Murder, She Uncovered

by Peg Cochran

  “Where are we going?” Elizabeth said.

  “Trust me, okay?” They stood in front of the elevator waiting for it to arrive. “I noticed the conservatory was empty. We’ll have some quiet so we can talk.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t imagine what they had to talk about, although the thought stirred feelings of dread in her stomach.

  The conservatory was, indeed, empty, much to Elizabeth’s dismay. Phillips maneuvered Elizabeth into the room where ferns and plants of every variety grew in the warm, moist air.

  He took a gulp of his martini and once again Elizabeth wished she had one, too.

  “It took me by surprise,” Phillips began, “to hear that old Bertie popped the question. Good man, Bertie.”

  “They’ve been slated for each other practically since the cradle,” Elizabeth said dryly, wondering where this conversation was going.

  “Still—it takes courage to ask a girl to marry you.”

  Elizabeth was beginning to feel impatient. It was getting late and she was more than ready to go home to bed.

  “We’ve been going out for what? A year now?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

  “We seem to get along quite well,” Phillips said. He swayed slightly and put out a hand to steady himself. He held up his drink and laughed. “Dutch courage.”

  Elizabeth’s impatience grew. “What are you trying to say, Phillips?”

  “I’m trying to say…” He hiccoughed. “That I think we should consider maybe someday making it official like old Bertie and Marjorie.”

  So that was it, Elizabeth thought. Phillips was—in his usual bumbling way—asking her to marry him. Phillips came from the “right” sort of family. He knew the “right” people. There was plenty of money—his family hadn’t been wiped out in the Depression like so many others. And an impressive pedigree—Phillips claimed they could trace their family roots all the way back to Peter Stuyvesant himself.

  Her mother would be thrilled. Unfortunately Elizabeth wasn’t.

  Elizabeth cleared her throat. How to break it to Phillips gently? She knew it took courage for a man to propose—even as awkwardly as Phillips had.

  She touched Phillips lightly on the arm. “I think we should give ourselves more time. It’s only been a year after all.”

  Phillips drew back. “What do you mean? We’d have more time if it weren’t for that job of yours.”

  The hairs on the back of Elizabeth’s neck bristled. “My job has nothing to do with it.”

  “It has everything to do with it,” Phillips said with a sneer. “It’s more important to you than I am.”

  A sharp retort rose to Elizabeth’s lips and she restrained herself with some difficulty from blurting it out.

  “There’s someone else, isn’t there?” Phillips gulped down the last of his martini. “Paul Butler told me he saw you having dinner with some other man.”

  For a moment Elizabeth was puzzled, then she realized he meant Marino. Butler had seen them together at Delmonico’s and had obviously run and told Phillips.

  “He’s just a friend,” Elizabeth said, wondering if she meant it even as the words left her mouth.

  “So you’re saying no?” Phillips’s face took on a sulky expression.

  “I’m saying we should wait a little longer and get to know each other better.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing,” Phillips said, pointing a finger at Elizabeth. “When you marry me you’re going to give up that job of yours and become a proper wife.”

  And with that he let out a loud belch.

  * * *

  —

  Elizabeth woke up the next morning hoping the previous evening had all been a bad dream. Helen had been waiting up, her head drooping over the latest issue of Vogue, when Elizabeth got home. Elizabeth had claimed extreme fatigue and hurried off to bed before Helen had been able to ask any questions.

  There was no chance of avoiding her mother’s questions at breakfast, however.

  “Did you have a nice time at the party last night?” Helen said, sectioning off a piece of her grapefruit.

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said.

  “Did Phillips have a good time?” Helen said, glancing slyly at Elizabeth.

  “I suppose so.”

  Helen sighed in frustration.

  Elizabeth scraped the last spoonful of boiled egg from the shell, gobbled down the last bit of crust from her toast and pushed her plate away.

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry, dear?” Helen said.

  “I’m going to the office. I have some pictures to develop.”

  “Must you? On a Sunday?” Helen made a face. “If you insist on working, can’t you find something less demanding? Minnie said her daughter had her coming-out picture taken by a woman photographer. You could do something like that if you must take pictures.”

  “I suppose I could,” Elizabeth said, kissing her mother’s cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

  * * *

  —

  The streets downtown were nearly deserted when Elizabeth emerged from the subway station. She hurried along Forty-Fourth Street anxious to get to the newsroom and her darkroom.

  The darkroom was like a safe haven to her. The mechanics of developing pictures was soothing and she found it chased all thoughts away. She imagined that must be what it was like to meditate.

  The lobby of the Daily Trumpet building was nearly as deserted as the street had been. The elevator stood open and waiting, the operator slouched against the wall, his eyes closed. He jumped to attention when he heard Elizabeth’s footsteps coming across the marble floor.

  “What floor, miss?”

  “Fourth, please.”

  Elizabeth could barely contain her impatience as the elevator made its slow crawl upwards. She unbuttoned her jacket and stuffed her gloves into the pockets before the doors had even opened.

  “Thanks,” she said over her shoulder to the elevator operator.

  She pushed open the door to the newsroom. Becker was at his desk eating a hot dog and shouting into the telephone. He turned around and waved at Elizabeth.

  Kaminsky came around the corner with a cup of coffee in his hand. He looked surprised to see her.

  “What brings you out on this fine Sunday?”

  Elizabeth hesitated. She didn’t want to get Kaminsky’s hopes up in case the pictures hadn’t turned out. She motioned toward the door to the darkroom.

  “I…I have some pictures I thought I’d develop.”

  “Shouldn’t you be in church? I thought your type was religious about attending.” He slapped his knee and laughed at his own joke.

  “What about you?” Elizabeth shot back. “I thought all Poles were good Catholics.”

  Kaminsky’s face clouded over. “Not me. I gave up on religion a long time ago.”

  Elizabeth sensed a story. “You’re right. I can’t picture you as the churchgoing type.”

  Kaminsky sat on the edge of one of the desks and swung his leg back and forth. “I used to be an altar boy, you know. But then…”

  Elizabeth waited but Kaminsky didn’t continue.

  “But then what?” she prompted.

  Kaminsky let out a gusty sigh. “Something happened. Something bad. The priest…well he didn’t act very priestly.”

  Elizabeth felt her chest constrict. How Kaminsky must have suffered as a child.

  “Did you tell your parents?’

  Kaminsky looked down and stirred his coffee with his finger. He looked up again.

  “Yeah.” He paused and his face contorted as if he was reliving the scene. “They made me go to confession. They thought I was lying.”

  Elizabeth gasped. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Kaminsky slid off the edge of the
desk. “It was a long time ago.”

  Elizabeth hesitated.

  Kaminsky waved a hand at her. “Go. Develop your pictures. Then get out of here and enjoy your day.”

  Elizabeth hung up her coat and took her camera into the darkroom. She was quite sure she’d caught some good shots of Gordon Tyler and his paramour, but still, things could have gone awry. She might have put the film in wrong or she might not have framed the shot as well as she’d thought. She hated the fact that she always doubted herself—would she ever become as confident as the other photographers and reporters who seemed so unflappable and at ease?

  She held her breath as she moved the first negative to the developer and submerged it in the liquid. Slowly, bit by bit, the image emerged. Her heart pounded as she watched.

  Gradually Gordon Tyler emerged with his sharp profile and his widow’s peak. And now his companion was visible—her bright scarlet coat appearing dark in the black-and-white photograph.

  Elizabeth’s hands were trembling as she moved the photograph from the developer to the fixer and then to the stop bath. A brief rinse and it was ready to be clipped to the carousel.

  She quickly developed the rest of the pictures and studied the shots as they dried. There was no doubt that Tyler and the woman were romantically involved. It was written all over their faces.

  Elizabeth thought of the sad sheet-covered bundle on the sidewalk that had been Mary Tyler. She didn’t deserve to die like that. Elizabeth squared her shoulders and raised her chin. If Gordon Tyler was responsible, hopefully between them, she and Kaminsky would bring him to justice.

  She stayed in the darkroom, pacing back and forth, while the photos dried. Finally she was able to unclip them from the carousel and take them to Kaminsky.

  Kaminsky was at his typewriter, fingers dancing on the keys, staring at the piece of paper unreeling from the platen. A crumpled sheet of wax paper sat by his elbow, and the smell of egg salad and onions mingled with the ever-present scent of tobacco smoke.

  He looked up when he heard Elizabeth coming.

  “Whatcha got?”

  Elizabeth spread the photographs out like a poker player displaying a winning hand.

  Kaminsky’s indrawn breath told her everything she needed to know. He tapped one of the photos with his finger.

  “So Tyler did have a gal on the side like we suspected.” He glanced at the photo again. “Pretty little thing.” He turned to Elizabeth with a big smile. “And you’ve found proof.”

  “It gives Gordon Tyler a good motive for murder, don’t you think?”

  Kaminsky’s face darkened. “Unfortunately it gives Mary Tyler a good motive for committing suicide, too. Her husband is having an affair. Maybe he threatens to leave her. She doesn’t know what to do and in despair decides to end it all by jumping out the window.”

  “But she was planning on making a pot roast for dinner. Remember what the butcher said? Why would she do that if she planned to throw herself out the window?”

  “Oh, I think you’re right,” Kaminsky said. “Either way we have a story though. ‘Despondant over Husband’s Affair, Wife Throws Herself out Window.’ ” He tapped the photo again. “Or, ‘Desperate to Be with Lover, Man Murders Wife.’ ”

  Kaminsky pulled a frayed handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “We’re going to run this and see if we can smoke out any more information on Gordon and Mary Tyler. Maybe someone will come forward with material that corroborates our theory.”

  He yanked the piece of paper from his typewriter, sending the platen spinning, and tossed it aside.

  “I’ll get the story written right away. We should be able to make the evening edition if we’re lucky.” He turned to Elizabeth. “I think we’re on to something, Biz. Something big.”

  Chapter 13

  Elizabeth spent the rest of Sunday playing cribbage with Rose and Rose’s best friend Virginia. Rose and Virginia met each other in kindergarten at the Spence School and had been inseparable ever since.

  Jones had set up a card table for them in the sitting room, and Mrs. Murphy had provided a china pot of Earl Grey tea and a plate of homemade shortbread cookies.

  Virginia glanced at her cards then looked up at Elizabeth.

  “My mother said you have a job.”

  “That’s right,” Elizabeth said, studying her hand. “I’m a photographer for a newspaper.”

  “My mother said that proper young ladies don’t work.”

  Rose gasped. “Virginia—”

  “It’s all right, Rose.” Elizabeth smiled at her sister reassuringly. She turned to Virginia. “I don’t see why a proper young lady can’t have a job. Your mother is probably thinking of her day, but times have changed.”

  “I want to be a nurse someday,” Rose said. She turned to her friend. “What would you want to be if you could be anything?”

  Virginia looked startled, but then a slow smile spread across her face.

  “I’d like to be a lawyer like my father. It sounds so terribly interesting.”

  “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be,” Elizabeth said.

  “Really?” Virginia sounded hopeful, but her brow was still puckered with doubt.

  “Really,” Elizabeth said with conviction.

  * * *

  —

  Elizabeth thought about their conversation later that evening. It was early—they’d already eaten dinner and her mother was listening to the Chase and Sanborn Hour on the radio and her father was in his study reading the latest Eric Ambler novel—but Elizabeth decided to get in bed with her book. It had been a long day, and she was tired.

  She pulled the flowered chintz curtains closed, shutting out the darkness and the chill that crept around the edges of the windows. She had a steaming cup of cocoa on her nightstand that Mrs. Murphy had prepared for her, and the bed was turned down and the pillows plumped.

  She’d already put her hair up in pin curls and creamed her face. She yawned as she slipped beneath the covers and picked up her book. She opened it and began to read, but after a few sentences she realized she wasn’t following the words.

  She kept thinking of her conversation with her sister and Rose’s friend Virginia. None of the women in Elizabeth’s set worked. Although there was one girl she knew from Wellesley, a senior when she was a freshman, who had taken a job with a publishing company.

  Plenty of women did work though—but not in the sort of jobs anyone she knew would deign to take. Jobs like Orla’s in that sweaty garment factory or Noeleen’s waiting on a family hand and foot.

  A wave of guilt washed over her. Had Mrs. Murphy wanted something more out of her life? And Jones, too? She realized she took them for granted like she took the fact that dinner would always be on the table at seven o’clock for granted. Perhaps they had dreamed of something better once—a home and family of their own, maybe, and a little garden where they could grow vegetables. Mrs. Murphy often talked about the garden they’d had back in Ireland when she was a child.

  And one time when Elizabeth was in grammar school and had been having trouble with some math problems the teacher had given them for their homework, Jones had sat with her, as patient as anything, showing her how to solve the equations. Had he perhaps dreamed of a career of his own?

  She vowed to do better. She knew a little bit about Mrs. Murphy—she’d come to this country from her native Ireland when she was sixteen. She’d left behind a much older brother who was in his thirties and was a farmer in County Leitrim.

  She knew even less about Jones. Less than nothing, she realized. He never talked about himself. And although she thought he was born in the Bronx somewhere, she really didn’t know for sure.

  Elizabeth turned the page in her book and tried to read, but her mind kept wandering. She thought of her conversation with Kaminsky that morning. Poor Kaminsky. So much
harm had been done in the name of religion.

  She thought of Noeleen. Noeleen had taken succor from her faith at least. And Mrs. Brown, too.

  Elizabeth was about to put her book aside and turn out the light when she had a thought. It was a horrifying thought, but once it had crossed her mind she couldn’t shake it.

  She thought of Noeleen going to church every morning at dawn. And Father McGrath’s slip when he’d referred to her by her given name instead of Miss Donovan.

  Was it possible? Someone was the father of Noeleen’s baby. Mrs. Brown had insisted it couldn’t be Killian. Duff claimed that all he and Noeleen had shared was a ride in his sports car. What if Noeleen and Father McGrath…

  Elizabeth couldn’t bring herself to finish the thought. It was too horrifying. She turned out her bedside light, pulled the comforter up to her shoulders and prayed for sleep.

  * * *

  —

  Elizabeth overslept the next morning. She dressed in a rush, yanking the bobby pins from her hair and quickly pulling a brush through the curls.

  She told Mrs. Murphy not to bother about her egg and toast and, breathless, bolted out the door with her hat partially askew.

  The subway took forever to come. It always did when she was in a rush, Elizabeth thought, pacing the platform while she waited. She glanced at the young girl standing next to her who had a wilting red silk rose pinned to her hat. The seams on her stockings were horribly crooked, running up the back of her legs like a jagged scar. Elizabeth swiveled around to check her own seams, running her hands up her legs to straighten them.

  By the time she got to Forty-Second Street, her stomach was rumbling audibly. She darted into a coffee shop where a number of people were lined up at the counter waiting to order. Elizabeth got behind a tall man in a gray pinstripe suit and watched as the men behind the counter spread cream cheese on bagels and poured coffee into cardboard cups with dizzying speed.

  “What’ll you have?” the man said when it was Elizabeth’s turn. He had a rough cotton apron stretched across his expansive stomach.