I was so angry for her, so disgusted, that my hands trembled. I wanted to rip the letter to shreds. Instead, I blessed it. This was the weapon I’d be able to wield against Whitfield.
When I reached the last page, my eyes jumped down to the closing words, and the signature.
‘Until the appointed hour, I remain,
‘Your servant in love,
‘Antilles.’
That last made me ponder. Antilles. Who in the world was that?
Of course, if this was from Whitfield, as I expected—no, hoped—then one wouldn’t expect him to sign his real name. He’d most likely use a code name or pseudonym, wouldn’t he? But could I even be sure that the letter was from Whitfield? Mightn’t it be one of the notes Esther told Ruth about? Ruth said Esther claimed to have destroyed them, but maybe she hadn’t. Maybe …
But no, I frowned.
Esther hadn’t known the author of those notes. But she sure knew the author of this one.
I took a good, long look at that signature. Antilles. A thought, light as a feather, teased the edges of my mind, but I couldn’t quite grab it.
The letter had surprised me on so many levels that it set off several trains of thought. It wasn’t just the matter of the letter’s content. There was the place I’d found it. Why would Esther have hidden something so lewd in her bible, of all places? Unless …
Unless she was seeking strength in her faith to deal with it.
I glanced back at the pages where I’d found it, in the book of Jude. I might’ve taken it as accidental or inconsequential, but she’d underlined the passage Jude 1:7. Reading it, I saw that there was nothing accidental or inconsequential about it.
Even as Sodom and Gomorra, and the cities about them in like manner, giving themselves over to fornication, and going after strange flesh, are set forth for an example, suffering the vengeance of eternal fire.
So, Esther had been worried about spiritual damnation, and why? Because she’d been having sex, abusive sex, the kind that was meant to make her feel cheap and dirty and sinful. I had to believe that she had indeed known the author of the letter, that she had indeed had a liaison with him, and that she had indeed regretted it.
I frowned at the name.
Antilles.
Hmmm. The thought that had danced away earlier had now floated home.
Sexton A. Whitfield. I was willing to bet dimes to dollars that Antilles was his middle name.
Chapter 26
The story of Whitfield's possible ties to the woman suspected in the Goodfellowe heist traveled like wildfire. Who would’ve thought that a small paper like the Chronicle would carry such clout? But that’s how it worked. One paper carried an item and ten others picked it up. Within days, the other papers would put out their own version of the story, too. The first reference appeared the next day in the Tattler, our main competitor. Geraldyn hit the story high and hard in her weekly column:
“What big shot is under the loop in a query into the three-year-old disappearance of beautiful Esther Todd? Word on the street is that he and the young pianist had an ‘affaire d'amour.’ But Mr. Tax Man isn’t talking. Come on, Mr. Tax Man. Share your secret. People want to know.”
Whitfield's fans were furious—they were burning up the newspaper’s switchboard, calling me every name in the book—but his enemies were eating it up.
Everyone was excited. Everyone, except Sam, that is. He kept his emotions in check. I could guess what he was thinking. He was still waiting for the return cannon fire. He called me into his office and told me that for the time being, I was on safe ground.
“The papers’ sales numbers are up.”
“So, as always, money talks,” I said.
“Yeah, all else walks.”
Then he asked me what I had as a follow-up story. Did I have anything?
“Anything at all?”
I had thought about showing him Esther’s letter, but I’d promised Ruth I’d only use it if I had to. I trusted Sam, trusted his sense of ethics, but given the letter’s content, I felt that showing it even to him, unless absolutely necessary, would’ve been a betrayal of Ruth’s trust.
“I’ve got a meeting with Whitfield,” I said.
He was shocked and pleased. “So he’s willing to talk?”
As soon as I’d come in that morning, I’d had the switchboard connect me to Hilda. I didn’t even have to prompt her. She said Whitfield had gotten a call from his higher-ups in D.C.
“They didn’t want to know details of the mess. They just said he’d better clean it up.”
Fifteen minutes later, my phone rang again and I had a feeling I knew who it was. Even the ring sounded angry. I grabbed up the receiver and heard a male voice, tight with fury.
“You have a hell of a lot of nerve,” he said.
I glanced around the newsroom to make sure no one was watching and lowered my voice.
“Hello to you, too, Mr. Whitfield.”
“How dare you!”
He sounded just like Canfield.
“You had every opportunity to comment,” I said. “I even included the few words you did say.”
“You twisted them. Made them sound mocking and callous.”
“I wrote it straight. It was what you said, the way you said it.”
“I demand an opportunity to set the record straight.”
“Of course. When?”
“In two hours. My office.”
“I’ll be there.”
Chapter 27
Hilda was out, but Echo was in. He was sitting at that tiny desk of his, working with an adding machine, his left hand going back and forth from a ledger to the keyboard of the machine as he busily filled in columns of numbers. Seeing me, his eyes lit with resentment.
“You can tell Mr. Whitfield I’m here,” I said. “He’s expecting me.”
He glanced at my small purse. “You didn’t bring your papers? You should’ve been here with them yesterday.”
“Go inside and tell him I’m here.”
“In a moment.”
My stomach tightened. He went back to his numbers.
“I’ll give you thirty seconds,” I said.
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look up and he kept on writing in that ledger.
“One, two, three …” I began.
“Sit down,” he said.
Instead, I stood over him. “Ten, eleven, twelve––”
“All right.” He put down his pen and closed the ledger. For a moment, he sat there, fuming. Then he appeared to make a decision. He looked up at me, pasted on an artificial smile and stood up.
“Perhaps, Mr. Echo was a bit overzealous in the prosecution of his duties,” he said. “If so, he would like to offer his heartfelt apologies.”
He extended his hand, but I didn’t extend mine in return. So he took it. He actually took my hand, raised it to his lips and gave it a kiss.
“Do you like stories?” he said, still holding my hand. “Let Mr. Echo tell you one.”
I tried to pull my hand away, but he held fast, his hold tightening.
“Once upon a time, there was a boy. He had no money or connections, but he had ambitions, plans. He served in the war, served with distinction, and then he came back. He searched for work. He found none, and so he searched harder.
“Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. By then our hero was practically living in the street, one step away from selling his ass for his bread and butter.” He cast his narrow eyes at me. “But then, he met a man who took an interest in him.”
“I can guess the rest,” I said. “This man picked our young hero up, stood him on his feet and gave him an education—”
“Our hero already had an education—from a fine school, Tuskegee. What he didn’t have was a job.”
“So, this man gave him one.”
“Not just any job. A real job. With responsibilities, and a future. And yes,” he saw the look in my eyes, “this job came with a price. Extra duties, you might say.”
“Enforcement duties?”
He cracked a smile. “The kind of duties every soldier understands.”
He paused to let his meaning sink in. His eyes were dead, cold and filthy gray, like the Hudson River on a winter’s day. He stroked my hand.
“You’re very bright, Mrs. Price. Too bright to be making anymore stupid decisions.”
“I could say the same about Mr. Whitfield … or maybe even about you.”
His eyes flashed with anger. “Let’s speak plainly. When you threaten Mr. Whitfield, you threaten Mr. Echo, too.” His grip on my hand switched to my middle finger. He lifted it, pressed it upward. “Mr. Echo has worked hard to attain his position. He will protect it.” He forced my finger backward. I tried to pull free but couldn’t. Pain shot through my hand. “Do you understand?” He pressed.
Soon, my finger would snap. I kicked him. My hard-toed boot got him in the ankle, got him good. He let go, his eyes registering surprise and pain. I rubbed my hand, shaking with anger.
“Don’t you ever touch me again.”
He didn’t say a word, just pressed his lips into a bitter, hard line. Massaging my hand, I started toward Whitfield's office. Echo came at me from behind. He grabbed me by the elbow and whispered in my ear, “We aren’t finished yet.”
I wrenched myself away. Despite my outer bravado, I was unnerved. But I was also determined. Taking a deep breath, I opened Whitfield's door and stepped across the threshold.
* * *
The tax collector’s picture could’ve been in the dictionary next to the definition of ‘fat cat.’ His face was sleek and smooth, his belly round. His hair was softly waved and graying at the temples, his mustache perfectly clipped. He looked so very professional and assured, framed by a huge desk and shelves of tax tomes, the soft gray winter light filtering in through the window on either side.
He was examining legal documents, marking them with his left hand. He wore a monocle. He rose, leaned over his desk and shook my hand. His handshake was weak, the skin soft. But his eyes were hard, like black pearls. He kept his voice calm and modulated.
“The early bird, huh?” He chuckled. It was a rumble, deep inside his chest. He gestured toward the chair, “Take a seat.”
But before my backside could touch the seat, he launched into his little speech. It was more or less what I’d expected.
“I expect a full retraction. That column was nothing but lies and innuendos. I want it made clear that the figure you’ve slandered in the present column is clear of blame in the next. Get it?”
I made myself comfortable. “Sure, I do. But I don’t think you do. You see, I didn’t mention you by name. If I wrote a retraction, I’d have to. Your name, your title: I’d have to put it all out there. I’d be confirming what people still only suspect. After all, a retraction’s no good if no one knows whom it refers to.”
His nostrils flared. “I know what you’re trying to do. It won’t work.”
“Won’t it?”
“I have friends …”
“Yes, you do. But we both know they’re the kind who fade when the dirt starts to fly.”
“Your returns …”
“Are in perfect order. And we both know it.” I bluffed without blinking an eyelash. Did he actually think I’d come down here just to let myself get whipped into submission? If so, I had surprise for him.
I took out a folded sheet of paper out of my purse. The page contained three paragraphs—about as much as I could stand to copy of the letter. I’d also included the signature and underscored the name. I unfolded the page, laid it on his desk and slid it toward him.
“What’s this?”
“Read it and you’ll see.”
Like an animal suspecting a trap, he regarded the page but wouldn’t touch it. Fooled by the fact that it was my handwriting, he was shocked to recognize his own words. And recognize them he did. I could see it in his eyes. For a second there, he looked sick. Then he pulled himself together. He sat up and gave me a severe look.
“I hope you aren’t trying to say that I wrote this piece of filth. It’s not my penmanship and it’s certainly not my signature.”
I just shook my head. “Don’t even try it. I have the original. Trust me, I do. And the original is in your handwriting.”
A trip downstairs to Mrs. Cane had confirmed my suspicions about Whitfield's middle name. She’d remembered an interview from 1920, when he was first appointed as tax collector. The reporter had complimented Whitfield on being such an ardent supporter of the common man. Whitfield had told a story about his father. His father, he said, had been strong willed and determined. His father always told him that he expected him to do well and travel far, but that no matter how well he did or how far he traveled, he also expected him to remember his roots. To that end, he’d named him after the place of his birth: Antilles.
Whitfield deliberated his response. I didn’t expect him to cave in, of course. People like him don’t get as far as they do without developing skins as thick as animal hide. But I hoped that—
“You’re wrong,” he said. “Dead wrong. Except for that brief meeting at Mrs. Goodfellowe’s house, I didn’t—”
“You did and the letter proves it.”
“This letter, this letter!” He balled up the page and threw it into the garbage. “It has nothing to do me. For all I know, you wrote it yourself.”
“You wrote it and you signed it using your middle name. It was easy to confirm that it’s your name. It’ll be even easier to prove that the handwriting is yours. Some people say that men like you want to be caught. I don’t believe that, but I do believe that vanity induces stupidity.”
“You’d do well to remember who I am.”
“Oh, I know who you are all right—and what you are. I also know that if you weren’t worried, then I wouldn’t be here.”
He leaned back and formed a teepee with his manicured fingertips. “How much? How much for the letter and to make you forget about this whole thing?”
“A lot. A whole lot—of information.”
“I won’t—”
“You can’t afford to refuse. Not only do I have this letter, but the will and the means to make sure that everybody reads it.”
His nostrils flared. “All right, all right. But I want the letter, the original, or else—”
“I can’t do that. It’s not mine to give.”
Understanding dawned. “I see. Ruth has it.”
“Ruth? You say you never met Esther, but you know her sister’s name?”
He realized his error. His voice was tight. “Fine. I had something to do with her.”
“An affair—”
“Yes, but I had nothing to do with her disappearance.”
“When did you first meet her?”
“Sometime that September.” He let it out a ragged breath, resentment poisoning every word. “Esther was sweet, but she wasn’t right for me. She was, you know….”
“What?”
He shrugged. “Talented … but ignorant.”
“And when did you decide that? Before or after?”
The look on his face just about made my day. “I really don’t give a damn what you think.”
“No, but your superiors do. So who ended it?”
“I did.”
That didn’t fit.
“When?”
“Late that October.”
“How did she take it?”
“She was upset, naturally.”
“Naturally,” I repeated.
His sour expression said he didn’t appreciate my sarcasm.
“So what’s your alibi for the night she disappeared?” I asked.
“I don’t remember what day that was.”
I told him.
“I was busy,” he said.
“Not good enough.”
“It’ll have to be.”
No, no, no. “Let’s get something straight. Your name, your position—they mean nothing to me. As far as I’m concer
ned, you’re just another man who grew up twisted.”
His lips curled. “I’ll sue you if you ever print another word about me. I swear it.”
His arrogance was infuriating—and so naïve.
“Where were you on the night Esther disappeared?”
“Here, damn it. I was probably here. Working like a damn dog.”
“Probably?”
“I was here.”
This interview was over. I got up to go, but then paused. “That was a dumb play,” I said, “having your man attack me like that.”
“What?”
“Why deny it?”
He stood and planted his fists on his desk. “Madam, you obviously have a very wild imagination. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Good day, Mr. Whitfield.”
As I reached the door, his voice stopped me.
“Mrs. Price?”
“Yes?” Something in his tone made me stiffen.
“Forget about Hilda Coleman spying for you. I’ve fired her. As for that woman, that Miss Henry, I wouldn’t expect her future cooperation either. I really wouldn’t.”
Chapter 28
A crowd was gathered outside of Mabel’s rooming house and an ambulance was parked at the curb. I pushed my way through and ran upstairs. Mabel’s landlady stood at the entrance to her room, weeping. I slipped past her and came to a halt. The room had been destroyed. Every piece of furniture had been smashed. Mabel lay amidst the ruins, bloodied, battered and eyes closed. Hilda knelt by her side as an ambulance attendant tried to administer first aide. Hilda glanced up at me, and then returned her gaze to Mabel.
“He had her beaten. Maybe a concussion, two ribs broken and three fingers snapped.”
“It was Echo?”
She gave a dazed nod. “He came after me, too, but I dodged him, and then I came over here.” She gently brushed Mabel’s hair back from her face. “I could kill Mr. Whitfield for what he did to her. Just shoot him dead.”
Mabel groaned. Her eyes were crusted with blood and swollen shut. She grimaced in pain. “Hilda?” she whispered.
Hilda took Mabel’s hand, the one that wasn’t injured. “I’m here, honey.”
Goodfellowe House Page 17
