Lammeck drove off when she entered the home. Before bringing his eyes back to the street, he caught sight in a window of a large-framed figure, a white woman in a black maid’s uniform. She was at least as old as Mrs. Johnson, and one and a half times the size.
Lammeck drove off. As far as he could tell, Mrs. Paul Johnson appeared legitimate, and her maid was definitely not Judith.
* * * *
Georgetown
“COME IN, CHÈRE, COME in. Give me the coat. There, bon. Ah, what have you done to your hair?”
Judith patted her temples with shy fingertips. Her hair stopped now above her shoulders.
“I cut it back.”
“I see this. Did you do it yourself?”
“Yes. Why, does it look bad?”
“No, no, it is belle. But you had such lovely hair.”
And now, Judith thought, I do not. Mrs. Rutherfurd would not be asked to compare her own beauty to Judith’s.
Annette spun her to see the new cropped style from all sides. She said, “You did not mention that you are also a fine hairdresser. Perhaps you will cut mine. Make me look like an elf.”
“Do you really like it? Some of the Hollywood stars are wearing their hair this short now. Like Bette Davis. Oh, and Ingrid Bergman.”
“Yes.” Annette nodded. “Casablanca.”
Judith lowered her voice, to imitate Bogart speaking to the French inspector played by Claude Rains in the movie: “ ‘Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’ “ The two women giggled.
Annette nudged her round bosom close to whisper, “The madame is in a fine mood today. I have spoken with her about you, made very big boasts. I have told her that I am needing some help, I am not so young as before. She is waiting in the parlor with her sister.” Annette clasped her hands. “I have hope, Desiree.”
Judith arranged her black skirt and blouse. She’d chosen to again wear the maid’s uniform similar to Annette’s, to show she was ready to join the team. The old maid led her to a set of pocket doors, then patted her arm and slid back one tall panel.
Inside the parlor sat two very similar women, clearly sisters. One, the taller and younger, stood and approached with an open hand.
“My name is Mrs. Lucy Rutherfurd. This is my sister, Mrs. Violetta Marbury. This is her home. Welcome. It’s Desiree, yes?”
Judith curtsied. “Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Rutherfurd laughed at the formality. “No need for that, child. Please, sit down.”
The woman’s voice flowed from her warm and dark like pouring tea. A fluid ease marked her movements, especially for a tall woman in her fifties. Her sister inclined her head in a gentle greeting. Mrs. Rutherfurd sat beside her sister on a wide sofa as Judith took a straight-backed Windsor chair. The two mature women arranged themselves in composed poses on their cushions as if sitting for a portrait, hands clasped in their laps, shoulders square. This, thought Judith, is an American breed, the upper class.
Mrs. Rutherfurd let a moment settle in the parlor, unhurried. She made the few seconds elegant by letting them be quiet. Judith found more calm during her first minute in Mrs. Rutherfurd’s presence than she’d experienced in months with Mrs. Tench. Judith spilled a long breath and fidgeted.
Mrs. Marbury piped up, “Don’t be nervous, Desiree.” The woman’s voice was as clement as her younger sister’s. “Annette has told us all about you. If half of what she says is true, you’re a dream.” The sisters smiled at each other. They were mild women, tender-hearted, as unsuspecting as they were trustworthy. They were, Judith thought, ideal for their roles as accomplices.
“Yes, ma’am.” Judith tried to sit up and arrange herself the way Lucy and Violetta did in their chairs, so primly. Judith caught the sisters exchange an approving glance.
Mrs. Rutherfurd asked, “Tell me about yourself.”
Judith gave the sisters the New Orleans story. She invented a mother and father working in factories, a Catholic girls’ school where she learned her letters before she quit and went to serve as a housemaid in a big French Quarter home. An old white patroness who sent her on to high school, a Cajun restaurant where she got the hang of cooking. Her desire to see some of the world, the bus ride to Washington. Her few months struggling with the big city. The accidental meeting with Annette. Then she produced the terse reference letter from Mrs. Tench. Judith rose and walked it across the carpet to Lucy.
“It’s not a long letter,” she explained demurely. “The lady didn’t want to see me go, I reckon. But she said it was alright and gave me that.”
The sisters took a moment with the note. Violetta remarked that she knew of the Tenches, but not personally. She asked what chores Judith had done in the Tench household.
“Everything but cook. And I’m a good cook.” Quickly, she added, “Maybe not as good as Annette, though.”
Lucy and Violetta looked at one another and communicated something silent. Judith imagined pretty Lucy Rutherfurd doing this for Roosevelt. She saw Lucy sitting with the crippled man at meals or in his study, listening intently, holding herself back and drawing him out. Judith had seen many photos of the President’s wife, Eleanor, who was also his second cousin. Eleanor had unfortunate teeth and an ample figure. She was almost as renowned a personality as her elected husband, traveling and speaking across the nation, exercising her own authority and fame, maneuvering always to advance her causes. This woman perched beside her sister daintily in the elegant parlor had little in common with Roosevelt’s wife. Eleanor Roosevelt was an admirable and historic woman. Lucy Mercer Rutherfurd was vain with her pearl skin, select with her words. Lucy was, in Judith’s understanding of Western men, a perfect companion.
“Annette tells me you’ve offered to work for half wages, until you prove yourself to me. Is that so?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Please go into the hall and ask Annette to join us.”
Judith stood, impressed with how effortlessly Mrs. Rutherfurd issued an order. Apparently she was not all lace and smile.
Judith fetched the big French maid, catching her standing close on the other side of the pocket doors, probably after listening through them. The two entered the salon. They sat side by side, matching the sisters.
Mrs. Rutherfurd spoke: “Desiree, why would you offer to work for so little pay? Not only does it put a prospective employer on alert, it is bad for you personally. Hear me, girl, you are to never sell yourself short. I have tried to avoid that in my own life, not always successfully, but I have always found it to be a good policy. Now, Annette?”
“Yes, madame.”
In French, the lady addressed her old maid. “I am disappointed that you would encourage this girl to do such a thing.”
Before Annette could speak, Judith replied, also in French: “Begging your pardon, madame, but it was not Annette’s idea. It was mine alone. I want so badly to work for you.”
The sisters cocked their heads simultaneously, like birds. Again, they exchanged looks, this one transparent. They were impressed.
“Oui?” asked Lucy.
Judith lowered her eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
Lucy waited, blinking at Judith, employing her habit of letting time settle before continuing. She said, “Desiree, I have one more question for you. I believe I already know the answer, but it is a prudent person who asks and makes certain. Are you discreet?”
“You mean can I keep a secret?”
“Yes. Exactly that.”
Judith paused before speaking, adopting Lucy’s way. She amused herself with the ridiculous nature of the question to an assassin, but kept that off her face.
“Yes, ma’am. I can keep secrets. You have my word on that.”
Lucy nodded. She said, “Excuse us for a few minutes, please, Desiree. Annette, please stay seated.”
Judith was not left in the hall long. Annette came out in a tizzy, hustling Judith away from the pocket doors.
“She will pay you ten dollars a week, and of cours
e your room and board. After three months, if you are both happy she will raise your money. You have the job, Desiree! This is magnifique, yes? We will be like them, sisters!”
Annette explained that one week from tomorrow, on the 22nd, at eight in the morning, the three of them would all leave Violetta’s house for the train station. By that night, they would be at home, Ridgeley Hall, in Aiken, South Carolina.
“You can do this, honestly?” Annette asked. “You can leave your place behind and come with us?”
“I’ve got nothing but some luggage.”
Annette dug into a pocket of her apron for a five-dollar bill. “Here. Mrs. Rutherfurd gives this to you for a taxi when you return with your bags. Be here by seven, yes?”
Judith took the money; it would be odd to refuse. She adopted Annette’s animation and clapped, bouncing on her toes at the front door while she put on her coat.
Annette ushered her happily onto the landing. She blew Judith a kiss through the closing door. “Au revoir, chère. I will see you next week. I know we are going to get along.”
Judith laughed and allowed herself a pun that only Lammeck, wherever he was, whatever dead end he was following, could catch.
“Avec la merveille.”
Famously.
* * * *
March 21
Washington, D.C.
THE WEATHER HAD WARMED during the daylight hours, but at dusk the temperature dipped with the sun. Judith needed Mrs. P’s quilt to sit and rock in the old woman’s chair.
Sweat chilled her neck where her hair had been. An hour of training left her panting and soaked. She wrapped herself in the quilt and came out on the porch for the final time. Judith breathed in the cooling alley, exchanging greetings with black men strolling home from work, and with women herding their children inside from the falling dark.
Mrs. P. waddled up the alley well after the sun was down. She carried mesh grocery nets in each hand; her bowlegged gait made her teeter between them. Judith swept aside the quilt to help the old woman carry her bags the last yards to her door. Mrs. P. did not hand them over, shrugging out a heavy sigh.
“My burden, child. I’ll carry it. You get back under that blanket, you got nothin’ on but yo’ pajamas. What you need all them muscles for anyhow?”
On the porch, Judith pulled the blanket out of the chair. She swaddled herself in it again and took a seat on the steps to leave the rocker for Mrs. P. Minutes later the old woman came out of her apartment. She’d changed from her maid’s outfit into a wool housecoat and stocking cap. She flapped her lips like a horse, “brrrr,” and collapsed into the rocker.
The two said nothing for a time. Judith looked over her shoulder to find Mrs. P.’s eyes closed, but her swollen ankles pushing the rocker in rhythm. Finally, the old woman cleared her throat.
“So, you gone, huh?”
“Yes, ma’am. Tomorrow morning.”
“Mrs. Tench ‘bout to be tied up. You should see de girl she hired to take yo’ place. Dumb as a dog in a shirt.”
“Is Mrs. Tench feeling better?”
“Yeah, just had a tetch o’ flu or something.”
The rails of the moving rocker creaked on the porch deck. Mrs. P. let them be the only sound for a while. In her way, the old black maid had the same gentility as Mrs. Rutherfurd.
“How come you ain’t told me where you goin’?”
Judith shook her head to herself in a small motion, so Mrs. P. could not see it. No one had tried to mother Judith in twenty years. Her own mother had let her be sold as a child to a husband, then would not overrule her own husband to take her daughter back in. Judith said nothing to Mrs. P.’s question.
“Uh-huh.” Mrs. P. rocked harder, pointing. “I see how you do me. Just gon’ slip off and to hell with ol’ Mrs. P.”
“Yes, ma’am. All but that last part. Not to hell with you at all. You’ve been a good friend to me. You’ve done more than I can tell you.”
“Shit,” Mrs. P. chortled, “that can’t be much. You don’t tell me nothin’ anyway. I got to figger everything out ‘bout you by my lonesome. I still don’t know what you up to. Anyway, you just go on.”
Judith turned back to the alley. Dinner odors crept from the crevices of the poor buildings around them. Cabbage and stews, fried breaded meats, pork sizzling in pans, a sweet apple Betty— Judith pressed into her memory these mementoes of America’s forgotten folk living in the heart of its grand capital city. Later, from Cairo, she’d look back on them.
She sensed the end coming soon; she’d found the way in. After taking a four-day break—probably because his wife was in town— Roosevelt had visited with Mrs. Rutherfurd three days in a row, including dinner tonight on the eve of her return to Aiken.
“What you gon’ do if I call the po-lice?”
Judith did not move.
“You’ve got no reason to do that, Mrs. P.”
“I bet they find a reason if they look at you good enough. I tell ‘em you some kind of international crook or somethin.’ Maybe I call ol’ Hoover up the FBI. What you think he gon’ say? ‘Yes, Mrs. P., I be right over. Maybe your Desiree some kind of spy.’ That’s what he’d say. Then I bet you do some talkin’, yes ma’am.”
Judith waited. The rocker’s rails squeaked.
“You got a big secret, girl. At least admit that much.”
Judith turned her face to the alley. She thinned her lips.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well alright. I got that outta you. That’s somethin’.”
Judith’s papers, cash, and kits were packed. She’d thrown out her expensive shoes and business dresses, keeping only one plain dress and a pair of flats. The apartment glistened clean. She’d paid up the next six months for the garage where her car was kept and doubled the lock. She could disappear in thirty seconds. Tomorrow morning she’d be on a train to South Carolina. No one would think to look for her there. Perhaps she didn’t have to do what loomed in front of her. But Mrs. P. kept talking.
“Desiree, if that’s your name?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tell me one thing. Just one.”
“If I can.”
“Whatever it is you doin’, you ain’t taking nothin’ from no black folk, are you?”
Judith stood and strode in front of the rocker. Mrs. P. quit the chair’s motion and gazed up, unafraid and curious.
“No, ma’am. I am not.”
Mrs. P. studied Judith for a long moment, then nodded.
“You ever comin’ back?”
“No.”
“You gon’ stay outta trouble?”
Judith smiled. “That’s a lot to ask, Mrs. P.”
“I’m gon’ worry.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how much I wish you wouldn’t.”
She moved behind Mrs. P.’s chair. She pressed a hand to the woman’s back for her to lean forward. Judith lowered the mantle of the quilt around her shoulders, tucking the blanket around Mrs. P., closing it across her breast. Then Judith walked in front and leaned to touch her lips to the dark forehead.
She backed away, keeping her eyes on this clever, loyal woman she could not leave behind. Mrs. P. tugged the quilt more tightly around her; she seemed saddened by Judith’s parting kiss. Judith headed to the door of her building.
The old cook called across the porch, “Who gon’ keep an eye on you after me?”
Judith paused, then opened the door. Without looking back, she softly answered, “No one, I hope,” and thought there had been too many already.
The old woman sat on the porch a long time, past midnight. She appeared to be waiting. Judith came back onto the porch. The alley was vacant and dark.
Mrs. P. asked, “What you gon’ do if I scream?”
With a speed that surprised Mrs. P. so that the old woman pushed back instinctively in her rocker, creaking the old rails, Judith clamped a hand over the old maid’s mouth.
“This.”
Mrs. P. made no struggle in
the chair. Beneath her pressing palm, Judith felt the lips shut. Mrs. P.’s eyes widened but her arms stayed at her side. Close into Judith’s face, the woman nodded. Judith eased her fingers, but kept them close.
“Who are you?”
“I’m standing here because you ask that question, Mrs. P. I wish you hadn’t.”
The Assassins Gallery - [Dr Mikhal Lammeck 01] Page 32
