by Amy Stewart
A middle-aged man in an ordinary brown tweed suit lifted his hat to Bessie and then walked down the street, in the direction of the train station. He carried no case or papers of any kind.
“He’s not a tradesman,” said Norma. “No tools.”
“Could he be a lawyer or a banker?” said Fleurette.
“I would’ve guessed he was a salesman, except he didn’t have his case,” said Lorraine.
Constance, returning from work, banged through the kitchen door just then. “Who was that man leaving your house?” she asked Lorraine. The three of them shrugged.
Once Constance understood that he was not the first man to have come and gone that afternoon, she said, “Well, I suppose if Bessie wants us to know, she’ll tell us.”
But Norma was already putting on her coat and sliding into a pair of old barn shoes that she kept at the kitchen door for the express purpose of trekking back and forth to Bessie’s house to find out what was going on.
“There’s no point in being coy about it,” Norma said. “Lorraine has a right to know if there are strange men coming in and out of the house.”
Lorraine, wisely unwilling to be caught up in her aunts’ schemes, looked desperately at Fleurette for help.
“Maybe Bessie deserves her privacy,” offered Fleurette, herself a great champion of keeping secrets from one’s relations.
“If she wanted privacy, she’d smuggle him out the back,” pronounced Norma, and off she went, with Constance, Fleurette, and Lorraine following reluctantly but curiously in her wake.
16
BESSIE WAS A terrible liar.
“I thought we’d take in a boarder,” she said, as brightly as she could under the glaring countenances of three sisters-in-law and a daughter. “I’m already cooking for a crowd, and with the rent from a boarder, I’d cover our entire grocery bill, plus the heating oil in winter.”
“Then I suppose that’s what you’ve been doing in the basement,” said Norma, with the air of a detective in a penny matinee.
“Are you really going to let one of those men live in the basement?” asked Lorraine in horror. “And he’d sit at our table at dinner?”
“Couldn’t you find a lady tenant?” said Constance.
“If you have a room in the basement, I might rent it,” Fleurette said, if only to take the attention away from Bessie, who was wilting under the questions being fired at her. “Can I go see it?”
“I haven’t fixed it up yet,” Bessie said.
“I should hope not, in your condition,” said Norma.
“I’ve only cleaned it,” Bessie continued, “and advertised that I’d furnish to suit.”
“I saw that advertisement and wondered who in their right mind would rent a room without knowing something definite about the furnishings first,” said Norma, displaying as always her perfect recall of every column inch of the newspaper, even the classifieds.
Bessie was standing her ground, but just barely. Fleurette admired her for trying.
“With the first and last month’s rent,” Bessie said, “I can put some money down on a suite of good second-hand furnishings, and pay the rest over time. That is, if there aren’t any extras at the farm I could use.”
Constance stepped in before Norma could grouse about the idea. “I’m sure there are still some odds and ends at the farm,” she said, “but why are you so worried about the grocery bill? We ought to sit down and work out exactly how we’ll handle our finances until the farm sells. We could do it now, if you’d like.”
Bessie exchanged hardly a glance with Fleurette, but Fleurette knew what it meant: Constance and Norma remained entirely ignorant of the delinquent accounts all over town. They hadn’t any idea that Bessie’s credit extended only as far as Fleurette’s pocketbook would allow.
And—Fleurette realized with a sickening drop in her stomach—without a salary from Mr. Ward, she would no longer be able to make her rounds, dropping two dollars here and five dollars there to keep the bill-collectors at bay.
“Why don’t we go next door,” Bessie said, glancing at her daughter. “There’s no reason to bore the children with any of this.”
“But you were ready to bore us with a man in the basement,” Lorraine said.
“Keep an eye on Frankie,” Bessie said, and led the way back over to the Wilkinsons’.
Fleurette followed with a sense of dread. How did Bessie intend to make a confession about the unpaid accounts without revealing Fleurette’s part in it? And then how would they explain where the money had come from? There would be no sneaking the details past Norma—she’d see the entire situation for what it was, tally the sums in her head, and deduce at once that Fleurette couldn’t possibly have earned enough from seamstressing to satisfy so many creditors.
On the short walk next door, Fleurette began to spin any number of scenarios in her head and to scrutinize them for plausibility. Could she claim that she’d had some money set aside from her travels last year? (Unlikely, as Fleurette had never saved a penny in her life.) Perhaps Freeman Bernstein owed her back wages, and she’d finally forced him to pay? (That would at least fit nicely into Norma’s view of Mr. Bernstein as a man who couldn’t be trusted.) Or could she claim to have picked up some small item of value during her time on the stage, a bauble from an admirer, that she sold after Francis died?
A bauble.
What happened to the emerald that Mr. Packard gave her?
She had worn it as a pendant on that disastrous night with Mr. Thorne. It had hung low and loose around her neck. Where was it now? She didn’t remember taking it off that night. She’d rushed home, gone straight to her bedroom, torn off her entire ensemble, and stuffed it into the bottom of her wardrobe. She couldn’t bear the sight of that crumpled dress and hadn’t wanted to go near it as long as the memory of that terrible night still had a hold on her.
Was the emerald still there, among the dress and stockings and her ruined slippers?
They had by now reached the Wilkinsons’ house. Bessie, Constance, and Norma were taking their seats around the kitchen table. Norma reached for the household ledger-book she kept in the cupboard and adjusted her spectacles with the air of a presiding judge.
Fleurette couldn’t sit still without knowing what had happened to her emerald. How much could she have sold it for, if only she’d had the presence of mind to do so right away? As she thought back on Mr. Packard’s lovely apartment on Park Avenue—the good pictures in their gilt frames, the grand marble bathtub, the regal silk-lined drapes—she knew he hadn’t given her a cheap trinket. What a fool she’d been, to wear it around like a piece of costume jewelry!
But she couldn’t go hunting for it now. Her sisters were watching her expectantly, waiting for her to take a seat.
So she sat, resigned to whatever explosions might come when Bessie told the truth.
But Bessie didn’t want to talk about the grocer’s bill.
“I’ve had a letter from the bank,” she began. “I didn’t want to tell you about it because I didn’t want to bring you yet another problem until I had a solution.”
“But we are the solution,” said Norma.
Fleurette thought she caught a flicker of doubt across Bessie’s face.
It occurred to her, for the first time, that perhaps Bessie was a little dubious of the idea that she could entirely rely upon her sisters-in-law. Fleurette couldn’t blame her for having second thoughts about their arrangement.
“All right, then,” Bessie said. “According to the bank, Francis took out a mortgage against the house. He’d been making the payments in person at the bank every month. They’d like to know when those payments will resume.”
She said it as flatly and calmly as she could, but Constance and Norma were in an uproar at once. Over the cacophony Bessie eyed Fleurette levelly. Only the two of them knew the rest of it—the unpaid bills all over town.
Francis had been in some sort of trouble.
Bessie waited while Constance and Norma
sputtered and stammered their outrage. Hadn’t they sold off a substantial parcel of their farmland, years ago, so that Francis could buy the house? How could he have borrowed against it without so much as a word to Bessie? What did the bank have to say for itself ?
It was on the bank that Norma pinned her grievances. “This has to be an error. Have you been down there to speak to them yourself ? We’ll go directly to the manager on Monday.”
And this, from Constance: “If he mortgaged the house, where did the money go?”
“I wish I knew,” said Bessie. “The letter tells me nothing, except that the payments come due at the first of every month and I’m two months behind already. I thought that if I could take in a lodger, I could show them that I have a plan . . .”
“You don’t need a plan, and you certainly don’t need a man living in the basement,” said Norma. “This is nonsense. Francis would never mortgage his home. The bank has made a mistake.” Norma said it with the profound certainty that she usually reserved for mistakes made by politicians, reporters, and lawyers.
Bessie didn’t look at all persuaded, but what choice did she have? They could spend the rest of the week-end arguing about what Francis would or wouldn’t have done, or what sort of error the bank might plausibly have made, but their opportunity to speak to the bank manager wouldn’t come until Monday, and their opportunity to speak to Francis was gone forever.
Constance and Norma were still huffing over the very idea of their brother landing in such a mess, but Fleurette knew better, and she could tell from the heaviness in Bessie’s countenance that she knew better, too. Something had gone terribly wrong in the last year of Francis’s life. Whatever it was, there would be a substantial price to pay.
As soon as she could decently excuse herself, Fleurette slipped upstairs to rummage around in her wardrobe. There was her lovely sheer Georgette crêpe, crumpled in a ball, a few of the beads missing, and her skirt, splattered at the hem with mud, and her pretty satin slippers, ruined after she’d run all the way home.
Of Mr. Packard’s emerald she found no trace.
17
“PETEY TOLD ME you’d come around,” called Mr. Ward when she appeared at his office door on Monday.
“No, he didn’t. That’s the last lie I want to hear from you.” Fleurette had come dressed for business, in smart gray wool. (How beautiful that emerald would look, against charcoal gray!)
“When have I ever lied to you?”
“That entire job was a lie and you know it. Do you think I would’ve put myself in harm’s way like that?”
“Now hold on, Miss Kopp. Would I have left you in a room with Mr. Thorne if I didn’t know you could handle him? How’d you do it, exactly?” He was on his feet now, all smiles and easy grace, practically waltzing over to her. “A girl your size, how’d you land a punch hard enough to knock him over? Go ahead, you can try one out on me if it’ll make you feel better.”
He offered his nose, still grinning, still winking. “You know, I’ve never hit a man myself. I have the hands of a piano player, you see”—and he fluttered his fingers, long and elegant.
“I’m not going to show you my tricks,” Fleurette said, “in case I need to use them against you someday.”
Mr. Ward sighed and leaned against his desk. “In case Petey didn’t get the idea across, I never intended for Mr. Thorne to be alone with you for more than the blink of an eye. I was supposed to be ten paces behind him. I was going to play it like it was all a game, Petey told you that, didn’t he? But the hotel manager stopped me on my way up and asked to see my key. Trouble was I’d just given the key to Mr. Thorne. I don’t know why that manager was suspicious of me.”
“Yes, why would anyone be suspicious of you?”
“I had to do quite a song and dance to get away from him, and then I ran up those stairs so fast my heart nearly gave out.”
Fleurette flinched at the mention of a heart giving out—the visage of her brother clutching at his chest before he dropped had become a familiar nightmare—but she steeled herself and said, “You would’ve deserved that, too. Why didn’t you just tell me you were playing a different game with Mr. Thorne?”
“You wouldn’t have played along.”
“So you forced me to.”
He hung his head, but he looked up at her almost immediately, seeking forgiveness. “Was any harm done? Mr. Thorne took quite a punch, but you came out all right, didn’t you?”
“And what if I hadn’t?”
He threw his arms up in a gesture of hopelessness. “You can yell at me all afternoon if you like, but I’ll bet you’ve come back for your jewelry.”
“You have it! Why didn’t you give it to Petey?”
“I didn’t have it at the time,” he said. “I didn’t know you’d lost it until the hotel telephoned. A porter brought it over this morning, after I described it. You’re lucky I have such a good memory.”
“Then someone else found it?”
“Apparently there’s still such a species as an honest housekeeper. It must’ve flown under the bed in all that mayhem.”
“Then I’ll take it and I’ll be on my way.”
“I suppose you’ve decided to collect your pay, too,” said Mr. Ward.
It had felt so gratifying to throw that money back at Petey—but what a lot of good it would do them now! Where did it belong, in her hands or Mr. Ward’s?
“I’ll take my pay, but it’s going to cost you double,” said Fleurette.
“Yes, of course,” said Mr. Ward, fumbling with his wallet. “In fact, I sent Petey over with fifty. Didn’t he tell you? You earned it.”
“I said double. You owe me a hundred.”
He looked up with an almost comic expression of astonishment. If he’d had a pipe between his teeth, it would’ve dropped to the floor and sent sparks up. “A hun—”
There came a knock at the door just then and Fleurette jumped, thinking, somewhat irrationally, that her sisters had found her.
But the woman who entered was entirely unknown to her. She couldn’t have been more than thirty, but she looked frail and fatigued beyond her years and wore a narrow-shouldered disappointment of a coat. If Mr. Ward had hired this woman to take her place, Fleurette would warn her away from the job. It was obvious she’d never be able to handle the Mr. Thornes of the world.
“Mrs. Martin,” Mr. Ward said, jumping to his feet. “I hope you had no trouble finding the place.”
“Not at all,” she said, but her eyes were on Fleurette.
Mr. Ward looked back and forth at the two of them. “Mrs. Martin is in quite a predicament,” he said, by way of introduction.
Then she was a client, not a prospective employee.
“I’ll collect my things and be on my way so you two can talk,” Fleurette said pointedly to Mr. Ward, thinking only of the jewelry and the money.
But Mr. Ward rushed around to the other side of his desk and pulled two chairs closer for Fleurette and Mrs. Martin. “Miss—ah, Miss Blossom is my associate,” Mr. Ward said. “I asked her to come and hear about your situation for herself. I believe she’ll be able to help us.”
Mrs. Martin looked at Fleurette with a great deal of relief: perhaps she wanted to meet the woman who would be photographed in her husband’s arms.
But Fleurette wanted nothing to do with it. “I’ll come back later,” she said, reaching for her coat.
“I wouldn’t ask you to stay,” said Mr. Ward, still quite pointed in the way he looked at Fleurette, “except that Mrs. Martin is in such a difficult position and from what I hear, she could use our help right away. Isn’t that true, Mrs. Martin? Now, Miss Blossom and I have a bit of business to finish, but we can do that after. What’s most important right now is that you tell us how we can help you after all you’ve been through.”
Mrs. Martin sniffed and sat down. Fleurette, reluctant but resigned, took a seat next to her.
“Thank you, ladies,” said Mr. Ward. “Now, Mrs. Martin, I have your let
ter, but it would be so enlightening to hear it in your own words. Why don’t you tell us both what happened?”
Mrs. Martin looked worriedly between the two of them and said, “My husband’s taken up with a girl in the theater. He intends to run off with her, I know it. He’ll leave me without a penny.”
“He’s a scoundrel and a fool to leave a woman like you, Mrs. Martin,” Mr. Ward said. “How do you feel the firm of Ward & McGinnis can be of help to you?”
“Please call me Alice,” Mrs. Martin said. “I never thought I’d be here, talking to a pair of strangers about divorce. But I believe it’s inevitable now. I just want a judge to rule in my favor.”
“And to make sure Mr. Martin pays his support,” Mr. Ward added.
“Ah . . . yes, that too, I suppose,” Alice said, but it sounded to Fleurette like that had only just occurred to her.
“All you require is the evidence.”
“Will that be a problem?”
“Well, it’s always a bit of a problem, which is why a firm like ours is called in to handle it, isn’t that right, Miss Blossom?” asked Mr. Ward.
Fleurette gave no reply. She was only biding her time, waiting for the meeting to end so that she could be on her way.
“Am I to understand that he goes to the same places with this girl and won’t be hard to find?” Mr. Ward asked.
“Oh, he’s not at all hard to find,” said Alice, “if you can get in. That’s the trouble. The girl’s in the theater, and he only ever sees her there, on Wednesday nights. They have their little—well, their little trysts, or whatever you might call them, right there in her dressing-room.”
“The theater? Is that so? Our very own Miss Blossom has a bit of experience in the theater. She has quite a way with costumes and disguises, too. If anyone could slip backstage undetected, this young lady could do it.”
“But how would I get Petey backstage?” asked Fleurette, already putting the operation together in her mind, even though she had no intention of taking another dollar from Mr. Ward. If she could dress as one of the chorus girls, she wouldn’t have any trouble convincing a guard that she was a new understudy . . .
