His reaction was morphing into delight. “To anywhere you’d like.”
“The Renaissance will do.” She warmly hooked his elbow, and together, they continued toward the exit. After stepping aside for a few people to enter, they joined the bustling of Market Street. The scent of roasting nuts from a vendor cart provided mild reprieve from wafts of city odors as she and Clayton wound their way toward the restaurant.
Glad to redeem their date, she asked about his newest leads, always guaranteed to launch him into conversation. And though she was listening, a thought pulsed in a corner of her mind. A tiny but persistent sliver.
One of the strangers back at the Examiner, coming through the door…there was something familiar. Those features… Lily knew them…
A block from the restaurant, she stopped. “Oh my God.” She visualized the scene again, verifying.
“Lily?” Clayton’s voice sounded distant, hollow. “What’s wrong?”
She looked at him, grappling for an answer. “I-I have to go back. I just realized.”
“What is it?”
There was no time to explain. “Go on in. I’ll catch up with you.” As she rushed off toward the Examiner, the world’s noises dropped away. There was only the thudding of her heart, her heels slapping pavement, and her hopes repeated like a prayer.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please still be there.”
Chapter 23
According to Dutch’s pal at the Los Angeles Times, Alfred Millstone had appeared in the papers here and there over the years. As vice president of the American Trust Company in Long Beach, the mentions would be expected. All of them were trivial except for one: a funeral announcement.
Two years ago, the Millstones’ only child perished in a car wreck. According to reports, no sign of foul play. Then recently, over in New Jersey, the president of Century Alliance Bank took a trip off a bridge—as many a man had since Black Tuesday—and Mr. Millstone had crossed the country to fill the opening.
It now made sense to Ellis. Ruby and Calvin were part of the couple’s attempt to heal, to move on. Start fresh.
In a much smaller way, this was what Ellis, too, had hoped to do by coming here today.
The building was a typical two-story bank in Hoboken, with a tailor shop to one side and a barber’s to the other. To arrive before closing, Ellis had to slip out of the Examiner early, this time steering clear of Mr. Tate. After his mother’s visit and the news from Dutch, his chances of productivity were shot. And the drive to Century Alliance, just across the Hudson, had been too much to resist.
Inside, framed photographs of the branch’s pooh-bahs hung on a wall beside the entrance. Ellis’s heart stalled a beat at the engraving beneath the top portrait:
ALFRED J. MILLSTONE, PRESIDENT
The man was much like the cabbie had described. He had kind eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses, a gently sloped nose that led to a blunt end, and a thick mustache, dark and tidy like his hair. Not the sort of person you’d imagine trading a stack of dollar bills for two barefoot kids on a farm.
Ellis turned to scan the room, seeking the real-life version of the banker among the smattering of faces. A security guard, stocky as a bulldog, cleared his throat while eyeing Ellis. A message. Snoopiness was no more welcome here than behind a peep tent at a carnival.
“Afternoon,” Ellis said. “I just came in to see—”
The guard pointed sharply toward the tellers’ stations. Another hint taken.
Ellis joined the shortest line, behind three bank patrons, and observed the area with more subtlety. Offices for management appeared to be up the stairs. He’d head there to find out, but the guard was still watching.
Soon enough, it was his turn with a clerk, a young woman who, unlike the guard, seemed rather ecstatic to be working in a place stocked with a hefty portion of the city’s cash. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I be of service?”
“I’d like to speak with Mr. Millstone, if I could.”
A hitch in her smile. “Oh? Is there a problem?”
“Not at all. I was considering opening an account. With a substantial deposit.”
“Ah, that’s grand. One moment, please.” She stepped away to confer with an older woman, caught in passing with an armful of files. The teller returned with a semi-frown. “Unfortunately, Mr. Millstone is tied up in meetings for the rest of the day. However, our manager would be happy to assist you. If you’ll wait here, I’ll let him know—”
“Actually,” Ellis broke in with a smile, “I’d prefer to come back. Mr. Millstone was referred by a trusted friend, you see.”
She assured him that she understood, and Ellis retreated to his car, where he camped out like a PI. He’d parked just half a block down, ensuring a clear view of the entrance across the street.
When working for the Society page, every so often he’d been tasked with following a celebrity to nab an intriguing picture. A chore he’d despised. Sure, not enough to deter him from later tracking a senator and his harem of mistresses. But this here was different. This wasn’t for his career; it was personal. He needed to know for peace of mind—for Geraldine—that the man who’d taken the kids was as good and upstanding as one would hope.
The bank had been closed for nearly twenty minutes, the sun sliding low in the sky, before a mustached man stepped out of the doors. Ellis sat up. In a charcoal-gray suit and a matching hat, Alfred Millstone adjusted his grip on a cane that appeared more for style than necessity.
Ellis exited his car, prepared with any number of questions: directions to City Hall, recommendations for a show or restaurant. As a reporter, he was never short on queries. He was in the midst of crossing the street when a taxi pulled up to the banker, as if scheduled with no need to be hailed.
A truck blasted a honk. Ellis stumbled back a step, barely missing the vehicle, its cursing driver determined not to swerve.
Welcome to Jersey.
Mr. Millstone had just shut the cab door, about to leave.
Ellis could always come back another day, but a new plan came to him. One that could lead to far greater assurances. Before he could weigh the decision, he hightailed it to his car and rushed to follow.
At a discreet distance, he trailed the taxi to a neighborhood roughly three miles from the bank. A string of impressive Victorian homes lined the north side of the street with intermittent trees. The south side hosted a small park.
When the cab stopped, Ellis pulled over and turned off his engine.
Mr. Millstone soon climbed out. He tipped his hat to the driver and trekked up the short rise of stairs and into the house. The paint was mint green, the trim and porch stark white. Two chimneys topped the steeped roofs, and an intricate gable added more charm. By all appearances, the outcome looked pretty decent for the kids.
Assuming they were there. Ellis hadn’t yet verified that fact. But one peek through the window could end the mystery—his worries, too, if he saw them doing well. Perhaps a meeting with Mr. Millstone wouldn’t be needed after all.
The thought was enough to propel Ellis.
He got out of his car just as a paperboy bicycled past, tossing rolled editions to front doors. The kid drew from his shoulder bag like an expert archer handling a quiver. When a woman walking her pup disappeared around the corner, leaving the street vacant, Ellis ascended the steps. On the porch, a wire basket of empty glass bottles awaited a dairyman’s delivery.
Ellis looked cautiously through a narrow gap in the lace curtains. In a parlor room on a large Persian rug, a young girl sat before a floor-model radio. She wore a sailor dress, black Mary Janes, and a red bow in her hair. No ponytail or overalls. But it was her. Ruby Dillard. Bright and clean as a new penny.
On an antique love seat, a slender woman in a fashionable day dress held an open book on her lap. Contentment curved her lips, seemingly more from watching the girl than from listening to the radio
. In the background, a white-manteled fireplace and Tiffany lamps adorned the room. The whole scene befitted a cover of the Saturday Evening Post.
Through the window came the soft sound of laughter. A young boy’s giggles.
Calvin.
Relief drifted through Ellis, his spirits lifting, until a light creak shot from behind.
He swung around to find the front door opened. Alfred Millstone was reaching for the evening paper, the startle clear on his face.
“Mr. Millstone. Good evening.” Ellis felt just as jarred, but also embarrassed by his audacious plan to lurk. What the hell had he been thinking?
“Who-who are you?” the man stammered.
Ellis needed an explanation fast.
Then he thought: Why not tell the truth? This was indeed the person who’d relieved Geraldine of her burden. He might want to know that she’d passed, that he’d done a good thing, in case he had doubts.
“Sir, I’m Ellis Reed…with the Herald Tribune.” Ellis held out his hand in greeting.
Mr. Millstone turned markedly stern. “A reporter?” He made no move to accept the handshake. “What is it you want?”
There was irony here—that a newspaper was welcome at the home, while a newsman plainly was not. He and Ellis’s father could well be instant pals.
But then what did Ellis expect? After all the bank runs following the market crash, a double hit-job on folks’ savings, reporters hadn’t portrayed banks, or their executives, in the best light.
“You answer me now, or I’ll phone the police.” Mr. Millstone’s high forehead shone with a slight flush, triggering Ellis’s gut to intervene.
It told him to leave well enough alone, that there was no good reason to press on. Hadn’t he disrupted enough lives already? He could simply toss out an excuse for his presence and be on his way.
“Sir, I’m…working on a piece. For the paper. A profile.”
The man’s eyes tightened behind his glasses. “On?”
“Well…you, Mr. Millstone.”
What sounded like a western, with horses’ hoofbeats and yippee ki-yays, projected from the radio. Its burst of gunshots reverberated through the silence on the porch.
Ellis needed to elaborate to prevent a police summons that could end in a similar way. “As I’m sure you know, after Black Tuesday, trust in the banking community’s been set back a bit. A personal profile on prominent bankers like yourself could help remedy the situation by rebuilding relationships with your customers.”
Obviously, Mr. Millstone wasn’t going to agree—a good thing. Ellis just needed to provide an easy out. “If you’d rather not, that’s certainly fine. We could—”
“When?”
Ellis blinked. Shit.
“I presume you have a deadline in the near future.”
Ellis mentally scrambled, mustering a look of gratitude. “How’s tomorrow?”
Mr. Millstone’s demeanor lightened the smallest amount. “Fine. Two o’clock.” Then he stressed with a pointer finger, “At the bank.”
“Yes, of course. I look forward to it.”
A quick sniff, and Mr. Millstone bid good night. Then, as if suddenly recalling his purpose for coming out, he snatched up his evening paper and shut the door.
Ellis exhaled in a quiet rush. “Well done, dimwit,” he muttered to himself.
When he turned for the steps, he noted the window. The view of the parlor, along with the children, was gone. Someone had drawn the drapes.
• • •
The phone was ringing as Ellis approached his apartment. He unlocked it and rushed inside to pick up the handset on the entry table. He’d barely said hello when a woman answered.
“Ellis? Oh, thank heavens you’re there.”
He hesitated, pleasantly surprised by the voice. “Lily…yeah. I just walked in.”
“I’ve been calling and calling—at work, then your apartment—but I couldn’t reach you.”
At her urgency, he brought the mouthpiece closer. “What’s happened? Are you all right?”
“She came to the Examiner to find you. I barely caught up to her, just leaving the building. There’s more you need to hear, but she wants to tell you herself.”
“Wait a sec. You’ve got to back up.” None of it was making sense. “Who is…she?”
Now Lily was the one who hesitated. After a breath over the line, she replied.
“Geraldine Dillard.”
Chapter 24
A passing glance shouldn’t have been enough to recognize her. After all, the only picture Lily had seen of Geraldine was grainy and gray from the press, half of her face obscured.
Lily wondered later what had sparked the revelation. Was it a hunch? Gut instinct, intuition? More likely, it was plain wishful thinking. No doubt, all week, she had been seeking Geraldine’s face among strangers in passing. She was too invested at that point, she supposed, to accept the finality of their findings.
In the end, those findings were wrong. At least those that had been relayed by the sanitarium’s director. There was no greater proof than the reemergence of Geraldine, lured to the Examiner by Lily’s inquiry on Ellis’s behalf. But with Ellis gone to New York, Lily welcomed Geraldine to speak in confidence, yearning to help.
And so, in the privacy of the darkroom—the location a true mark of coming full circle—Lily listened to her story and agreed. Ellis, too, needed to hear it straight from the source.
As Geraldine waited at a nearby diner, Lily juggled her work tasks with desperate attempts to reach Ellis. In the midst of her fourth try, Clayton appeared at her desk, back from lunch—their lunch—and her stomach dropped. She had completely forgotten.
Her face must have conveyed her horror because the apology was just forming on her lips when he leaned toward her and smiled.
“Done it myself. It happens. We’ll blame the chief.” He assumed that pressing duties for her boss had looped her back to the paper. “Anyway, I ran into some pals from the Bulletin, so it worked out fine. We’ll catch dinner soon?”
“My goodness, yes. Thank you for understanding, Clayton.”
After a wink, he went about his job. His sheer kindness over the slipup made her feel even worse.
Only the ringing in her ear reminded her of the receiver in her grip.
Another unanswered call.
Hours later, not giving up, she rang from her boardinghouse. She had brought Geraldine with her, having promised to summon Ellis.
Admittedly, visions of him rolling craps and swigging liquor in some gaming hall had flitted through her mind until at last he answered the phone, his voice stunned but clear.
She gave him few details.
He didn’t need them to decide.
“Tell me where you are,” he said.
• • •
It was a little after eight when the rattling of a car engine again drew Lily toward the foyer. The evening was slipping away.
Geraldine’s bus ride back to the sanitarium, in Bensalem Township, would leave at 9:32. Out of pride, despite the drive taking well over a half hour, she declined to stay until morning. Lily would have pressed the issue if the boardinghouse didn’t frown upon overnight guests. She was already pushing her limits.
The landlady, Miss Westin, had retired upstairs for the evening, same as the only other tenants in the brownstone who hadn’t ventured out to a movie palace or a vaudeville show. Lily had properly alerted Miss Westin that a second friend would be paying a visit—just without specifying gender. The prim British woman would have insisted upon chaperoning.
That certainty now sent Lily racing again to the heavy oak door to prevent a ring of the bell. Beneath a glowing streetlamp, there was Ellis, striding up to the entry. She tempered her volume despite her eagerness. “Come inside,” she said, and closed the door behind them. His concern and co
nfusion, evident in his blue eyes, had surely amassed over the length of the drive.
Aware of the most glaring discrepancy, she didn’t wait for the question. “When I phoned the sanitarium, they did tell me Geraldine had passed.”
“It was a mix-up, then.”
“That’s what I thought too. But she’d simply asked them for privacy when she first arrived there. She was hoping to live out her final days without attention from anyone. Particularly the press.”
He shrugged his brows, acknowledging the sensibility in it. Then those features drew together. “How ill is she now?”
He wanted to be prepared. But it was best to see for himself.
“She’s in the den.”
Ellis removed his hat, gearing up, and Lily led him onward. Dark panels of wood covered the floor and walls, lending the brownstone a gothic feel in the evenings. Tonight even more so, given its widowed guest risen from the grave.
Past the narrow staircase and a small phone table, they entered the den. The scent of lemon polish mingled with that of the aged books that lined two walls of shelves, each stretched to the twelve-foot ceiling. The painting of a cobblestone village flickered above the fireplace.
Geraldine sat upon one of two matching upholstered chairs, staring into the flames. Still in her overcoat, she fingered a button on her long skirt.
“Mrs. Dillard?” Ellis said. When she turned and nodded, he edged forward with eyes narrowed, absorbing the state of her condition. “I didn’t… They said that…”
He faltered for obvious reason. In the amber firelight, aside from her tired eyes and stragglers of her brown hair loosened from her bun, she showed no resemblance to a woman on her deathbed. In fact, given her healthful appearance, any claims of a grave illness seemed part of an elaborate conspiracy.
Lily chimed in to explain. “Her doctor was mistaken. It wasn’t tuberculosis.”
Ellis continued to stare at Geraldine. “When did you find out?”
Geraldine’s hands, weathered but strong, went still as she thought. “Must’ve been a month after leaving for Dearborn.”
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