A Lady's Choice

by Sandra Robbins

  Sarah frowned. “But Roger, that’s in the future. The women who are unfortunate to be in that neighborhood now shouldn’t be prey for some crazed killer.”

  He waved his hand in dismissal. “Of course the people who frequent that area should be safe, but their lifestyles put them at danger. They should think about the danger before they choose that way of life.”

  Sarah stared at him, unable to believe what he’d just said. “How can you be so callous?”

  “I’m not callous, my dear. I’m realistic. You’ve had it so good all your life you don’t even realize what it’s like outside your world.” He yawned. “But that’s enough talk of murder and killers. I’m tired. I think I’ll go home.” He leaned over and kissed his aunt on the cheek. “I’ll come by tomorrow afternoon and take you and Sarah for an afternoon ride. Then we can come back here for dinner. Tell the cook I’d like to have her chocolate cake for dessert.”

  Sarah watched him walk from the house, and her heart pounded at how unfeeling he’d been about the death of a woman. Alex would never have responded that way.

  Her heart lurched at the thought, and she looked back down at the paper she still held. Had Alex seen her picture? If he had, he was probably telling himself right now how lucky he was not to have her in his life anymore. She should be thinking the same way, but every day it grew harder to forget him.

  She glanced at Mrs. Simpson, who sat huddled in her chair and stared into the fire. A faraway look hooded her eyes, and Sarah wondered what she was thinking. Perhaps both of them had memories tonight that troubled them. Sarah sighed and headed to the staircase.

  “Good night, Mrs. Simpson.”

  “Good night, Sarah. I hope you sleep well.”

  Sarah nodded, but somehow she didn’t think she would. Suddenly her head was too filled with memories of what she’d lost and would never regain.

  Larraine pulled her car to a stop outside Alex’s apartment building, rested her arm on the steering wheel, and turned to him, a coy smile pulling at her lips. “I hope you had a good time tonight, Alex.”

  Alex scooted closer to the door and fumbled for the handle. “I enjoyed dinner very much. Please tell your mother again how much I appreciated the invitation.”

  Larraine leaned closer to him, and the perfume she was wearing enveloped him. “Mother had nothing to do with it. I was the one who invited you.” She put her hand on his arm and ran her fingers down to his hand. “You can thank me by taking me out to dinner this weekend.”

  Alex looked down at her fingers that rubbed against his knuckles, and loneliness washed over him. But it wasn’t for the beautiful young woman with dark hair and flashing brown eyes. He closed his eyes and pictured a blond beauty with brilliant blue eyes that made him think of the summer sun and baseball games.

  He opened his eyes, covered Larraine’s fingers with his, and moved her hand back to the steering wheel. A voice in his head screamed for him not to ruin his chance of working in Mr. Buckley’s firm, but he needed to establish an understanding with Larraine.

  She glanced at her hand and back to him. “What’s the matter?”

  Alex took a deep breath. “Larraine, you’re a very beautiful young woman, and I’m flattered that you seem to like me. But the truth is I’m an old-fashioned kind of fellow. I like to be the one who asks a woman out. And I sure don’t want to ruin my chances at the firm by upsetting the boss’s daughter. So let’s just agree we had a good time tonight and leave it at that.”

  She blinked and leaned back in the seat. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell my father you were rude to me?”

  Perspiration popped out on Alex’s head, and he nodded. “Frankly, yes. But I don’t understand why you would care one bit what I thought or did. I grew up on a dirt farm. We didn’t have much money, and we worked hard. My sister sacrificed a lot to get me to law school in Nashville, and I owe her a big debt. I don’t want to do anything to endanger the chance I have at your father’s firm. I’m sure you have more in common with your other friends than you do with a farm boy who’s just out of law school.”

  She swiveled in her seat, crossed her arms, and settled against the car door. “I saw you, you know.”

  He frowned. “When?”

  “The day you came for your interview. I was in Lydia’s office when you walked down the hall. She told me who you were. Later I got the file my father had on you, and I read every word. I know all about you, Alex. And what I read intrigued me. You’re going to be a great lawyer.”

  His face grew warm. “Thank you, Larraine. I’m honored you have confidence in me.”

  She tilted her head to one side. “But it wasn’t your academic record that impressed me. It was the letters of recommendation from your teachers and friends who’ve known you all your life. I saw something in their words that told me you were a man I wanted to know better. I’d like for you to give me that chance.”

  “Larraine, I don’t know…”

  She held up a hand. “Maybe I came on too strong today. That’s been the way I’ve gotten what I want all my life. But I see that’s not going to work with you. I’d like for you to know the real person I am. I keep that person hidden from most people. Won’t you give me the chance to introduce her to you?”

  Alex stared at her for a moment.

  “I’d like to get to know you better. Maybe we need to start over.”

  He smiled. “Maybe we do.”

  Larraine repositioned her body behind the steering wheel. “I’d better be getting home now. My parents will be wondering where I am.”

  Alex reached to open the door but stopped. The picture from today’s newspaper flashed in his mind, and he gritted his teeth. If Sarah had been at a suffrage meeting, Roger Thorne was probably close by somewhere. She seemed to be making it fine without him in her life. If she could do it, he could too.

  He turned back to Larraine. “Since we’re going to start over, how would you like to have dinner with me Saturday night?”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Really?” When he nodded, she smiled. “I’d love it. What time shall I pick you up?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t feel comfortable with you picking me up. I’ll come to your house to get you.”

  “Will you have a car?”

  “No, but we can walk to the streetcar stop and ride it down to Main. That is, if you’re okay with a little walking.”

  She smiled. “I’ve never ridden a streetcar. It sounds like fun.”

  He arched his eyebrows. “Never ridden a streetcar? Well, ma’am, you’re in for a treat. I’ll see you about six.”

  “That sounds wonderful. And thank you, Alex, for giving me another chance.”

  The sincerity of her words convinced him she was being truthful. He hoped so, because he’d never been lonelier than he had since he’d arrived in Memphis. It would be good to have a friend. He just needed to remember she was his boss’s daughter and not let anything happen that would put his job in jeopardy.

  He smiled and climbed from the car. “I’ll see you Saturday.”

  He’d barely slammed the door before she waved and roared off down the street. He watched the car disappear in the distance and shook his head. He’d never met a woman like Larraine Buckley in his life, and he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad.

  Roger hadn’t waited until the afternoon to return to his aunt’s home. Instead he’d arrived mid-morning and announced it was a lovely day for a picnic. They’d left not too long afterward with Roger carrying the lunch the cook had hurriedly put together and headed for Overton Park on the eastern edge of the city.

  Not only had they seen the beautiful fall foliage of the trees, but Roger had insisted they visit the Overton Park Zoo. Together they had laughed at the antics of the monkeys, and Sarah didn’t think she’d ever seen him so at ease. Before leaving, they’d even stopped at the new Brooks Museum of Art that had been established recently in the park.

  As they drove toward home, Sarah laid her head against the seat and closed h
er eyes. A satisfied feeling filled her, and she nodded on the edge of sleep. An exclamation of surprise from Mrs. Simpson awakened her, and she sat up straight.

  They had pulled into the circle driveway of the house, and a strange Model T Ford sat parked in the front. Two men in dark suits stood near the bottom of the steps and didn’t take their eyes off the car as they pulled to a stop.

  “Do you know these men, Roger?” Mrs. Simpson asked.

  He shook his head. “No, I’ve never seen them before.”

  Sarah studied the two. There was something about the older one that seemed vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him. The men waited as they climbed from the car.

  Roger was the first out, and without helping his aunt from the car he strode toward them. “Good afternoon. Can I help you?”

  Sarah held the door for Mrs. Simpson to get out of the car, and they hurried to Roger’s side in time to see the older man pull out a wallet and flip it open to reveal a policeman’s badge. “I’m Detective Baker and this is Detective Morrison. We need to speak to you.”

  Roger nodded. “Of course, but why are you out here? You could have waited inside where you would be more comfortable.”

  The man shook his head. “Your maid offered, but we told her we would wait out here.”

  Roger swept his arm toward the house. “Then come in. We can talk in the parlor.”

  Sarah and Mrs. Simpson didn’t speak as they climbed the steps and entered the house. Sarah studied the policeman again. She’d seen him somewhere before, but she couldn’t recall where. As they entered the parlor, Roger turned to the detective.

  “This is my aunt, who runs this school, and this is one of our teachers, Miss Sarah Whittaker. Do you need to talk with them also?”

  The man’s gaze darted to Sarah, and his eyebrows arched. “Whittaker? Are you Robert Whittaker’s daughter?”

  “I am.” The answer to where she’d seen this man popped into her head. “I remember you now. You’re the detective who investigated my father’s death.”

  He nodded. “Yes. I’ve thought a lot about that case over the past few years. I remember your mother. How is she?”

  Sarah blinked back tears as she did every time she thought of her mother. “She passed away in the summer.”

  Detective Baker frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He took a deep breath and turned back to Roger and Mrs. Simpson. “I’m afraid we have some bad news for you today too. We have identified the body of the young woman who was murdered on Beale Street Friday night. Her name was Christine Donovan. I believe she’s a teacher here at your school.”

  Mrs. Simpson’s face turned white, and she staggered backward and collapsed into a chair. Sarah and Roger rushed to either side of her. Roger clasped her hand in his. “Aunt Edna, are you all right?”

  “Do you need a glass of water?” Sarah asked.

  She shook her head and stared at the policeman. “Christine’s dead? Are you sure? She taught her classes Friday.”

  Detective Baker nodded. “I’m afraid it’s so.”

  Roger looked up, a frown on his face. “But I don’t understand. We read the account of the murder in the paper and thought it was a prostitute. Christine was not a lady of the night after school hours.”

  The detective directed an impassive expression at him. “We don’t know much about Miss Donovan. It seems she kept to herself a lot. Her landlady had tried for two days to collect the rent. When she couldn’t find her again this morning, she came to the police station. On a hunch, we took her to the morgue, and she identified the body.”

  Sarah brushed at the tears that ran down her face. “Do you have any idea who might have done this? Maybe her boyfriend?”

  Detective Baker’s eyes widened. “She had a boyfriend? We didn’t know that. Who is he?”

  “She didn’t tell me his name. She just said she had a man in her life and maybe soon she could quit teaching and become a wife.”

  Detective Morrison scribbled something in a small notebook he held and looked back at her. “Did she ever talk about where she saw this man? Her landlady said she never had guests at her apartment.”

  “No. That’s all she told me.”

  Detective Morrison flipped his notebook closed, and Detective Baker looked back at Sarah. “If you remember anything else, please get in touch with me.” He bent over Mrs. Simpson, who had clamped her handkerchief against her mouth and shook with sobs. “I’m sorry to bring you such upsetting news. I may need to talk with you later.”

  She didn’t respond, and Roger stared up at Sarah. “Would you show the detectives out? I’m going to get Aunt Edna some water.”

  Sarah nodded and led the way to the door. When she opened it, she stepped back for the men to exit. As Detective Baker stepped onto the porch, she called out to him. “Detective Baker.”

  “Yes?” He turned and faced her.

  “Did you close out my father’s case, or is it still an open investigation?”

  “It was officially ruled a suicide, but I’ve always had my doubts. I still believe the hobo told the truth when he said he saw somebody exit the building around the time of your father’s death, but there haven’t been any new leads.”

  “And you never found his lucky piece he carried all the time?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “We moved from our house, and I also cleaned out my father’s office. It was nowhere in either place. I believe he was murdered and the killer took it from him.”

  Detective Baker’s forehead wrinkled. “But why would the killer want a trinket from a World’s Fair?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe as a souvenir of what he’d done.”

  The detective’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded. “It could be, Miss Whittaker. I don’t know how to prove it, though, unless we find a killer.”

  He turned and walked down the steps to the car. Sarah watched as they pulled onto Adams Street and turned toward downtown. Only then did the reality of their visit hit her. Christine was dead, murdered by someone who had placed his fingers around her neck and choked the life from her. It was too horrible to imagine.

  Sarah closed the door and fell against it as she succumbed to the grief pouring through her body.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two months later, there had been no new clues in Christine’s death. Detective Baker stopped by from time to time, and Sarah looked forward to his visits. She told him of her mother’s last days and their move to Richland Creek. He had grown up in a rural area north of Memphis, and he seemed to enjoy her stories about church picnics, baseball games, and neighbors who were there when you needed them. She didn’t speak to him about Alex, though.

  In addition to the loss of Christine, another change had taken place in Sarah’s life. Her concern that some of the Memphis suffragists would resent her picture being in the paper had proved unfounded. In the weeks after the meeting at Mrs. Windsor’s house, the group had embraced Sarah as the new face of suffrage in Memphis—a symbol of modern young women who would not rest until they achieved enfranchisement for generations to come. She found herself a celebrity in the growing circle of supporters in the local group.

  Now talk had turned to sending some volunteers to Washington to work with Alice Paul, the head of the National Woman’s Party. This group had begun to apply pressure to the Democratic-controlled House and Senate in the past few months, and women were flocking to Washington to take part in this historic confrontation. Sarah hoped she would be one of those to go.

  “Sarah, where are your thoughts tonight?”

  Mrs. Simpson’s voice penetrated her mind, and she sat up straighter on the sofa. The fire Dora had laid earlier blazed in the fireplace and warmed the parlor on this cold December night. Sarah yawned and stretched her arms over her head. “Lost in my thoughts, I guess. It’s so good to spend a night at home.”

  “It is.” Mrs. Simpson frowned and glanced at her watch. “I wonder where Roger is. It’s not like him to miss dinner.”


  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Simpson. He’s been putting in a lot of hours at work lately trying to make up for the time he misses when he’s working on our group’s projects during the day. I don’t know how he does it all.”

  Mrs. Simpson smiled. “I know. He’s really thrown himself into the suffrage activities since you’ve come back to Memphis. I think you inspire him, Sarah.”

  Sarah chose to ignore the remark and picked up the evening paper that lay on the table at the end of the sofa. Her eyes widened as she skimmed the articles on the front page. “Oh, I didn’t know my name was in the paper.”

  Mrs. Simpson laughed. “It seems to be nearly every day now. What is it this time?”

  “It’s a write-up about the meeting at Mrs. Harrison’s home last night. It quotes some of the things I had to say.”

  “Well, read them to me, my dear.”

  Sarah grew excited as she glanced over the article. “This is what the article says. ‘Miss Whittaker, poised and confident, appealed to the group with well-researched material. She related that at present time women comprise one-fifth of the Tennessee workforce. Many work ten to twelve hours a day for wages one-half to one-third that of men. Employers justify this by claiming that women only provide a secondary income. In addition to jobs, they also must care for their families at the end of a long workday.’”

  “That reporter gave an accurate of account of your speech.” Mrs. Simpson leaned forward. “What else did he say?”

  Sarah cleared her throat and directed her attention back to the page. “‘Miss Whittaker ended her remarks by stating that women stand at the threshold of victory. She urged all present to band together to oppose those who would deny women the liberty for which our ancestors struggled. With defiance in her voice, she raised her fist as she delivered her parting statement. “I say to you, let us go forth with the same resolve the valiant patriots of the American Revolution declared. No Taxation Without Representation!”’”