“Olympia?”
“Is that her name?”
“Yes. She is . . . I have done what you said. I let my friends come to visit me. They were full of gossip about Esposito. They tell me he has a flat on Pleasant Avenue where he is keeping a woman, and Olympia is furious. He has had women before, you understand, but he never made a place for them like this. And he gave this woman something that belonged to Olympia, something valuable, at least to her. She . . .” Mrs. Cassidi shrugged helplessly.
“I see. Of course she would be furious. Any woman would be. I wonder if she actually went to the flat that night. She might have seen something that would help us find the killer.”
Mrs. Cassidi allowed herself a rare smile. “Or she might have killed him herself.”
Sarah smiled back. “I’d ask her that if I could speak to her, but I doubt she’d welcome a visit from me.”
“No, she would not,” Mrs. Cassidi said, “but maybe . . .”
“Maybe what?” Sarah prodded.
“She goes to Mass every morning and tomorrow is Sunday, so she will surely be there. If we met her there, you could ask her whatever you like.”
VIII
This is Salvatore Pizzuto,” Teo told the next person they encountered in the tenement, who happened to live just down the hall from Esposito’s flat. This was a sturdy young Italian woman with a baby on her hip and a worried frown on her face. “His daughter is missing, and he is trying to find out if she could be the woman that Esposito was holding in his flat here.” This was the story she and Gino had concocted, figuring it would win sympathy and perhaps inspire the neighbors to tell what they knew to a stranger. They were speaking in Italian for ease of communication and because that’s how most people in the neighborhood spoke to each other.
The woman shook her head at Gino, although she looked sad to do so. “That woman was not Italian. She was American. She had yellow hair.”
Most of the neighbors had claimed not to have seen her, so Teo brightened at once. “Did you know her?”
“No. She was not from here.”
Teo managed a worried frown and leaned close so they wouldn’t be overheard. “Do you think she was here against her will?”
The young woman bounced the baby who was making fussy noises. “How would I know that?”
“Did you hear anything?” Gino asked. “Was she crying for help?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Did they argue?” Teo tried.
“Oh no.” The young woman smirked. “That man, he can be charming when he wants to be, and always to the women.”
“And you didn’t see anyone guarding the flat?” Gino asked.
“Esposito . . .” She took a moment to pretend to spit on the floor at the mention of his name. “He always has a man to guard him. When he is here, somebody was in the hall or outside on the stoop, but he leaves with Esposito. He is guarding him, not her.”
“Are you sure about that?” Gino prodded.
She gave him a sad smile. “The woman leaves when she wants to.”
“Did you see her go?” Teo asked.
“Everyone sees her go. She is wearing such a fine dress, everyone notices her. She pretends not to see us, but we see her.”
“What day was this?” Gino asked.
“The day before they find Esposito dead, I think. Wednesday morning.”
“And no one tried to stop her from leaving?” Gino asked.
“I am sorry, sir, but this woman is not your daughter and this woman was not a prisoner. I know they . . .” She glanced around, suddenly nervous, then lowered her voice. “I know they kidnap people, but they do not keep them here. If they took your daughter, she will be somewhere else.”
Gino was about to thank her and take their leave, but Teo said, “When she left, what color was her dress?”
“Blue, like the sky on a fine day. If he buys her clothes like that, I wonder why she leaves.”
* * *
* * *
Saturday was a busy day at the settlement house. Children were out of school and many had come to use the playground. A lot of parents milled around, apparently gossiping and catching up with friends. The classrooms were all full, too, and few of the residents were unoccupied, so no one really noticed Frank’s arrival. He found Christopher McWilliam in his office.
“Mr. Malloy, what brings you here?” he asked, jumping up to greet Frank, although his expression was more wary than welcoming. He still looked as if he wasn’t sleeping well.
“I’m still trying to figure out who killed Esposito.” McWilliam had no response to this. After an awkward pause, Frank said, “Have you heard anything from Miss Harding?”
McWilliam flinched slightly, so obviously this was still a painful subject. “Uh, no, and I didn’t really expect to. I think Jane has left this part of her life behind.” And left him behind as well, apparently. “How is Gino Donatelli doing?” he asked, returning the barb.
“I’ve sent him to a safe place until we can find Esposito’s killer.”
McWilliam frowned. “Do you think you’ll be able to do that?”
“I’m pretty good at finding killers, Mr. McWilliam.”
The news did not seem to please McWilliam. “I . . . Did you think I would be able to help you?”
“As a matter of fact, I did need to ask you something,” Frank said. “Can we sit down for a minute?”
Plainly, McWilliam didn’t want Frank there at all, but he somehow managed a falsely friendly smile and motioned to the sofa. “Of course. Please, make yourself comfortable.” McWilliam moved his desk chair over as he had before and perched on the edge, as if unsure he really wanted to stay.
Frank settled in, silently telling his host that he meant business. “I went to see Mr. Cassidi today.”
“Did you? Why on earth did you need to see him again?”
“Because I thought it would be a good idea to speak to the people I knew might want to see Esposito dead.”
“Did you really think Cassidi might have killed him?” McWilliam asked in wonder.
“A lot of people in this community had good reason to hate Esposito, and Mr. Cassidi was only the most recent addition to that list.”
“Which makes me wonder why you chose him.”
“Because I knew about him. I didn’t know who else might have had a family member kidnapped, because the Italians don’t usually go to the police about these things.”
McWilliam nodded. “We can’t seem to convince them they should trust the police.”
“And there’s really no reason why they should. So I asked Cassidi if he could tell me who else had been victimized by the Black Hand.”
McWilliam shifted uneasily in his chair, slipping even closer to the edge as if preparing to flee. “And what did he tell you?”
“That he wouldn’t give me any names because he was afraid I’d accuse them of the killing.”
“As I said, we can’t seem to get the Italians to trust the police.”
“But he did tell me about someone else, someone who isn’t Italian.”
“And who is that?” he asked uneasily.
“You.”
He didn’t seem shocked. “I suppose he told you he came to see me the night before they found Esposito’s body.”
Frank’s nerves tingled. This was news to him. Frank didn’t have to wonder why Cassidi hadn’t mentioned it either. It meant he was out the night Esposito was killed and could easily have gone to the flat, too. But why would Cassidi have gone to see McWilliam? “Yes,” Frank lied, “he did tell me he saw you that night.”
McWilliam reached up and rubbed his eyes. Then he slowly lowered his hands but didn’t quite meet Frank’s gaze. “Do you know what they did to . . . ?” He couldn’t seem to force himself to finish the sentence.
So that was i
t. Of course. “Do I know what they did to Mrs. Cassidi?” Frank asked gently. “Yes, I do. She told my wife.”
McWilliam looked up at the ceiling, anywhere but at Frank. “He didn’t know exactly who was missing from the settlement. He didn’t know the woman was my fiancée, but he wanted to tell me that we needed to find her at once, that we couldn’t wait weeks or months because . . .” He stopped to swallow and all the color had drained from his face.
“I’m sorry, Mr. McWilliam, but we don’t know what happened to Miss Harding, and she was only gone for a short time,” Frank said, still being kind because McWilliam looked as if he might shatter if Frank pressured him at all. Still, he needed more information. “By any chance, did Miss Harding tell you where she was being held?”
McWilliam frowned. “No. I didn’t even ask.”
“But we know it was nearby. She was able to walk back here when she escaped, after all.”
“I . . . I suppose so.”
“Don’t tell me you didn’t suspect she was being held at the flat where Esposito was killed.”
McWilliam shook his head. “I didn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .”
“Hadn’t you heard the gossip?”
“I don’t gossip, Mr. Malloy,” McWilliam said stiffly.
“Then maybe Mr. Cassidi told you when he came to warn you.”
But McWilliam was shaking his head again. “I hadn’t heard about that place until I heard Esposito was dead.”
“Then you didn’t go there that night to confront Esposito?”
“And kill him?” McWilliam scoffed. “Hardly, and I’m highly insulted that you should accuse me of such a thing.”
He looked more frightened than insulted, but Frank didn’t point that out. Instead he said, “Sorry,” without very much conviction.
This did make McWilliam angry. “I’m not a killer, Mr. Malloy.”
“No one would blame you for killing a man like Esposito, especially if you thought he’d hurt the woman you love.”
“I must ask you not to make these insinuations about Miss Harding again. Even if we aren’t engaged, she deserves my protection, and I intend to offer it.”
“Of course. I meant no disrespect,” Frank said sincerely. “So can I assume that you were here at the settlement house the entire night after Mr. Cassidi visited you?”
“I don’t think I need to answer any more of your ridiculous questions, Mr. Malloy. You’ve insulted me and Miss Harding quite enough for one day. I must ask you to leave.”
Frank didn’t really need to ask any more questions, ridiculous or not. “Thank you for your time, Mr. McWilliam.” He rose from the sofa and McWilliam jumped up from his chair in response. “I hope you’ll let me know if you hear anything that would help me clear Gino Donatelli’s name, however. Like Miss Harding, he is an innocent victim in all of this.”
McWilliam’s face contorted with whatever emotions were roiling within him, but he merely said, “Of course,” and gestured toward the door.
* * *
* * *
As she made her way into the sanctuary of Our Lady of Mount Carmel in East Harlem the next morning, Sarah wondered if going to church specifically to question a possible murder suspect was some kind of sin. She’d never seen anything in the Bible about it or heard a sermon on the subject. Since she was quite possibly the first person to have done it, she supposed it was too rare an occurrence to even merit a mention.
The church itself was magnificent. The stained glass shone brightly in the morning sun, and the quiet hum of the organ and the sweet smell of incense spoke of genuine peace.
Mrs. Cassidi was already seated in the back pew when Sarah arrived. Sarah knew the Catholics had more than one Mass on Sunday morning, unlike the Protestants, who made do with one service. Mrs. Cassidi had been very certain that Mrs. Esposito would attend the earliest Mass, which meant a very early start for Sarah, but she arrived well in time. The worshippers were still filing in as Sarah slipped into the pew beside Mrs. Cassidi.
“Good morning,” Sarah said, suddenly realizing that she had no idea how to participate in a Catholic worship service. Kneeling was involved, she knew, but how did one know when to do it? “I’m not Catholic. You’ll have to tell me what to do.”
Mrs. Cassidi nodded absently. She was scanning the people making their way down the aisle. “There she is.” She nodded to the woman who had just passed them.
Mrs. Esposito was an imposing figure. Taller than most of the women in Italian Harlem, she held herself rigidly erect and moved with a stately grace. Was she always like this, or was she simply bracing herself for all the gossip she knew must be swirling around her after her husband’s murder? How humiliating to have everyone saying he’d been killed while visiting his mistress. She was dressed in unrelieved black, but it was a stylish ensemble that looked brand new. She clutched what must be a prayer book in her gloved hands, and her unnecessarily tight grip on the book was the only thing that betrayed her tension. Her face was expressionless and strangely beautiful, although time had softened her features somewhat. The word tragic seemed to fit her, somehow.
Mrs. Esposito claimed a seat a few rows in front of them and knelt instead of sitting, bowing her head and crossing herself before she started fingering the beads of her rosary as she apparently began to pray. Sarah wondered for what she prayed, but perhaps she was just going through the motions to keep curiosity seekers at bay. She wouldn’t want to acknowledge any false expressions of sympathy, after all.
Then the service started, and Sarah had to focus all her attention on standing and sitting and kneeling at all the proper times. Since everything was in Latin, she couldn’t get any clues from the priest leading the service, so she had to mimic Mrs. Cassidi, who graciously prompted her with discreet hand motions. As soon as the service ended, Mrs. Cassidi and Sarah moved quickly to execute the maneuver they had decided would work best for them.
Mrs. Cassidi left their pew and moved up the side aisle while Sarah moved up the center aisle. Then they each slipped into Mrs. Esposito’s pew from either end, effectively boxing her in. She had been gathering her things, preparing to leave, and she glanced up at Sarah with some annoyance before noticing that Mrs. Cassidi had moved in on her other side.
“Violetta, what are you doing?” she whispered furiously, turning to give Sarah a brief glare to include her.
“Olympia, I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am,” Mrs. Cassidi said in a normal voice, in case someone was listening.
“Grazie,” Mrs. Esposito said through gritted teeth, then she asked a question in Italian.
“English, please. My friend is American.”
“Who is this woman and what does she want?” Mrs. Esposito repeated in a furious whisper.
“This is Mrs. Malloy. Her husband’s partner, Gino Donatelli, has been accused of killing your husband, but we know he did not do it.”
Mrs. Esposito stiffened at this, and the look she gave Sarah almost made her wince. “I know nothing of this.”
“You were seen on Pleasant Avenue the night your husband was murdered, Mrs. Esposito,” Sarah said. “I just want to know what you saw when you went to the apartment.”
“I saw nothing. I did not go there.” But she was clutching her prayer book in a death grip again.
Sarah chose to ignore her denial. “What did you plan to do that night? Were you going to confront your husband or the woman?”
“I was not going to do anything.” She glanced up apprehensively as some of the exiting worshippers slowed down to eye the strange trio curiously. Mrs. Esposito quickly crossed herself and began praying again, or at least pretended to. Mrs. Cassidi was already kneeling, ostensibly praying but really just trying to more effectively block Mrs. Esposito’s exit.
Sarah waited until their observers gave up and moved on. “I think you found out your husband had rented a flat and
was keeping his new mistress there. I think you decided to confront him and demand that he give her up.”
She laughed at this, a harsh, mirthless sound that was more like a grunt. “I do not care if he has a woman. She is puttana. I am his wife. Nothing can change that.”
“Then why did you go there that night if you didn’t care?”
She turned to Sarah, and her beautiful face was now twisted into a rictus of fury. “He took . . . something from me. Something of mine, and he gave it to her. I go to get it back.”
“And did you? Get it back, I mean?”
Mrs. Esposito glared at Sarah as if she would have gladly ripped her heart out with her bare hands, but finally she simply said, “No.”
“He wouldn’t give it to you?”
“She took it and she was gone. She left him,” she added with a bitter smile. “He was crying like a bambino when I find him.”
“And you were so angry that you stabbed him to death,” Sarah tried.
Mrs. Esposito’s smile widened and grew even more bitter. “Why do I kill him? I have nothing now. I am the widow of a man they feared, and now they hate me. Let me out before I scream and tell the priest two witches are putting the evil eye on me.”
Mrs. Cassidi gasped in outrage, but Sarah rose immediately and made way for Mrs. Esposito to leave. No sense causing a scene when she’d already gotten all the information she was going to get.
When Mrs. Esposito was gone, Mrs. Cassidi muttered something in Italian that sounded like something Mrs. Esposito wouldn’t have wanted to hear about herself. “I am sorry, signora. I thought she would be ashamed when she saw me, because she knew her husband’s people had kidnapped me. I thought she would answer your questions.”
Sarah slid back into the pew. “She did answer them, although she probably didn’t think so. We know she went to the flat and that she was angry enough to have killed her husband. Do you have any idea what her husband could have taken from her and given to the other woman?”
Mrs. Cassidi glanced around to make sure they were not being observed, and even then, she leaned in close. “We do not brag. The devil takes notice.” She crossed herself. “But sometimes you cannot help yourself. Olympia would not want people to know she has something very valuable. Someone might steal it away, but she also would want people to envy her. Her husband is a brutal man, but he has power and money. He gave her something. She said it would protect her always.”
Murder on Pleasant Avenue Page 14
