimed an anxious look toward the door. “I really should
go. I’m late for an appointment. I’m sure I’ll see you at the funeral.”
“Yes.” Guy’s funeral was two days away, on Wednesday. “I’ll be there.”
We said goodbye, and he darted toward the door.
Knowing Bob had just left made me more sympathetic to Mrs. Carey’s huff when she answered the door. “How’s a man supposed to get rest when there’s people coming and going all the time?”
“I don’t mean to be a nuisance,” I said, “but I wanted to check on Mr. McChesney.”
“I was just going to bring him a tray. I expect he’ll want me to bring you something, too.”
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do, or else he won’t eat, and then I shouldn’t have bothered myself at all.”
“Well . . . thank you, that would be nice. I am a little hungry.”
“Then you should’ve just said so to begin with.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the parlor door. “You can show yourself in.”
I knocked lightly and opened the door. Mr. McChesney was sitting in the chair Muldoon had occupied the day before. A lap robe lay over his legs, and he held a thick book.
“Don’t get up,” I said, hurrying in and sitting before he could upset himself.
“You just missed Bob,” he said.
I explained that I’d spoken to him and expected to see him again at the funeral. The mention of Guy’s service distressed my old boss. “I’m not sure I’ll make it.”
He did look frail. Despite Mrs. Carey’s ministrations, he was thinner and grayer than the last time I’d seen him.
“I was supposed to be a pallbearer,” he said, “but I’ve asked Bob to stand in for me. He agreed to.”
“I hope you’ll feel better by Wednesday.”
Mrs. Carey came in and set tea and sandwiches in front of us. “He’ll be stronger if he eats and rests.”
When she was gone, I picked up a sandwich with a thin slice of ham in it. “Did you ever know any of Guy’s lady friends?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Guy didn’t confide in me. He and I weren’t on social terms in the way his father and I were.”
I tried not to show my disappointment.
“Why?” His face crumpled in worry. “Was there some girl—a fiancée, perhaps? I’d hate to think of a poor girl left brokenhearted.”
“It’s an idea that Aunt Irene had. She thinks a woman’s at the bottom of it all.”
“A woman? Surely not. What a monstrous idea.”
It was true that murders were more often committed by men, but I wasn’t going to rule out the fairer sex. “I’ve met one murderess and saw her work firsthand.”
He put his uneaten sandwich back on the plate. “You’ve seen too much of what’s evil in this city. It was wrong of me to ask you to look into this matter.”
“It wasn’t you, it was Aunt Irene. You know I would do anything she asked, short of committing murder myself.”
“Why did Irene suggest you look for a woman?”
Muldoon had told me to keep the information about the poison under my hat. I’d blurted the news to Aunt Irene right away, but Muldoon wasn’t interviewing Aunt Irene and wasn’t likely to know or care if I’d spilled the secret to her.
“Jackson mentioned Guy had a particular woman friend,” I said, fabricating a plausible lie off the cuff, “but he didn’t know her name. Aunt Irene thinks I should search for her.”
He nodded, distracted. “How is Jackson?”
“He seemed a bit demoralized. He needs to find a new position quickly.”
That news made him look very depressed. “Poor man. Of course I’ll give him a glowing reference.”
“I’m sure that would help.” Worried I was tiring out my old boss, I stood. “I should go. Please take care of yourself. Aunt Irene will want you to dine again with her soon.”
“I hope I’ll feel up to it. I’m not the brightest company at the moment.”
“I’ve worn you out. I meant to ask you about insurance, but that can wait till the next time I see you.”
His brows drew together. “You too?”
I didn’t understand.
“That detective was here earlier. Wanted to see my fire insurance policy.”
“Do you have it?” I asked, unable to hide my eagerness.
He shook his head. “Bob wanted to see it, too—but the policy was at the office. I can’t remember the dollar amount of the policy, or the exact details. Cyrus took it out. The people at First New York will know all about it.” He gave his head a self-deprecating shake. “Some businessman I am! I hope the sum will be sufficient to cover the outstanding debt.”
My morning’s efforts left me little wiser than I’d been when I set out. For the next two days, I struggled. In the mornings I went to Aunt Irene’s and typed up what seemed almost like my autobiography. In the afternoons, I tried to track down more of my old coworkers to see if they knew anything of this mysterious woman of Guy’s that Jackson had mentioned. The two I found, Timothy and Sandy, knew nothing. Both said I should ask Jackson.
It felt as if I’d hit a brick wall.
* * *
Calvary Church near Gramercy Park was only half full when I arrived on Wednesday morning, but I took an inconspicuous place near the back so I could observe who came in. Singly or in twos, mourners arrived and walked down the long aisle of the austere old church. Not that the dark wood and stained glass didn’t have a Gothic splendor, but I’d expected the church of the Astors, Vanderbilts, and Roosevelts to be more ornate, if not gilded to its vaulted ceiling. Yet this backdrop made the stylish mourners stand out in high relief. Men and women paraded through the nave in fur coats and hats of dyed black fox, rabbit, and mink, and velvet and cashmere. The women wore wide-brimmed hats in the latest style, extravagantly plumed and netted.
The Van Hooten and McChesney contingent joined me, except for Bob, who was with the pallbearers. From my vantage, I was able to observe all the mourners, taking special care to see if there was a young woman who seemed especially distressed. But the females present were all frustratingly dry-eyed and stoic. If there was a scorned mistress in the pews, I couldn’t spot her. I did see faces from the society pages, politicians, and well-heeled Van Hooten friends. Teddy was there, though he didn’t notice me. Finally, Mayor Kline entered, gray-bearded and distinguished, with Edith Van Hooten on his arm. A long black veil covered her face. Behind them walked Hugh Van Hooten, cleaned, polished and pressed for this sad day, and behind him was Mr. McChesney in a black Prince Albert coat and leaning heavily on his cane. His pale, drawn face worried me.
The service began, and though I glanced in the prayer book held by Sandy, standing next to me, I had trouble voicing the responses. A lump had risen in my throat when they had marched in with Guy’s casket. The hollow sadness that took hold of me wasn’t just for Guy, though. One of my clearest early memories was attending the funeral of my parents, who’d died within a week of each other when I was seven, of typhus, which they’d caught living in cramped quarters on the wrong side of the tracks. Aunt Sonja never forgot that her sister had married down, or that I—and her sister’s untimely death—was the result. I’d been scrubbed within an inch of my life for that funeral, the day I’d moved in with her. If she could have, she would have soaked me in bleach.
Someone came in late. I twisted back to see a blonde—an older woman, and plump, unlikely mistress material—squeeze into a pew near the door, next to Frank Muldoon. He was seated in the back pew across the aisle, his purpose there probably the same as mine, to observe. Our gazes held a moment and his brow quirked up, and though I’d felt on the verge of tears moments before, it was all I could do to hide a smile.
Unfortunately, or fortunately, it was then that the priest boomed out the words of the Book of Common Prayer that always chilled me. “Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower.”
Had Guy’s life been full of
misery? He’d had every advantage—family, wealth, position. And yet he’d been cut down, as the liturgy warned, and far too young.
After the service, we filtered out, many gathering on the corner of Twenty-first and Park. As I congregated with my former coworkers, I kept an eye out for Muldoon, but he must have slipped out before me. Probably on his way to the cemetery. He’d been at Ethel’s burial last summer when he was investigating her death. Mr. McChesney and Bob were also going to see Guy to his final resting place.
Sandy, Jackson, and Timothy stood near me. Even Oliver, our office boy, had shown up, which surprised me. Another surprise was his appearance. He seemed to have grown up since just last week. I knew boys in their teen years underwent phenomenal growth spurts, but what made the difference with Oliver were his clothes and his bearing. He was wearing a nice dark coat, polished shoes, and a new felt fedora instead of his old floppy cap.
“Big turnout for Guy,” Jackson observed, looking down Park Avenue as mourners exiting the church were reabsorbed into the busy sidewalks.
“Full house,” Sandy agreed. “Guy would be pleased.”
Oliver laughed. “Doubt he cares about that now.”
Jackson scowled at him, as he used to do at the office. “It’s a comfort for the family.”
“I was surprised there weren’t more ladies at the service,” I said. “You’d think Guy would have left a few broken hearts in his wake.”
Despite my carefully neutral tone, I caught Timothy and Sandy exchanging a wondering glance. No doubt they thought it odd that I was speculating on the women our late boss had left behind when I’d just tracked them down yesterday to ask about Guy’s women friends. To them it probably seemed I had a weird fixation.
“Say what you will about Guy,” Sandy said, “the man wasn’t a skirt chaser.”
Oliver laughed again. “That’s all you know.”
Jackson squinted at him. “Don’t speak ill of the dead.”
“Even if it’s true?” Oliver asked.
“Especially if it’s true,” Jackson said. “We’re outside a church, for pity’s sake.”
