The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress (20 page)

A copy of the
New York World
was spread on her lap, along with two letters that had come by post that morning, and she switched between the front-page article, the letters, and the missing persons circular, as though each new reading would explain the mystery of Joe’s disappearance.

The letters were the most distressing of the lot. The first, written in startling blue ink on cheap white stationery, was a clear attempt at extortion. When she’d read of kidnappings and ransom notes as a child, she imagined things along the lines of Robert Louis Stevenson. It was, in truth, far less romantic when she held the clichéd note demanding $20,000 in exchange for the safe return of her husband.
Have money small denominations. The quiet way is best. Cooperate fully or you will not see your husband again
. She stuffed it back in the envelope.

The second letter was from Commissioner Mulrooney and stated that he would be sending a detective to question her.

As far as the newspapers went, it had been a big week. A reporter by the name of George Hall had written both front-page articles. Above the fold was the now-staple face of Joe and more curious details of how he vanished. Below the fold was a picture of Al Smith at the construction site for the Empire State Building. “Eighty years ago, a very short time when one stops to think, this land was part of a farm,” Al had said in his speech. “More recently it was the site of one of the great hotels in the world; and soon it will be the location of the tallest structure ever built by man.” Stella found it ironic that the two men shared the same newspaper page. It was Al, after all, who had pushed so hard for Joe to get into politics, and then Al again who had helped arrange the details of his appointment to the court years later. She wondered if he’d paused at all that day to publicly acknowledge her husband or if he’d been too obsessed by watching his own dream rise into the New York skyline.

Stella had almost memorized the tersely worded announcement that went out to law enforcement around the country. Fred had brought her the circular, along with the morning papers, after he returned from the village earlier that day, and she’d worn them thin with anxiety.

$5,000.00 REWARD

MISSING SINCE AUGUST 6, 1930

JUSTICE OF THE SUPREME COURT, STATE OF NEW YORK

THE CITY OF NEW YORK OFFERS $5,000 REWARD TO ANY PERSON OR PERSONS FURNISHING THIS DEPARTMENT WITH INFORMATION RESULTING IN LOCATING JOSEPH FORCE CRATER

Description—Born in the United States—Age, 41 years; height, 6 feet, weight, 185 pounds; mixed gray hair, originally dark brown, thin at top, parted in middle “slicked” down; complexion, medium dark, considerably tanned; brown eyes; false teeth, upper and lower jaw; good physical and mental condition at time of disappearance. Tip of right index finger somewhat mutilated due to having been recently crushed
.

Stella stopped reading and wadded the circular in her clenched fist. She loathed the words they used to describe Joe:
missing, time of disappearance, presumed alive
. Commissioner Mulrooney had signed the
circular himself. One comment in particular drew her attention: “If we could find some of his papers we might learn something about the cause for his disappearance.”

She could only guess that Mulrooney was hinting at the envelopes she’d found in the apartment, but she couldn’t fathom how he knew about them. His name hadn’t been on Joe’s list of illicit business dealings. Stella hurled the newspaper and the circular into the water. Propelled by her anger, they fluttered in midair, pages spreading out like a fan, and then landed with a plunk and turned gray as water soaked them.

“That’s not a statement,” she said, “it’s an obituary.”

“The neighbors will think you’ve gone strange, talking to yourself like that.”

Stella turned to find Emma standing above her, hands clasped at her waist in that infuriatingly polite way of hers. She hadn’t heard the screen door snap shut or Emma’s purposeful stride down the wooden pier.

“Look around. I have no neighbors.”

“They boat. And they talk. You must maintain propriety. Appearances are important, you know.” Emma pointed back toward the house. “One of those detectives from the city is waiting inside to ask you a few questions.”

“I know.” She held up the letter from Mulrooney. “I’ll come in a minute.”

“You’re going to make that detective wait while you sit out here and talk to yourself? That’s hardly a way for the wife of a missing judge to behave.”

“I’m going to gather my thoughts,” Stella said. “Besides, I don’t really give a damn about appearances right now.”

“Your language is appalling.”

“No. What’s appalling is that Joe’s face is all over the front page.”

“How else will they find him?”

“Those papers are a diversion, Mother. They’re not looking for Joe.

They’re looking for ways to capitalize on his disappearance.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“Every politician in New York just got carte blanche for as long as Joe is the headline. Tammany Hall will be a political free-for-all for months.”

“What on earth are you saying?”

“As long as the headlines are filled with juicy tidbits about a missing judge, then no one will read about the grand juries meeting this month.
Or the voter fraud. Or the bribery. We won’t read about the informants and the prostitutes that are disappearing every other day.”

Stella pulled out a cigarette. She ran it beneath her nose, inhaling. It was a bit stale, having sat open so long, but it reminded her of Joe and dinner parties and the few wonderful things that had come with being his wife.

“Since when do you smoke?” Emma eyed the cigarette as though she would yank it from Stella’s hand. But she glanced nervously back at the house instead.

“Since now.” It was easy to rip out a single match from the book and strike it against the strip of sandpaper. Stella tipped the cigarette into the flame just to watch her mother’s eyes widen.

“You’ve been out of sorts since New York. Is there something you need to tell me? If so, do it now, before you go in and talk to that man.”

“No. Should there be?”

Stella never made the conscious decision to inhale. But she did nonetheless. It was sand in her throat and fire in her sinuses. Her lungs forced the smoke out in rapid-fire bursts, and her eyes went slick. Emma laughed. Stella inhaled again. Ashes on her tongue. The taste of soot. Another lungful of smoke, deep into the core of her body, and she held it long enough to grow dizzy. Then she let it out in a sputter. Stella coughed and wiped her eyes. She took a deep breath of clean air and lifted the cigarette to her lips again. This time she took a cautious drag and rocked back and forth on the pier, controlling the tingling new sensation that flooded her body.

“Here.” She handed the second letter to Emma.

“What is this?”

“A fake ransom note demanding twenty thousand dollars for Joe’s safe return.”

“What?” Emma held the envelope away from her body as though it would burn her. “How do you know it’s fake?”

“Read it. Whoever wrote that thing copied the text from a dime-store novel. It’s a scam.”

“Are you sure? Who would do such a thing?”

“Someone who wants to make a quick buck off the grieving wife of a missing judge.”

“Well, what do you want me to do with it?”

“Give it to that detective.” Stella drew her feet out of the water and
slowly stood up. Dizzy and nauseated, she reached out to steady herself on Emma’s arm. “And have Fred bring the car around.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to Irv Bean’s store so I can officially report my husband missing.”

“It’s all over the papers.”

“Exactly. I can’t have people wondering why I never reported it.” Stella threw the half-smoked cigarette into the lake. “I must keep up
appearances
, after all.”

“Pull yourself together, Stella. You’re not going anywhere until you give that detective a statement.”

Stella glared at the house. “Just send him out here.”

BILTMORE HOTEL, NEW YORK CITY, OCTOBER 27, 1927

The crystal vase crashed to the floor, shards spinning across the wood parquet in every direction. An elaborate tulip arrangement lay tangled in the mess, buds broken and stems bent at unnatural angles.

“What in God’s name was that?” Joe struggled with his bow tie as he stumbled from the bedroom in the high-rise suite.

“The cat.” Stella pointed to a bushy-tailed orange tomcat that raced back and forth along the wall. His hackles were raised, and he hissed and spit as though batting away a predator.

“
Your
cat,” Joe said, correcting her with a stern glance. “I suggested we board him.”

“Chickie is
our
cat. And two weeks in a kennel would have killed him. Besides, it’s that stupid parrot next door. Can’t you hear it?”

Joe had arranged for them to stay in a suite adjoining that of Governor Al Smith and his wife, Catherine, while their new apartment was being finished. As a political move, it was genius, but it had proved a test of patience when it came to Chickie. The Smiths’ green parrot squawked so loudly it made their eyes throb and had a laugh so eerily human-sounding Stella often couldn’t tell whether she heard the bird or Catherine on the other side of the wall.

“Look at him,” she said. “It’s a wonder he hasn’t dug right through the wall to get that bird.”

“Put him in the bathroom, then. We need to get downstairs. Cocktails started ten minutes ago.”

It took several minutes before Stella cornered Chickie between a set of purple velvet drapes and a large armoire in the sitting room. She held him at arm’s length so he wouldn’t shed orange hair onto her black dress and chucked him into the bathroom.

“That cat is a menace,” Joe said, holding out his bow tie to her.

“He’s a darling.”

“He shit on the rug. Had to clean it up before the maid found it and complained to management. We’d be evicted.”

Stella flipped Joe’s collar up and ran the tie around his neck. She knotted it with nimble fingers. “The governor would never let that happen. Besides, I can only imagine what their place looks like. They don’t keep that bird caged. And Catherine told me the other day that Al feeds it straight from his fork.”

“They’re waiting on us.” He gave her dress careful scrutiny before finally offering his approval. “You look nice.”

Stella spun in a small circle, seeking his approval. But as usual, his gaze didn’t linger. “It’s Chanel,” she said, following him to the door. “Destined to be a classic, the salesclerk said—”

“I don’t care,” Joe interrupted, “as long as it was expensive.”

It
was
expensive. The latest version of the swing dress, it was long sleeved and sat low on the hips, with a pleated skirt and a hemline that hovered midknee. The dress was perfect for that night’s fund-raiser—sure to involve champagne and the Charleston. Stella dressed it up a bit with pearls, a small netted hat, and a sequined clutch.

Al and Catherine were waiting for them on the first floor in one of the smaller ballrooms adjacent to the Men’s Bar.

“Get ready, dear,” Catherine whispered in Stella’s ear, “they’ll end up in the bar before long.”

Bright and charismatic, Governor Smith had taken a liking to Joe years earlier. That interest had not waned since, and Joe could easily trace his meteoric rise in the political world to the near-constant attention given him by the governor. Al Smith was, at times, almost alarming with his penetrating wit and leprechaun eyes. But Joe had received his blessing and, for the time being, that was all that mattered.

Catherine took Stella by the elbow and steered her toward a small
crowd of political wives that stood by the window and nibbled hors d’oeuvres. Shrimp cocktail and stuffed mushrooms. Rolled prosciutto and Brie. A cornucopia of cheese and crackers. Caviar and grapes. Most of it sat untouched on the buffet. Every now and then, a woman plucked a grape from the bunch or ate half a shrimp.

“Aren’t they hungry?” Stella whispered to Catherine.

Catherine laughed and bent close to Stella’s ear. “They’re waiting for us, dear. Grab a plate. Start a trend.”

“Us?” Stella understood why the women would wait to eat until Catherine arrived. She and Al were hosting the fund-raiser, after all. But she couldn’t grasp how she fit into the equation.

“You are my special guest tonight.” Catherine lifted a delicate saucer from the stack and made her way down the buffet table, taking a small sample of each offering.

Stella followed her lead, and one by one, the political wives of New York City fell into line behind them.

That night, like so many that came before, was a blur for Stella. Champagne and music and robust speeches punctuated by periods of dancing. Joe worked the crowd, never attending to her for more than a few moments at a time, and then only to introduce her to this politician or that. And always the wives. They traded names of boutiques and designers like business cards, weighing one another’s social status against the labels they could afford.

“Is that the new Chanel?” Stella was asked on more than one occasion.

“It is,” she said, giving the same little spin she’d practiced for Joe earlier. She let the skirt flare just enough to elicit approval and, in a number of instances, envy.

“It looks lovely on you. You have the right sort of boyish figure to wear the flapper cut.”

Narrow hips and a flat chest, they meant. A backhanded compliment. Occasionally Catherine took pity on Stella and whisked her away for another glass of champagne.

“You’ll get used to it,” she said. “They’re only testing you.”

“I’m not the one running for office.”

She straightened the angle of Stella’s hat. “Of course you are. Haven’t you figured that out yet? Everything Joe says and does reflects on you. And you’ll have to answer for it. In public and in private. Best you make peace with that now.”

Shortly after midnight, the men abandoned their wives in favor of the bar. The women watched them retreat in pairs through the mahogany doors of the male-only establishment.