“Tell your boss that your call confirms my opinion of him. Tell him that it’s the early bird who catches the worm—and that this time, he wasn’t early enough.”
Before he could respond, I hung up. For a moment, I sat staring at my hands. They were trembling, the result of both fear and anger. I balled them into fists and took another shaky breath.
I couldn’t believe it: I was actually more afraid of the tax threat than the physical one. Maybe Whitfield's strategy of attack made more sense than I realized.
Keep thinking. Think. Had I or had I not filed those returns? I was at my mother’s bedside in Virginia. The world had seemed so far away. What had I done? Filed them? Forgotten them? I couldn’t recall.
In the normal course of things, not filing was no great sin. One could always file later. But given Whitfield's aptitude for spite …
I shivered.
It was time to remind myself that this was about Esther, and about Job. It was time to remember that Whitfield was no good. Of course, he was going to strike back. Buck up. Stiffen your spine.
It was quite simple, really: If I was determined to go out and slay dragons, then I’d better be prepared to get scorched.
I was tempted to call Whitfield, to tell him that threatening me with an audit was useless, and that the column was being typeset at that very moment. But why bother? He would find out soon enough.
So, I went to the staff kitchen to get some coffee instead. Sam was there, pouring himself a fresh cup.
“Want some?” he asked.
I rubbed my temple and nodded. He set down his cup, took another from the cabinet and filled it. He added milk and sugar, in the right amounts, without asking. I’d once told him in passing how I liked my coffee. That had been months ago, but he remembered.
“I hope you have lots of energy,” he said, handing me the cup.
“What for?”
“For tonight, of course—Lanie, you do remember?”
A blank moment and then it came to me. “Oh yes, the Savoy.”
“Look, if you don’t want to go …”
“Seven-thirty. Of course, I want to go.”
“Can I go too?” said a third voice from the doorway.
The scent of a musky perfume hit the air. I turned to see Selena standing in the doorway. She slinked in and slid between Sam and me, brushing her bosom against his arm, and held her cup out to him.
“Would you fill me up?” she asked, with a perfectly innocent expression. “Please?”
“Sure.” He took her cup.
When he offered it to her, filled with coffee, she said, “Oh, but you know how I like it, Sam. Sweet. Very sweet. And hot. So I can suck it down. Slowly.”
She was so obvious. I just wanted to shake my head, but Sam apparently thought otherwise. He was giving her an appraising look.
Men, I wondered. Are they really that simple?
“Time for me to go,” I said. “I have an appointment to keep.”
“Lanie,” he said. “You will remember, won’t you?”
I paused, tempted to break the date. But that would’ve been childish—and it would’ve been playing right into Selena’s hands.
“Sure.” I gave them both a wave. “Bye.”
“Bye-ee,” Selena cooed.
I started out, but couldn’t resist a backward glance. He was handing her back her cup and she was placing her hand over his. I turned away.
Men, I decided, were beyond simple.
Not all, of course. Not my Hamp. But he was one in a million.
And he was gone.
* * *
I phoned Ruth at her church. She sounded tired when she came to the telephone, but she perked up fast when I told her what I’d learned.
“It’ll all be in my column.”
“But shouldn’t you go to the police with it first?”
“I have no proof, just bits and pieces.”
“But don’t you think—”
“There’s still time to go to the cops. Actually, the cops might even go see Whitfield themselves. The column could serve as a wake-up notice.”
“I hope you’re right. I hope he don’t try to run off.”
“That’s not likely. He’s got too much to protect. And he’s not the running-away kind. Too self-confident.”
I went home early to dig around in my home files. After three hours, I gave up. There was no sign of my 1923 return. I was worried despite my determination not to be, and not because I had anything to hide, but because like most Americans, I’d been taught to fear the Bureau of Internal Revenue.
Whitfield's intimidation tactics were working, indeed.
Chapter 24
It was champagne pink with little glass beads, a very pretty little dress, but I hadn’t worn it in years. I’d thought I’d feel strange wearing it—as though I was betraying Hamp—but I didn’t. I did feel a renewed sense of his presence, but in a good way, almost protective.
What would he have thought of Sam? What did I think of him?
Seeing him with Selena had made me jealous. I’d never considered myself a jealous person, so sensing it now, especially after so many years of disinterest in men, was a surprise. But maybe that’s why I was so easily provoked, because I’d been alone so long.
Jealousy—or any emotion like it—was the last thing I needed. Being alone wasn’t fun, but it was simple. My life was uncomplicated and I wanted to keep it that way. Whatever was developing between Sam and me, I had to nip it in the bud.
Having decided, I quashed the pleasurable little thump my heart gave when the doorbell rang. I looked through my window to see him standing outside and told myself it didn’t matter what he thought about my appearance.
But I checked myself in the hallway mirror just the same.
The Savoy was uptown’s answer to downtown’s Roseland Ballroom. It had opened that March and become known as the “Home of Happy Feet.” The place was big. It took up the whole block between 140th and 141st Streets on Lenox Avenue and it held around four thousand people. But it wasn’t all that much to look at—not from the outside and not during the day. But at night, it was really something. You could see the bright, glowing lights of the marquee blocks away. It attracted all the majors: Cab Calloway, Fess Williams, Louis Armstrong, Duke Ellington, and King Oliver—they all played there.
It was nice inside, too. Had a real elegant lobby and the stairway to the ballroom was made of marble. Can’t get much nicer than that. The main room had a huge maple wood dance floor and twin bandstands. The bands swapped sets and the music never stopped.
That night, Fess Williams and his Royal Flush Orchestra were on one stage, Cab and his boys on the other. Fess was on at the moment, wearing a diamond and-ruby-studded suit and blowing his clarinet.
Sam had reserved one of the round-topped tables a step up from the dance floor, so we had a perfect view of the showstoppers. They used to call Saturday night at the Savoy “Square’s Night” because the place was packed with downtowners. The Saturday crowd was pretty ritzy all right, but Sunday’s had the real eye-catchers. On Sunday, Hollywood came to Harlem and the international jet set stopped by for a landing. It was a work night, and not so glamorous as the weekend, but the place was packed.
“It’s a good crowd,” Sam said with a practiced eye. Between us, we spotted Emily Vanderbilt, Princess Violet Murat, Peggy Hopkins Joyce, Osbert Sitwell, and Richard Bartholomew. We had a little contest to see who could spot the most high-hatters. Sam did well, but I did better.
With a smile, he said, “You do like your job, don’t you?”
“‘Course, I do. The glitter, the glitz—I love it—and the dirt underneath it doesn’t scare me.”
He raised reassuring hand. “Hey, it’s okay. I didn’t bring you here to probe your motives or try to get you to change jobs.”
“All right, then why did you ask me here?”
“Because I like you.”
He paused to see how I took such a blunt statement. I took it p
retty well. Hid it well, I mean. Deep down, my stomach was doing the butterfly shake. I waited to see if there was more.
There was.
“Look. I know what went on before, with the last editor, how he …” He shifted uncomfortably. “Anyway, what I want to say is that I’m not like that.”
“I know.”
He looked relieved. “Good.”
“Why’d you feel the need to tell me that?”
“Well, I sensed you weren’t too happy about me giving Selena that cup of coffee.”
“She likes you.”
“Selena likes herself. No,” he reconsidered. “She loves herself.”
We chuckled. The waiter arrived with our drinks. Sam waited until the waiter left, then picked up where he’d left off.
“Selena’s got nothing that interests me. At the most, she’s entertaining.”
“And you like that kind of entertainment?”
“I’m a red-blooded male. What do you think?”
“I like men who know what they want … and who don’t dabble along the way.”
“Is that what you think might happen between Selena and me?”
“It’s none of my business.”
“Of course it is.” He paused. “At least, I’d like it to be.”
He saved me from my embarrassment and an awkward silence by saying, “Look, why don’t we stop talking and start shaking?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I—”
“C’mon.”
“Well, I … okay. But …” I cast a doubtful glance at a teenage girl and her boyfriend doing the shimmy on the dance floor. “I don’t think I can shake it quite as fast as she does.”
The Savoy attracted incredible dancers. In many ways it was better than a Broadway show, because it was improvised and ever changing and right up close. People cut loose, moving from pinwheel spins and breakneck turns to lifts and dips that made me dizzy just looking at them. It had been years since I cut the rug, so I knew I was rusty. But Sam turned out to be a good partner. He whipped off his tie and put it in his pocket. Before I knew it, we were laughing and working together to hit that downbeat.
When we dropped back into our seats, we were exhausted but grinning. The waiter had held our order while we were on the floor and now he brought it straightaway. Sam and I finished our drinks quickly and he ordered more. Conversation was light, just chitchat about the band and the dancers and Oscar Micheaux’s latest film.
It was good to talk about and think about something besides the Todd case. But the minute I realized we weren’t talking about it, I started thinking about it again.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Sam said.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, realizing that I’d drifted off.
“Thinking about Esther Todd?”
I shook my head, hoping he’d drop the subject.
The band had slowed down the tempo and now swung into a soft, romantic tune.
“Let’s dance,” he said. He pushed back his chair, stood up and offered his hand.
I hesitated.
“C’mon,” he said gently. “Trust me.”
I looked up at him, and put my hand in his.
Only couples were on the dance floor now: men and women—some men and men and a few women with women—moving closely together as they swayed in place. Sam led me to a small circle of space at the heart of the floor. He guided me into a two-step and I rested my hand on his shoulder. He tried to draw me into his embrace, but I held myself away.
“Lanie, what is it? What are you so afraid of?”
I forced a little laugh. “According to you, I’m not afraid of anything. Aren’t you always telling me that I’m fearless?”
“You’re afraid all right. Of letting someone get close.”
I swallowed hard, but said nothing. With a gentle pressure in the small of my back, he urged me closer. “Relax, I’m not going to bite you.” He looked down and added mischievously, “Not yet, anyway.”
“Very funny.”
“There’s nothing funny about it. I’m quite serious.”
I decided to play along. “You bite women?”
“Only the sweet ones. It’s taking all my strength not to take a nibble off of you.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.” He smiled. “Now, come on, relax.”
His pressed my head against his chest. His shirt was damp with perspiration, but it was warm from his heat and his breast felt both strong and soft. He was the perfect height for me. My gaze traveled up to his throat. It was a strong pillar glistening with moisture. Then I caught myself dwelling on his lips and lowered my gaze again. This moment … was wonderful. Closing my eyes, I relaxed against him. He hugged me close and softly kissed me on the top of my head.
Two songs went by, two slow ones, before we sat down again. Unlike the last time, we weren’t giddy with laughter, but quiet and happy and maybe even relieved. Baby steps. That’s what we were taking. Baby steps. I swung an eye over the room of laughing couples, admiring how easy they found it to interact. I’d never dated before. With Hamp at my side, I’d never had to. Now, here I was, so ill at ease with what these kids took for granted. Then again, they didn’t know what was at stake, but I did and so did Sam.
The waiter appeared and asked if we’d like desert. I had a sudden yen for chocolate and Sam indulged me. He ordered a slice of chocolate cake for me, but nothing for himself.
“Can’t we share?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’m fine. I’m getting all the pleasure I need from watching you.”
“Sam Delaney, I didn’t know you could be such a flirt.”
He shrugged. “Like I said, you should get to know me.” He offered me a cigarette, then lit himself one. We smoked quietly, our eyes on the swaying bodies on the dance floor, but conscious of each other. After a time, he got up. “Would you excuse me for a minute?”
“Sure.”
He disappeared into the crowd.
Watching him go, I realized that, baby steps or not, the sensations Sam inspired were unsettling. What had happened to my resolve to nip everything in the bud? And what was I thinking of, going out with my boss? Suppose things went wrong? I’d be out of a job. I stopped picking at my cake and laid down the fork, having managed to killed my appetite.
When he returned, I gazed up at him and knew he wasn’t the kind of man to fire me if something happened. But I was the kind of woman who might not want to stay. I couldn’t risk my job. It was all I had.
One look at my face and he said, “What’s the matter?”
“I’ve been thinking …”
“Lord help us,” he said. “My mother used to say that and whenever she did, my daddy knew he was in for it. What did I do wrong? Good grief, woman, I was only gone for a minute.”
It was hard not to smile. “Don’t make me laugh. This is serious.”
“I can tell. Now let me see. I’ve been gone exactly three minutes, just long enough for you to start worrying. Am I right?”
I nodded.
He continued. “What you want to say probably goes something like this: Maybe it wouldn’t be too smart for us to start something, because ‘A’...” He held up a hand and ticked off the points on his fingers. “I’m your boss and I might take it out on you if the relationship sours; ‘B’: I’m your boss and you’re thinking that even if I didn’t make you quit, you’d want to if the relationship sours; and ‘C’: It’s too soon after your husband’s death. Three years is just too soon. Thirty might be all right, but three is just out of the question.”
“All right. You’ve made your point. You must be a mind reader. I refuse to believe I’m that predictable.”
“You, predictable? You’re one of the most mysterious women I know, and if we were together for a million years, you’d still find ways to surprise me.”
It was hard not to feel touched. “But my concerns, they’re legitimate, aren’t they?”
“Sure they are. To be honest, they’re mine
, too. And I’m not saying we should ignore them. I’m just saying we shouldn’t let fear be our guide. Now am I right?”
He was making me feel incredibly immature. He waited for my answer and I nodded. I had to agree with him.
“Let’s dance,” he said. He swung me out onto the dance floor and the magic took hold. This man knew how to move and my body moved along with him. All my fearful thoughts and sad memories faded in a whirl of motion. And when the music slowed, he spun me into his arms for a gentle swaying rhythm around the floor.
Thoughts of Esther Todd receded. But when I went home that evening, it wasn’t thoughts of Sam or of even Hamp that I took to bed. Nor was it their image that walked with me in my dreams.
It was Esther I saw, Esther and the dark shadow of a figure that stalked her.
Chapter 25
Ruth showed up in the newsroom early the next morning. She threw a copy of the paper down on my desk, furious.
“Why didn’t you name him?”
“I couldn’t, Ruth. It wouldn’t have been fair.”
“Fair? How can you talk about being fair to the man who took Esther?”
“I couldn’t name him with what I had. Understand? It would’ve blown up in our faces.”
And still might, I wanted to add.
She stared at me, and I saw understanding sink in. She dropped down in the chair next to my desk, like a balloon drained of air.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I … I just want it settled. For once and for all, I want it over and done with. That’s all. It’s been so long.”
“I know, but there was no way I could name this man. No way that was defensible.”
She sighed, closed her eyes and nodded.
“How’s Job?” I asked.
“He asks about you. Wants to know if you’ve found her yet.”
“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to make it worse.”
“Well, just find her then,” she blurted out. “Make this man tell us what he did to her. That’s all you have to do.” Immediately, she apologized. “Oh, God. I hear myself and know I sound like a nut case. It’s just that … this really is driving us crazy.”
Goodfellowe House Page 15
