by Janet Fox
I don’t have a problem with the Italian guys back here. I don’t see why Paddy’s so burned. What did they do to him?
August 20
Danny doesn’t want to see it. I keep telling him, Paddy’s bad news. He’s going to bring it all down, but Danny shuts me up so fast, sometimes I think he’ll kill me if I take one step more.
August 31
I love the orchids. I started spending as much time as I could out there. It’s like a dream out there. I wish I could bring Jo to see them, when they’re in bloom.
On the other hand, some guys who have it all—money, dames, power—they still hate anyone who’s different. Different accent, different haircut, it doesn’t matter. Some guys just don’t get it.
I lowered the journal to my lap. I wished Teddy was here to explain this to me. I didn’t understand.
I raised the journal again, only to hear the elevator.
My digging would have to wait; I didn’t want to be surprised with the journal in my hands.
As fast as I could I bundled everything—the scarf, the medals, the journal—and flew out of the room and down the hall to Melody’s room. I heard the elevator door open, and heard voices, and I stuffed everything inside the closet, tossing the old sweater over it all to hide the scarlet poppies, and shut the door.
Then I took a breath.
I went back into the hallway, closing the door behind me and smoothing my hair and my dress. I followed the sound of the voices to the living room.
Uncle Bert was there. And John Rushton.
CHAPTER 35
Lou
So that night, the night of the break-in, Charlie and me walked downtown to the Algonquin, not saying a thing. He thought it was my fault, that Danny had put me up to it. I knew then how sweet he was on Jo, and how he thought for sure he’d lost her. Charlie left me at the hotel without more than a “G’night” and I made my way up to Danny’s suite alone.
Knocking around alone in that swell but empty joint meant my brain was knocking around with thoughts about Jo and Danny. Maybe it was just coincidence that Jo’s apartment was ransacked while we were out, but my tingly feelings were alive. What would Danny want that he’d find at her place?
I took a hot bath and wrapped myself tight in one of those oversize robes, and then I opened the big windows to the dark and stood looking down Forty-fourth toward the East River. From this high up I had the feeling I could see forever. The lights below and around me and off in the distance twinkled like stars in the sweep of space, and the night was rich with the faint sounds of air brakes and auto horns. I imagined I could smell the river, fishy and rank.
Somewhere across that city Danny was up to something.
I knew something was brewing just before Teddy disappeared. I’d bumped into him in the solarium as he was tending to the plants in there, snipping off dead leaves.
He’d straightened up fast and said, “Hi, Lou.”
“Say, Teddy, you’re just the fellow who’ll know. Did Patrick—”
But he interrupted before I could finish my question. “Don’t talk to me about that bum, all right?” And he turned on his heel and left; one hand clutched a bunch of dried-out branches, the other hand gripped his sharp pruners, and he walked out on me just like that.
Well, jeepers. All I’d wanted to know was whether he knew where Paddy had gone. Danny had been pacing around like a caged lion, trying to figure out where his baby brother had made off to this time, and I wanted my Danny to feel better.
As I sat in the Algonquin suite that night, I thought about it. Teddy was up to something, and maybe Teddy’d confided in Jo. And Jo was holding out on Danny.
If Jo stood in Danny’s way, it wouldn’t be pretty. As in, this suite was high enough in the sky that if someone wanted to make a girl levitate after a fashion, why, he surely could.
I stood at the open window and looked down on all those sparkly, starry lights. And a sneaky little thought did creep into my brain, and this is one thing I’ll confess to, Detective:
One way or the other, I didn’t think Jo Winter would be my problem for much longer.
CHAPTER 36
JUNE 6, 1925
“Your young men did not fail,” he said, “to measure up to the standard of American manhood when the call came.”
—“Thousands Honor Heroes of the War,” The New York Times, May 30, 1921
Jo
John Rushton. On the one hand, he was a stuck-up prig. On the other, Teddy had been his friend. And yet Teddy had to leave his employ, and made it sound as if at that point Rushton had hated him.
Talking to Rushton was one way to figure this all out.
As I walked in the room, Rushton said, without so much as a hello, “Josephine, I’m glad you’re here. Now. We must talk about Teddy’s journal.”
“We must…?” I sputtered. “Must?”
“Now, Jo,” my uncle said, raising his hands palms out. “Now, now.” Poor Uncle Bert. He was more and more incapable with every passing day.
Rushton went on. “I watched your brother write in it the entire time we were over there. And I happen to know that he kept writing in that journal up until he disappeared.”
“So why are you asking me about it?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest.
He sighed. “Josephine, when your brother came back from France, at first he worked for me. That is, until he quit without warning. I suspect he left my employ because he was into something and got in over his head. When he disappeared, the journal disappeared with him.”
It made me uneasy to hear Rushton say what I already knew. I went to the window that looked out over Park Avenue.
“So,” Rushton said. “Can you tell me where it is?”
I faced the men again. “No.”
The room went still. The traffic buzzed and droned and honked; sunlight streamed through the tall window, casting a bright rectangle on the floor. I could feel the warm air through the glass at my back. It made my scar itch.
“Why won’t you let me have it?” he asked, his voice soft.
I put on my stoniest expression. “Because I don’t have it,” I lied. “Not anymore. I—I left it at home. At the house that burned down. I assume it went up in the flames.”
Rushton must have believed my act; he looked stricken. He looked away, then moved to the window, standing next to me. “That’s it, then. We’ll never prove it.” He put his hand on the window frame, as if to steady himself. “That was my last hope, to find out—”
I felt sorry for Rushton in that moment. “To find out what?”
He turned to face me. “Are you familiar with the Wall Street bombing of 1920?”
“Yes. Chester told me about your brother Frank. I’m sorry.”
He winced. “Did Chester also tell you that Teddy might have been mixed up in it? Because I believe he was.”
I wouldn’t accept that. Teddy said he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I shook my head. “That’s not possible.”
“I’m convinced of it. In fact, he as much as told me.”
“I don’t believe it. No. That wasn’t Teddy.” He was wrong. Teddy went to a few meetings, and left them behind when he decided they were too extreme.
“I’m sorry, Jo. I’m convinced that Teddy was mixed up in the whole business. Teddy had something to do with moving the money, or the materials, something. That whole summer before he disappeared, something was not right. I could feel it.” He paused. “I think that’s why he disappeared. He’d been going to meetings with these anarchists; he sympathized with them. I think he disappeared because he was involved. Up to and past the bombing.”
I gripped the edge of the window behind my back. “Teddy, an anarchist. Do you really believe that?”
He nodded.
I turned to look out at the street below.
Rushton went on. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? Teddy was nervous about something. Maybe he was about to take the fall. But he wrote about it in his journal, I’m sur
e of that. And there’s something else. I’ve heard rumors that Daniel Connor was involved. I think Teddy uncovered Connor’s part in all of it. I’m betting he said something in his journal. If that’s true, your brother’s words would convict Daniel Connor and would’ve told me who was responsible for my brother’s death.”
I stared at the cars and people moving up and down Park Avenue. I could see the limousines from here. Everything looked clean and shiny. The Emerald City. Of course, the workers and the support staff were coming and going. But even they looked polished from this height.
Rich man, poor man.
Teddy hated that. And that’s what the anarchists were all about, right? Disenfranchised immigrants and hardworking laborers. They aimed their anger and their frustration at the rich. Then it struck me, the other thing Rushton had said.
“You used the word ‘disappeared,’” I said without turning around. “Do you think Teddy’s dead?”
Rushton stirred beside me. “I don’t know.”
“Do you think,” I asked, “do you think Teddy could really do something like that? Kill people like that?” My question floated into the room, not really directed at Rushton. I stared down at the street. I couldn’t believe that Teddy might be an anarchist, a bomber, someone involved in the murder of innocent people.
“I liked Teddy. He saved my life.” He sighed. “But who knows? All I care about is justice. I want to find out who was responsible for the deaths of my brother and all the others.”
“And you think that the answer was in Teddy’s journal?”
“I think it could’ve stood as evidence, if he included enough details. I think if he added names and dates, I could begin to string it together. I could build a case.” Rushton, next to me, paused, staring into the sunlight, squinting down at Park Avenue. “I’ve made this my life’s work, Jo. I don’t intend to stop searching. I’m doing it for my brother.”
I almost made a move, then. I almost went into Melody’s room to fetch Teddy’s journal. Almost. But something stopped me.
Teddy stopped me. I believed that my brother was a hero, incapable of such a crime. I believed in him too much; it would kill me, would kill Pops, to find out otherwise.
Oh, I was still so sure I knew right from wrong.
My uncle, long silent, coughed. “Jo, your aunt and I have been talking. We think you should join your parents out west. We’ll set it all up for you. There’s a train in the morning.”
I nodded. I wanted to seem agreeable. Of course, I had to leave them, leave the apartment. But I couldn’t leave New York now. I had Teddy’s journal—and now it was clearer than ever that I had to keep reading it, whatever I might learn. There was much more here than met the eye—more even than John Rushton thought he knew.
And if I left New York, I couldn’t unravel this mystery.
A hand on my arm in the dark, here on a street downtown.
I rubbed my arm now, in the sunlight, and thought of the other compelling reason I didn’t want to leave New York: Charlie O’Keefe.
I knew what I had to do and where I had to go. “I’ll be ready for the train, Uncle Bert,” I lied. “Excuse me.”
I went to pack a small bag with the things I’d need. But not so that I could catch a train.
I had to wait until my uncle and John Rushton left the apartment before I could leave. It took me almost no time to pull my things together, just a few changes of clothing—thank goodness it was summer—and the contents of my silk scarf. Then I had to sit stiff and silent in a chair by the door, listening and waiting, because I was packed and ready long before the elevator door clanged shut behind them.
I looked at my watch, and adjusted my cloche and my short kid gloves. After five minutes, I rang for the elevator myself.
Joey eyed my valise, a small bag I’d taken from Melody’s room. “Going somewhere, miss?”
“Just visiting an old girlfriend,” I lied. Leaving my family now, money wouldn’t flow as easily. But still, I needed Joey’s silence. I parted with a precious quarter.
“Thanks, miss!” He smiled, then gave me the sealed-lips sign, and I couldn’t help smiling back.
Ed—who had not lost his job, although he had been reprimanded following the break-in—also looked curiously at my bag. “Cab, Miss Jo?” he asked.
“No, thanks. I’m going to walk. It’s a lovely day.”
“You’ll be back later today, then?”
I looked at Ed. I liked him. I’d grown to trust him. “Ed, I won’t be back today. Or tomorrow. Can you give my aunt a message for me?”
“Of course.”
“Tell her I’m fine. Tell her not to worry.”
He tipped his cap a bit away from his forehead. “Yes, miss, I’ll tell her that.” He scratched his brow. “Is it true she shouldn’t worry?”
I forced my lips to form a smile. “Yes.” Inside, I was trembling with the lie.
He adjusted his cap again. “Now, I have a bit of money in my wallet, from tips and such.” He reached for his pocket.
I put my hand up and lied again. “No, but thank you. I have money. I’m fine.” I had very little, in fact, but I couldn’t bear to take his. My throat felt a tickle as I thought of the sacrifice he, a hardworking guy, would have made on my behalf. I had to look away.
“When should I say you’ll be back, then?” I could tell he was asking as much for himself as for my aunt.
“Say,” I hesitated. I thought it would take me a week, maybe two, to unlock all the secrets. Little did I know. “Say two weeks. I’ll see you in two weeks.”
He nodded. “I’ll be watching for you, Miss Jo. You take care, now.”
My throat was so full by this point that I had to swallow hard before I could say, “’Bye, Ed.”
It was far too early for me to head in the direction I’d planned to go, and the sun beat down on the city streets. I lifted the valise so that I could tuck the strap over my shoulder and headed over to Central Park, where I could at least sit on a bench in the cooler shade and think. I made straight for my favorite spot, near the zoo, picking up a lemonade from a stand along the way.
The park was full of people today. People wilted in the heat, bedraggled in their undone collars and neckties, jackets draped over shoulders, dresses damp with sweat and clinging to backs. Along the edges of the paths I saw scraps of wadded paper, lost hair ribbons, a grimy ball. Pigeons strutted and begged. The grass was filled with the floating seed heads of dandelions waiting on an idle breeze.
I brushed off the seat of a bench, sat down, and ran through everything in my mind. Teddy was not a hero, even though we’d all called him one. He might even have been responsible in part for the deaths of thirty people on Wall Street on that September day. But I didn’t want to believe this.
The last time I saw Teddy, talked to him—that hot June day a year ago—he had asked the unthinkable. He’d asked me to lie to Ma, to Pops, in a way that would surely tear them apart. He’d said it was so he could escape. So I did it. I did what he asked, and it tore the rest of us to shreds and now we’re all floating in tatters, like the wisps of paper that float around the New York streets in a wind, the ticker tape that lifts and flutters after a parade and litters the park walkways.
I let Teddy go, walk off, leave me to tell them about the beach, the sand, the water, the clothes he left behind; he left me to lie for him. He disappeared, and everyone believes him dead. Everyone but me. And Connor. Teddy was alive, but now with the danger, he couldn’t show himself.
Why didn’t he talk to me then? Why hadn’t he told me everything when he still could?
I stared into the dappled shade of the trees, feeling the soft whisper of a breeze on my neck, watched the dandelion seeds float up and away like ghosts in a mist.
And then I realized Teddy had told me. I had the journal.
I opened the valise and reached inside, feeling for the journal, pulling it out and setting it on my knees, picking up where I left off.
September 10, 192
1
When I’m not in the greenhouse, I’m at the beach. That’s the only place I can find it—peace. It’s the water. The way it stretches out to meet the sky.
September 17
Antonio’s all right. Lives in Brooklyn, knows his way around the plants, that’s for sure. We’ve started hanging out together for a smoke in the evening before he goes home, walking the beach. He’s younger than me, didn’t serve, but his uncle did. He’s got some ideas, Tony does.
That whole time back in ’20, while I was working for John, I thought I understood. I look back on what I felt then, and it makes me mad at myself. I never want to think that way again.
October 12
Talked to Pops. He could see what kind of money there was to be made, running booze. He said some funny things to me about how so many politicians got their start doing things not exactly on the up and up. That kind of stuff.
I didn’t want to say anything, but I know he still thinks that someday I’m going to be some big shot or other.
It ain’t happening, Pops. I don’t know what I want from life, but it isn’t being a big shot of any kind.
I just have to look around to see that lots of folks need help. Maybe I can find some way to help. Maybe this Prohibition thing is made for people like me to get rich and help others.
Like Danny Connor’s done.
October 22
Pops tickled about the money. Says he’s putting it away for a rainy day. Thrilled with me for getting him mixed up with it.
