Goodfellowe House

by Persia Walker

  “Did you know that Esther was the same age as my daughter when she died? They were both taken from me so … so suddenly. I had no time to prepare. I never thought about them dying. They were so young. I never…”

  Her eyes glittered wetly. I was transfixed, and I think Roland was, too. I’d never seen her this way or imagined such vulnerability. The transformation from haughty socialite to grieving mother had happened so quickly. Perhaps, it was always there, just below the surface. Perhaps, it had merely taken the shock of my accusation to bring it out.

  “Maybe Elizabeth’s death was a curse to humble me,” she said. “I was—am—a proud woman. Born of a proud family. Maybe the Lord thought I needed a lesson.”

  Her right hand gripped her handkerchief, working it into a ball. “After Elizabeth died, I buried myself in this house. I wanted nothing to do with anything.” A tear escaped her iron control. She dabbed at it.

  “Then I heard about Esther. I felt compelled to hear her play. It was at a small church. Music like I’d never heard before. I can’t tell you how it affected me. I wanted to do everything for her. Everything I’d been too thoughtless, too selfish to do for my daughter. I even thought, stupidly, that God was giving me a second chance.”

  There was another tear. “Hurt my friends? Maybe. But Esther? Never. She was my heart, my Elizabeth, come back to me. Don’t you see? She was my last chance to live.”

  Chapter 48

  I must admit. Her tears got to me. Tough Lanie Price. Sure, sure. I felt like a cad when I left Mrs. Goodfellowe’s house. Trying to fulfill my promises to a little boy, I’d gotten a man killed, nearly cost Sam his job and now I was even beating up on an old widow woman in a desperate, pathetic search for a solution that would fix everything.

  Cold sunlight streamed through the glass doors to the newspaper building’s main entrance and dappled the brown marble vestibule floor with a flat, hard light. How many more days would I get to witness that particular play of sunlight? I felt a surge of nostalgia, already anticipating that my days with the paper were numbered.

  I was about to write what could be my last column for the Chronicle. It might not even be that if Sam refused to print it. I would talk to him about it beforehand, of course, sort of lay the groundwork. That would be simpler, and more diplomatic than my usual approach, which was to write the piece and then battle him over it.

  It had been two minutes since I’d pushed the button for the elevator and there was no sign of it coming. I glanced at my watch. It was after six. Johnny had probably taken off for the day. He usually didn’t wait around for Lewiston, his replacement. The evening operator was a nice enough guy, but he was always late. There was no telling when he’d show.

  I headed for the stairs. Thank goodness, we weren’t high up.

  One floor away from the office, the sound of a male voice floated down.

  “Selena...”

  My ears perked up. The voice was familiar.

  “Sam, you know she’s gone off the edge. You need me. You need what I have to offer.”

  “Now why would you think that?”

  A pause. The sound of movement. A new intimacy in Selena’s voice.

  “Aren’t you ready for something new? Something hot and sassy?”

  My face grew warm. My hand tightened on the railing. I couldn’t clearly hear Sam’s answer. I continued up the stairs, treading lightly.

  “You’re an excellent reporter, but the column belongs to Lanie.”

  “Now, you and I both know I’m not just talking about that.”

  I leaned over the railing and peered upward. Sam and Selena stood on the stairway, two floors above. He was holding copy. She was holding him. Her arms were linked around his neck, her pretty, overdone face turned up to his.

  I turned the corner on the stairway. She saw me. An evil smile flickered over her lips. Seeing her gaze, he started to turn around, but she caught him by the chin.

  “Now, Sam, dear Sam. Don’t be difficult.”

  Stroking his chest and puckering her lips, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him. It wasn’t a long kiss, but to me it lasted an eternity.

  He unlinked her arms from around his neck. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Really?” she said. “But you liked it. I could tell.”

  “Yes, I liked it—I’ll admit that—but not enough to want more. Now, let go.”

  She leaned into him, purring. “C’mon, I can lay it out just as well as she can. Do it double-time, baby, and with half the hassle.”

  “Look, you’re a very attractive lady, but you’re—

  “What? Not good enough?”

  “Hello.” It was time to make my presence known.

  He whirled around, stunned. “Lanie, I—”

  I shook my head. What was there to say? I climbed the last steps between us and pushed past him. He grabbed me by the elbow. I couldn’t bear to look at him.

  “Selena,” he said, “Maybe, you want to leave us alone.”

  “No,” I said. “No need to break up the meeting.”

  “Lanie,” he said. “We have to talk.”

  I nodded. “But not right now. I have business to attend to.” I forced myself to look at him. “And it looks as though you do, too.”

  Selena must’ve read the pain in my eyes. I sure read the triumph in hers. Images of Sam and Selena, and the sound of her insidious whispers, followed me up the stairs. I moved with leaden feet, gripping the banister. By the time I reached the newsroom, I felt dizzy.

  Normally, the place was half-empty by then. Most folks came in as early at six or seven a.m., so they went home at four. But it was late Monday, deadline time, so a whole lot of people were working late, trying to beat the clock. A bunch of folks looked up when I came in. At the look I gave them, several dropped their gaze again.

  I plunked down in my chair, leaned on my desk and covered my face with my hands. Then I counted from one to thirty, my heart thudding like a long-distance runner.

  It was my fault that he was out there with her. I’d pushed him away again and again. What did I expect?

  I glanced at the wall clock. Were they still in the stairwell or had they gone off somewhere else, where they could be alone? I wanted to go back and check. But I had something more important to do.

  A column to write.

  I straightened up and willed myself to concentrate. As I rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter, Selena breezed in. She was smiling from ear to ear, glowing with guilty pleasure, patting her hair and smoothing her skirt. Eyes followed her as she trotted back to her desk. Heads swiveled back to the door as Sam entered. He strode over to my desk, bent down and said: “I want you in my office. Now.”

  Chapter 49

  Mrs. Goodfellowe had filed another complaint. Sam was embarrassed about the scene on the stairwell, but he was way more upset about Mrs. Goodfellowe’s call.

  “Lanie, she could shut us down. Actually, she wouldn’t have to. Canfield and his crowd would do it for her. What were you thinking?”

  “Sam, please—”

  “I thought you understood. You could lose this column. Hell, you could lose your career. One call from Canfield and you wouldn’t be able to get a job at any paper of standing.”

  “I do understand—”

  “Do you? Goodfellowe talked to Canfield; Canfield talked to Ramsey. If you don’t change tracks, I’ll have to give your column to Selena. I won’t have a choice. She’s already done a draft copy—and it’s a damn fine one. It’s bright, cheerful, Christmassy.”

  Give my column to—? I flashed on the scene in the stairwell. “I should’ve seen it coming.”

  “I’m sorry, Lanie. I’ll have to do it.”

  “Oh, yeah. Tell me how they’re forcing you.”

  His expression hardened. “They’re not forcing me. You are. You’re leaving me little choice. You insist upon doing things your way, and you don’t tell me what’s going on—not till it’s too damn late.”

  “This should
not be about covering your ass. It should be about the Todd case.”

  “No, it should be about the paper—and the fact that I’m responsible, not just for you, but for every soul who works for me. You’re worried about one family; I’m worried about fifty.”

  He was right. But so was I. I had to make him see things differently or we’d both lose. For once I decided to be diplomatic and concede a point or two.

  “All right. You’re angry and you have a right to be. I should’ve told you about my being attacked. I should’ve dug deeper before going with Whitfield. But please, believe me. This time I’m dead on.”

  He shook his head in bewilderment. “You don’t know when to stop, do you? We’ve taken a huge blow to our credibility. This paper is practically on its knees, and you’re still pushing.”

  That temper of mine surged back. I stood up, trembling. “I’ll stop when Esther Todd is found—dead or alive. I’ll stop when I know who took her from her family, who robbed her of all she had. I’ll stop,” I said, “when I’ve kept my promise to her son.”

  He gave me a long look of frustration. “Do you think you’re the only one who cares about Esther? I could’ve blocked you from writing that column to begin with. I almost wish I had, ‘cause you don’t appreciate what anybody does for you. You keep demanding more and more. Nobody’s sacrifice counts but your own.”

  I was speechless. Did he really see me that way? As self-righteous and obsessed? “Sam, listen—”

  “No, you listen. Esther Todd is probably dead. You know it and I know it. Hell, the whole world knows it. Every one of those people out in that newsroom wishes it wasn’t so. Every one of them would love to see her found, and her killer caught. But none of them is willing to lose their job to bring up the bones of a dead woman—and I won’t ask them to.”

  “That’s not what I want—”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No, it isn’t.” I sank back down in the chair, all anger gone. “You’re right, Sam, right about so many things. About me being so pigheaded. And how I’ve gone about this whole thing. But please don’t let outsiders force you to make a choice you don’t have to make. Don’t let them pit us against one another.”

  I spoke from my heart, reaching for the compassion in his, the compassion that was being used against him. “It’s not the Todd family versus the families in the newsroom. It’s the truth versus lies and darkness and the ugliness it hides. Please, let me file this last column.”

  His expression told me nothing, so I played my last card.

  “If it turns out I’m wrong, you won’t have to fire me. I’ll quit.”

  That got him. Sadness flitted across his face. He cleared his throat in the way of a man choosing his words carefully.

  “Lanie,” he began, “you know that to me, you’re irreplaceable, but to the world, and that includes this paper, you’re not.” He paused. “So if you make that kind of offer, I’ll to have to take you up on it.”

  Though spoken softly and expected, his words were a blow. Heart in my throat, I nodded. “I know.”

  There was a long silence.

  “All right,” he said. “Tell me what you plan to write.”

  Terrified of saying the wrong thing, I took a few seconds to collect my thoughts. Then I began, watching his face for reaction.

  The structure of the column would be simple, I said. I would review Esther’s kidnapping and bracket it with descriptions of Eric Alan Powell’s murder and the Goodfellowe heist, stringing them together like pearls in a necklace of crime. I explained my theory that whoever killed Powell might’ve kidnapped Esther, most likely because she knew something she shouldn’t have.

  “The only official suspect in the Powell killing was Kelly, but he makes a weak one. He had no apparent reason to shoot Powell. But Powell would’ve had an excellent reason to shoot him, if he wanted to fake his own death as a prelude to robbing his rich wife.”

  “Humph,” Sam said.

  He was clearly intrigued. Leaning back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest, he reflected. Fifteen long seconds went by. Finally, in agitation, he ran his hands over his face, sighed and sat up.

  “It sounds good, Lanie. Real good. Crazy as it is, it could even be right. But you know I can’t print it. We’d be endangering the paper.”

  “We’d damage it more by not printing it.”

  “Tell you what: I’ll give you twenty-four hours to give me something that would justify every word. This time tomorrow, be here to show me what you’ve got. It has to be airtight, or else.”

  He didn’t have to say more. I took a deep breath. Twenty-four hours. It was better than nothing, but was it enough?

  “Thanks.” I started to leave.

  “Lanie?”

  “Yes?” I paused in the doorway.

  “Be careful. Watch your back.”

  I nodded and went out.

  Selena sauntered over and whispered in my ear. “So much for your chances of screwing your way to the top.”

  The next sound was of my hand meeting her flesh. She stumbled back into George’s desk. There were snickers and giggles. Sam had come out to lay an edited piece on George’s desk. Stunned and holding her cheek, Selena turned to him, pointed at me and pouted.

  “Did you see what she—”

  “Shut up,” he snapped.

  Back at my desk, I put in a call to the Chicago police department, the criminal records division. It took a bit of doing, but I finally got someone on the line who knew about the Powell case, one Lieutenant Daniel Ramsey. His voice was gruff, but he seemed all right.

  “What d’you need?”

  “Do you have Powell’s fingerprints on file?”

  Ramsey thought about it for a second. “Yeah, we should.”

  “Could you check, please?”

  “Lady, that’s gonna take time.”

  “I’d appreciate it. It’s important.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m working on a story angle, an old case. And I’m wondering if Powell had something to do with it.”

  Ramsey took a moment. “Okay. I tell you what. You call me back in a couple of hours and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  After hanging up, I took out my notepad and found the telephone number for Denver Sutton.

  “I’d like to have a talk, about Eric Alan Powell.”

  He paused. “Powell, huh? Well, that’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. And you want to talk about him? May I ask why?”

  “It has to do with a story I’m working on.”

  “The same story you were doing when you came by today? Mrs. Goodfellowe was mighty upset after that. I don’t think she’d appreciate my talking to you.”

  I paused. “Put it like this: Given what I’m preparing to write, Mrs. Goodfellowe would be upset if you didn’t talk to me.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means meet with me.”

  “Okay,” he said, still cautious. “But when?”

  “In an hour.”

  He paused and I held my breath.

  “Where?” he asked.

  I thought fast. I didn’t want to meet in a fancy club, just a nice anonymous dive. I gave him an address. He hesitated.

  “Is that one of them Harlem speakeasies?”

  “It sure is. You scared to come up here?”

  He gave a chuckle. “Hell, no.”

  Chapter 50

  Biggie’s Manor House was a basement dive on the east side of Fifth Avenue and 132nd Street. Pimps, prostitutes, gamblers and queens made the bulk of the clientele. Biggie’s had replaced Edmond’s Cellar, which had stood at the same spot. Ethel Waters once described Edmond’s as “the last stop on the way down.” Some might’ve said Biggie’s was a rung below that.

  It wasn’t much more than a dank hole, but I liked it. The decor was simple and the entertainment fine. Some of the better musicians dropped in after hours. On a lucky night, you might’ve even catch “Jazz
lips” Richardson or the Bon Ton Buddies strutting their stuff.

  The bad thing about Biggie’s was the hooch. That was some nasty liquor. The nice thing was that everybody minded his or her own business. By midnight, the place would be hopping. By three in the morning, it would be packed. But this was still early in the evening. The place was half empty and there was no entertainment, but that was okay. I didn’t want crowds or music, just privacy.

  Sutton was waiting when I arrived, his back to the wall, at a table in the corner lit by a single low candle. He greeted me with a nod. Again, I had the feeling that I’d met him before.

  The cellar was cold, so I kept on my coat. He took a brown leather pouch from an inner jacket pocket, produced some papers and rolled himself a cigarette.

  “So how long have you been with Mrs. Goodfellowe?” I asked.

  “A few years.”

  “Since before the heist?”

  “Since after.”

  “How’d you come to work for her?”

  “C’mon. You know the answers to these questions.”

  “Maybe,” I shrugged. “It’s always good to double-check.”

  “That it is,” he nodded. “Well, as I’m sure you already know, Mrs. Goodfellowe’s second husband got himself all shot up. They couldn’t identify him the regular way, so they needed someone to bring in—well, let’s just call them identifiers—and the file was in Chicago. I brought it and when I did, I met the widow. We kept in touch. After the heist, she contacted me and requested my services.”

  “That’s like closing the barn door after the horse is out, isn’t it?”

  He shrugged. “Better late than never.”

  The waiter brought our drinks.

  “So why did they pick you?” I continued. “To bring the identifiers, I mean? Was it just the luck of the draw?”

  “Not quite. I was sort of their Powell expert. But, of course, I probably know more about criminals in general and how they think than your average cop.”

  “How so?”

  “I was a bounty hunter, and a good one. I spent time studying my prey. Which reminds me. Why would a pretty little lady like you be interested in a rat like Powell?”