by Amy Stewart
“Stop right there.” Fleurette glared at the two of them, Constance and Officer Heath, standing together so rigidly on the side of all that was right and just. It infuriated her to think of Constance running to him, as if he had any reason to be involved in their affairs, and the two of them deciding on a sensible and sound course of action that would be issued to Fleurette as an edict.
“You had no business barging into Mr. Ward’s office,” Fleurette said, “and you certainly had no business running to Officer Heath about this. Unless I’m under arrest, I don’t know why he’s here. This is a family dispute. We might have a shortage of men to tell us what to do, but we’re not looking to replace the one we’ve lost.”
In spite of her rage, Officer Heath looked at her tenderly. He’d only known her for a few years, but there had always been something fatherly about his treatment of her. She couldn’t help but remember a night, back in 1915, when a man fired shots at her, down by the creek behind their farmhouse. Officer Heath (he was sheriff at the time) had handled her so gently, as if she were a wounded bird, but there was a directness about him, too, that won her over.
He never lied to her. He never tried to keep frightful news from her. He neither exaggerated nor minimized the threats against them in those days.
Surely she could stand to hear what he had to say.
“I don’t intend to get involved in your family affairs, miss,” he said, “and you’re a grown woman who doesn’t have to be told what could happen in the kinds of situations you might find yourself in under the employment of Mr. Ward.”
“I can look after myself,” said Fleurette. “Constance should know that.”
“She does,” said Officer Heath, shooting a glance at Constance, perhaps to keep her quiet. “And it’s admirable that you’d want to go into the legal profession. The Kopps are obviously a civic-minded family. You come by it naturally.”
“My profession isn’t your concern,” said Fleurette.
“What we mean to say,” put in Constance, unable to contain herself any longer, “is that an association with Mr. Ward might not always keep you on the right side of the law, much less the right side of decency. But Officer Heath had a fine idea today. If you’re drawn to the legal profession, a secretarial course—”
“Secretarial course!” Fleurette was practically shouting now. “Did you bring him all the way over here to tell me to train as a secretary?”
“I brought him here,” said Constance, “to impress upon you the danger you’ve been in, because you won’t listen to me. We can’t have you putting yourself at risk like that.”
Fleurette stared back and forth at the two of them. “At risk? At risk? Are you telling me I can’t take a job that has an element of danger to it?”
Officer Heath, trying again in his calmly authoritative way to settle them down, said, “Your sister naturally wants to see you in a line of work that doesn’t pose a threat to your . . . ah, to your well-being. You can understand that.”
“I don’t know that I can,” said Fleurette. “As I recall, my sister took a job with you as deputy sheriff and carried a gun and worked every day around crooks and ne’er-do-wells, and I don’t recall any of us telling her that she couldn’t.”
Officer Heath glanced over at Constance: he was obviously getting into the weeds.
“And then I believe she worked for the Bureau of Investigation, chasing after German spies determined to conquer this nation of ours or destroy it in the process, and not once did you or I or anyone tell her that the work was too dangerous. I don’t believe a word was said about her well-being.”
“But I’ve had training!” said Constance. “I was brought into this line of work in an official capacity.”
Fleurette snorted. “Training! Yes, please tell me all about the school for policewomen you attended before you went to work for the sheriff.”
“Ladies, I don’t know if this is quite the point,” said Officer Heath.
“You’re right,” said Fleurette. “That’s not the point. The point is that Constance wants to decide what I do, and where I go, but has she ever had to answer to anyone? Whose permission did she need to accept a job as a deputy sheriff ? Or to carry a gun? I don’t recall being consulted about that.”
She turned to Constance, who was by then quite red-faced. “I don’t recall you having to explain to us how you came by the experience and the training to do what you’re doing. You just went ahead and did it. Why? Because you’re the eldest? The biggest? The strongest? Is it an accident of birth that gives you permission to do as you like and denies the rest of us?”
Constance furrowed her brow and tried to take Fleurette’s hands, but she drew them away. “This isn’t at all what we came here to say. It would be irresponsible of me not to point out the very real perils of the sort of work you’ve been pursuing, to say nothing of the scandal if it came out in the papers.”
“The papers?” Fleurette barked. “Oh, now we’re afraid of being in the papers! After Constance Kopp, Hackensack’s Real Lady Cop, was in every paper in the country? After they dragged you through the mud during the election? Now we’re afraid of a scandal!”
“But can’t you see,” said Constance, pleading now, in the most unappealing manner, “that’s exactly why I don’t want the same for you.”
“That’s just it!” shouted Fleurette. Norma and Bessie were both flattened against their chairs, wide-eyed. “You don’t get to want things for me anymore. If that’s how it’s going to work—if I can only live in this house if I follow your rules, and you don’t have to follow mine—then you leave me no choice. I’m moving out. I’ve found my own place, and I’ll send money home to Bessie every week. I’ll pay my share.”
She looked over at Bessie and was hit suddenly with a wave of tenderness. “And I’ll do your sewing. Everything you need. This isn’t your fault. I just can’t live here.”
Bessie was by now dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief: it was a terrible idea to fight in front of a pregnant woman. “I can’t stand to see what this has done to you girls. This is too much for all of us. I knew it would be.”
“It’s nothing to do with you,” said Fleurette. “If none of this had happened . . . if the war hadn’t happened, for that matter . . . the day still would’ve come when I had to be on my own. Constance is too accustomed to telling me how to live, that’s all. This is the only way. I’m only sorry I didn’t say so from the start.”
Constance sighed. They were all quieter now. “I don’t mean to tell you how to live. But that business with Mr. Ward was not just dangerous. It’s morally reprehensible, and if you were caught—”
“If I was caught, I wouldn’t have called you, so don’t worry about it,” snapped Fleurette. “I’m sure Bessie’s told you by now what I did with my ill-gotten gains. Francis hadn’t just hidden a mortgage from her. He’d run up accounts all over town. But I paid them, every last one of them. You’re square with the butcher now, and the baker, and the druggist and everyone else.”
Norma coughed and shifted in her chair. She’d been uncharacteristically silent until then. “How much, exactly, did you go around and pay on those accounts?”
Norma had an eyebrow raised and she was leaning forward, looking at Fleurette with more interest than contempt.
“I earned anywhere from twenty to a hundred dollars, depending on the job,” said Fleurette, “and sometimes that came with a substantial gratuity from the client.”
Constance snorted. “The client.”
But Norma was still eyeing her thoughtfully. “And that was all for having your picture taken?”
“Or sometimes I was hired to take the picture,” said Fleurette.
Constance said, “Norma, I can’t believe you’re even asking about this! It’s illegal to present fraudulent evidence to the courts. There’s nothing more you need to know.”
“But Fleurette wasn’t presenting any evidence,” Norma said. “She was having her picture taken.”
Constance stared at her, stunned. “Why are you taking her side?”
Norma sat back, her arms folded across her chest, her brow furrowed. Just then an automobile’s horn sounded from the street.
“Well, you can work this out for yourselves,” Fleurette said. “That’s my car.”
24
GEORGE SWAN, LEANING over his glass counter, looked up at Fleurette and squinted through the jeweler’s glass wedged against his eye. “You say it was a gift from an admirer?”
“It was . . . no. It was someone connected to my work. Appreciation for a job well done.”
“Mmmm.” Mr. Swan bent over the piece again. “It’s a beautiful setting, and of course that’s entirely gold. But I’m afraid your emerald is made of glass, my dear.”
Fleurette pressed her lips together and kept her chin high. That emerald—that glittering gift from Mr. Packard—had been her safety net, her hedge against disaster. Now disaster had struck. She intended to sell it to pay her rent and start over in seamstressing from Mrs. Doyle’s basement.
The jeweler pushed his little tray across the counter. “It has some small value as a costume piece, but I couldn’t offer it to my customers. If I have glass gems in and among the real ones, it tends to raise suspicion in the minds of gentlemen looking to make a wise investment. They begin to question whether anything is authentic. You’d be better off wearing it and enjoying it.”
Fleurette lifted it from the tray and held it to the light. Already it had lost some of its luster. As an ornament it no longer appealed to her: she’d only enjoyed wearing it because she felt that if it had value, she had value, too. Now it was just a foolish bit of trickery, an artifact to which one might pin one’s false hopes. She had no need of that.
She dropped it into her pocketbook, where it could collect lint along with the train tokens and stray buttons.
“I wish I had better news for you,” Mr. Swan said.
“So do I,” said Fleurette.
She went mournfully out of the jeweler’s and stood on the street, wondering which way to go. There was nothing to do but to visit the dress shops again, looking for work, and leave cards with her new address at Mrs. Doyle’s. She was nearly out of essentials: basting thread, hooks and eyes, seam binding, elastic, and ribbon. She tallied her remaining funds as she considered stopping for notions on the way home.
Just then she looked up and saw Alice Martin across the street, hurrying along the sidewalk.
Alice didn’t look well. Her arms were wrapped tightly across her chest, her head was down, and she was walking as fast as one conceivably could without breaking into a run. It was almost as if she were being chased.
What a puzzle this woman was! She was hiding something, but what and to what end? It didn’t matter anymore, but Fleurette couldn’t help but wonder. Her curiosity was just strong enough to propel her to follow.
Fleurette slipped across the street, staying well behind Alice. There might’ve been the slightest thrill of a detective on the chase, but she would never admit it, having already been accused more than once of showing an inclination toward the family business.
Nonetheless, she pursued Alice, who didn’t seem to know where she was going. She turned right, then right again, and came eventually almost to the spot where she’d started. She stopped more than once to consult a little scrap of paper. Finally she pushed open a door at one end of an enormous old stone office building and slipped inside.
LOUIS HERMAN, read the sign on the door. ATTORNEY-AT-LAW.
Fleurette almost stopped right there. Obviously Alice had decided to consult another lawyer about her husband’s so-called affair. That was no business of Fleurette’s.
But it was foolish to engage another attorney when Mr. Ward had already collected a fee. If Alice had any sense at all, she’d go back to him and demand that he finish the job. If she could hardly afford one lawyer, why would she engage two?
Fleurette hesitated on the sidewalk. It was a street of similarly tall stone buildings, soot-stained and imposing. All around her, people were rushing to work: salesgirls in their good hats, businessmen in dark suits, delivery boys pushing carts. It looked in every sense to be an ordinary day, but for just a second, Fleurette had a feeling that something very much out of the ordinary was going on.
It was nothing but a prickle at the back of her neck that convinced her to push open the door and slip inside.
The reception room was tiny and dark-paneled, the secretary’s desk vacant, with no other furnishings save two chairs and an ash-tray on a stand. There was absolutely nowhere to hide.
Fleurette could hear all too plainly the discussion taking place within Mr. Herman’s office. She didn’t have to lean against the door with a water glass, as Norma liked to do, but she did inch closer anyway, hoping she’d catch the scrape of a chair leg or a light step across the floor to suggest that Alice was on her way out. She could flee if she had only a few seconds’ warning.
The lawyer was speaking as Fleurette leaned close. “Of course there’s still the transfer fee, which has to be paid in advance.”
“Another fee! How much is that?” said Alice, obviously in a state of agitation.
“Let me see . . .” Here Fleurette heard the shuffling of papers. She’d noticed that lawyers liked to make a show of digging through papers when they had bad news to deliver, as if the papers made them less culpable personally. “Three hundred and twenty-seven dollars.”
“But I don’t have anything like that kind of money anymore!”
“Ah, but you will,” the lawyer said. “Remember, the house is worth a fortune! And there’s a pile of money in a bank account, too. You’ll be made whole as soon as the paperwork goes through, and you’ll be rich, besides.”
“I told you that all I had left was the jewelry I brought today. Most of it comes from Arthur’s mother. He’ll want it back, you know he will. I can’t sell it.”
“No, you mustn’t sell it, Mrs. Martin. I would never advise that, not with a divorce proceeding under way. If you’ll let me take it over to Mr. Talbot, I’m sure he’ll give you a fair offer. He’ll only hold it as collateral. As soon as the fee is paid, the entire estate is yours, and you’ll get it all back.”
Alice sniffed. “Oh, what would Arthur say if he knew I was pawning his mother’s things?”
“It’s nothing so vile as a pawn shop. Mr. Talbot is a lender of the highest caliber. He won’t work with anyone but an attorney like myself who brings him a solid proposition. He’s quite choosy—and it’s precisely because he doesn’t want to end up with your mother-in-law’s jewelry. He wants his money back, that’s all.”
“Plus a small percentage,” said Alice bitterly.
“He’s a respectable businessman who works with wealthy clients, as you are soon to be. I’m not sending you to a charity, because you have no need of charity. Look, I’ll put it right here in my safe, and I’ll write out a receipt. Did you bring absolutely everything with you?”
“Even the spoons,” muttered Alice.
“Never forget the spoons,” said Mr. Herman breezily. “They’re easily overlooked, but they bring in a nice bundle.”
“We don’t use them anyway.”
“No one does,” he said, “but they’ll be put to good use now.”
Fleurette could hear the clinking of metal and the jingling of a chain. Then the lawyer said, “This all looks in order. Watch me as I write out your receipt, and make sure I don’t miss anything. I’ll get this over to Mr. Talbot this afternoon, and we will take care of that transfer fee without delay. Then it’s just a matter of making sure back taxes due on the property—”
“Back taxes? This is the first I’ve heard about another tax!”
“That’s because it hardly ever comes up. I’m sure it’s all paid, considering how much your uncle had in the bank. I’m obligated to let you know that all back taxes are due at transfer, that’s all. It’s just something we lawyers have to say.”
“Then I won’t worry
about it?” asked Alice, timidly.
“You oughtn’t to worry about anything anymore, Mrs. Martin. Look at what you stand to inherit! But it wouldn’t hurt for you to think about what else you might have of value, just in case. Is there anything else in the way of silver? Or a fur you wouldn’t mind parting with for a few weeks?”
Now Fleurette heard the tell-tale scrape of the chair leg against the floor. She also heard the unmistakable sound of Alice crying.
Mr. Herman must have rushed over to her side, because Fleurette didn’t hear a footstep toward the door, but only muffled sobs from Alice.
“There, Mrs. Martin. It’s been a terrible strain for you, I know. They don’t make it easy to inherit, we can say that for our government officials. But I’m here to look after it all. That’s what you pay me for, remember? I worry about it so you don’t have to. Now, go off and enjoy your afternoon. Don’t give any of this another thought. Didn’t you have a coat when you came in? Here, let me . . .”
Fleurette was out the door and across the street before Alice Martin emerged.
25
IF ALICE HAD seemed harried and determined going in, she was utterly dejected going out. She practically dragged herself down the sidewalk toward home.
It wouldn’t have been a long walk—the Martins didn’t live far from downtown—but Alice hopped a street-car nonetheless, and Fleurette took a chance and jumped on behind her. Alice took a seat in the front and kept her head down. Fleurette, watching from a safe distance, saw her muttering to herself, wringing her hands, and pulling at her gloves. A lady seated across from her noticed and moved two rows away. Alice was coming unraveled.
It was only at that moment that Fleurette stopped to ask herself what, exactly, she believed her role to be in this little drama. Was she going to confront Alice and demand to know all? Was she going to follow her, and then report to Mr. Ward on what she’d seen?
There was no point in going back to Mr. Ward. He’d already made it clear that he would worry about what he was paid to worry about and nothing more. In fact, Alice’s new lawyer had just said something along those very lines. Fleurette supposed the two of them might have a great deal in common. For all she knew, Mr. Ward and Mr. Herman were thoroughly acquainted and sat together at their club in the evening, commiserating over Alice Martin with whiskey sodas in hand.
