The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress (21 page)

“Come along,” Catherine said. “They won’t be long.”

The wives had rituals of their own. They scattered around the ballroom in groups of two and three for coffee, cigarettes, and gossip. The band quieted, and Catherine led her to a table in the corner, where Stella slipped off her shoes.

“Do you smoke?” Catherine asked.

“No.”

“You might want to reconsider. Eases your nerves. Makes the time pass quicker.” Catherine lifted a pack of cigarettes and a long cigarette holder from her purse. She lit the cigarette smoothly and set it inside the six-inch tortoiseshell holder.

“I’ll never learn all these rules.”

“Sure you will. It takes time. And practice. But you carry yourself well. And Joe couldn’t be prouder of you. We’ve all noticed.”

“How do you handle these long nights? I’d rather be home in bed.”

Catherine looked at her wristwatch. “They’re like little boys, you know. Give it fifteen minutes and they’ll all begin to crash. Children and politicians have two speeds: running and asleep. But they haven’t gotten loud enough yet. It gets obnoxious just before they wind down.”

Sure enough, the ruckus in the bar began to grow until Stella and Catherine could hear them singing out in chorus:

The suckers will vote in the fall, tra-la;

The suckers will vote in the fall!

“Five more minutes and they’ll come stumbling back in here, red eyed and dizzy.” Catherine tapped the cigarette holder against her bottom lip and smiled, then pulled a long wisp of smoke between her thin lips. Fine lines were etched around her mouth, and Stella saw the telltale signs of age brought on by a hard political life.

True to Catherine’s prediction, the husbands began to trickle back into the ballroom, sedate and exhausted. They collected their wives and ushered them home.

Before parting, Catherine kissed Stella on the cheek. “You’ll do just fine.”

It wasn’t until Joe and Stella were back in their suite that she realized Catherine’s attention that night had been placed on her singularly. It was her statement as the governor’s wife to the other women that Stella was to be respected. And taken seriously. Had she known that earlier, she might have cried with gratitude.

Stella jumped when the bathroom door banged open. Joe stumbled out, stark naked and belting the lyrics to a profane drinking song:

There was a young lady named Lou

Who said as the parson withdrew
,

“
Now the Vicar is quicker
,

And thicker, and slicker
,

And two inches longer than you!”

His cheeks were flushed red from whiskey, and he roared with laughter when he saw the horrified look on her face.

She took a step backward. “You’ve been learning a few songs from Al Smith, I see.”

“Meaning what?”

She looked at the wall to avoid Joe’s raunchy gyrations. “That blasphemous song. And the one down in the bar.”

“It’s just a song, Stell. Something silly to lighten the mood.” She flinched but didn’t move as he grabbed her and flipped up the back of her dress. He ran his palm up her leg and tugged at her garter belt. “And that business down in the bar was just party high jinks. The boys were simply letting off steam with a harmless little parody.”

“If your voters heard that, they certainly wouldn’t consider it harmless.”

“My voters,” he said, yanking at her stocking, “would hardly be in a place like this. They’re on the docks. And in the garment district. So don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.” Joe pinned her against the wall. His breath was sour and his hands rough, and Stella stared at the ceiling while he wrestled with her designer dress.

She tried to slide away from him. “You’re drunk.”

He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back. His stubble was rough against her neck as he kissed it. “So?”

“You know I don’t like to make love when you’re drunk.”

“I don’t give a shit about making love, Stell. I want sex.”

Stella pushed her skirt down away from his probing hands. “I’m not in the mood.”

“You better get in the mood. Quick. Considering that I’m giving you a fourteen-thousand-dollar apartment tomorrow.”

Joe’s dark eyes were heavy lidded, and the beginning of each word was slurred. He groped her clumsily and grunted with the effort. Beads of sweat settled along his upper lip. Stella was sure he wouldn’t remember this tomorrow, unless she angered him to the point of sobriety. She tensed between Joe and the wall and grappled with her decision. She could push him away—he’d never forced her, after all—but there would be retribution. Or she could submit to the indignity and he’d likely be asleep before finishing.

Stella sighed and slid out from under his arm. She took his hand. “Let’s at least go to the bedroom.”

“I want to do it here.”

“I’ll get the lights, then.”

“Leave them on. I like to watch.”

STELLA
heard Jude walk down the pier, but she ignored him. She leaned out over the lake, eyes focused on some distant point, as he came to a stop behind her. Stella didn’t turn around until he cleared his throat. Back in New York, she had been terrified that he would discover the hidden envelopes and hadn’t noticed how handsome he was. Dark hair. Steel-blue eyes. A strong, square jaw and broad shoulders.

“Detective Simon,” he said, extending his hand.

It hovered between them for a several seconds before she gripped it with cold fingertips. “We’ve met.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember. Do you have a few minutes? I’ve come to take your statement.”

“You could have done that when you came to my apartment.” She could not keep the irritation out of her voice.

“That visit was unofficial.”

“Meaning unsanctioned?”

“No. Meaning off the record until my superiors were certain how to proceed.”

“You mean until another headline in the
New York World
forced them to proceed?”

“Should we sit? No point making this uncomfortable.”

Stella motioned to two Adirondack chairs at the end of the pier. The white paint was peeling and the wood splintered in places, but they were comfortable. She settled into the one closest to the water and tucked her bare feet beneath her legs, wrapping Joe’s dinner jacket tight around her chest. One hand wandered into the pocket. She lifted a cigarette from the pack and fumbled with the matchbook. Stella didn’t want to smoke it—was sick from the last one, in fact—but she needed something to hold. Detective Simon pulled a silver lighter from his pocket and held it out to her. The flame was tall and immediate, and she passed her cigarette through, eyes watering at the acrid smell of singed paper and burning tobacco.

“I’m sorry about your husband,” Jude said. “But I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Are you? Sorry, that is. You didn’t know him.”

“I met him a few times, actually.”

“Did you like him?”

“I didn’t know him well enough to dislike him.”

“Fair enough.” Stella laughed. She drew on the cigarette but didn’t inhale; rather, she held the smoke in her mouth until her tastebuds tingled and then spit it out.

“When was the last time you saw your husband?”

“August third. We had dinner at the Salt House.”

“What happened that night?”

“When we arrived, Joe went to make a phone call. He was gone about twenty minutes, and when he came back to the table, he told me that he had to return to New York first thing in the morning to ‘straighten a few things out.’ ”

Jude scratched at his notepad in shorthand as she spoke. Each stroke was deliberate and thick, indenting the page. “What sort of things?”

“The sort you don’t discuss with your wife, apparently.” Stella flicked the cigarette and then jumped to brush the hot ash from her lap.

“Do you know who your husband phoned that night?”

“No, I do not.” She put Owney Madden, and their agreement, out of her mind as quickly as possible so the lie wouldn’t register on her face.

“Judge Crater has been missing a month. Why didn’t you report this before you returned to the city?”

“I was told not to.”

Jude stopped writing and looked at her. “Please explain.”

“He left here on the third. My birthday was that next Saturday, the ninth, but he didn’t show up, even though he’d promised to be back in time. So I phoned Simon Rifkind—an associate of Joe’s—and he told me Joe had been seen around town and not to worry.”

“But you did worry?”

“About the wrong thing.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that ‘He’s been seen around town’ can sometimes be jargon for ‘Your husband has picked up a skirt on the side and you need to keep your nose out of it if you want to protect his career.’ ”

Jude’s pen whipped across the page in a frenzy. “Did your husband have a history of infidelity?”

Stella shifted away from him. It took too long to sift her answer. “I’ve learned not to question Joe when he has
business
that needs tending. That’s why I didn’t argue with him when he went back to the city. And that’s why it took me so long to go after him.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“There are things you learn to live with.” Stella thought of Joe’s bandaged hand. “More or less.”

Jude watched her but said nothing.

“Are you married, Detective?”

“Yes.”

“And do you cheat on your wife?”

His face twisted in offense. “Of course not.”

“All men cheat on their wives. If not with a woman, then with work.” She gave him a sideways glance. “I wonder which method you prefer.”

“I beg your pardon, but I don’t—”

“I’m not the one you need to convince.” Stella finished her cigarette and then tossed the butt into the lake.

“If you knew my wife, you’d understand that infidelity is something I’d never consider.” A spark of anger lit up his eyes but was replaced with an emotion she couldn’t identify. He quickly transformed his face into a look of indifference.

The flash of intensity in his eyes convinced Stella that he was serious, that she’d assumed too much. But at least she’d found his weakness. This pleased her immensely, and she waited for him to continue.

He struggled to segue into his next line of questioning.

“Does Judge Crater have any enemies? Someone who would want to harm him?”

“Joe was only on the bench four months. He didn’t have time to make enemies.”

“What about from his days as a criminal attorney?”

“You must understand that my husband was”—she paused, searching for a generic label—“a man of ideals.” Stella refrained from adding that most decent society did not share his particular brand of ideals. “He taught law for many years at New York University—that’s what he did before getting into politics. I heard him tell his classes, on more than one occasion, that every man, though he be found guilty, is entitled to a defense. I suppose he could have upset someone during that time. But if he did, I never heard about it.”

“How many guilty men did your husband defend?”

Stella stiffened at the insinuation. “A few made the papers.”

“And he made money?”

“We were comfortable.”

“You must have been, for him to get into politics. That takes deep pockets.”

“Joe was highly respected for his legal skills. He was encouraged to get into politics because of his talent and charisma. People were drawn to him, even the ones that didn’t particularly
like
him. That’s a rare commodity in politics.”

Jude tapped his pen against the small notepad. “Do you have any idea who your husband may have gone to see when he returned to the city?”

“None whatsoever.” Stella felt dizzy, both from the cigarettes and from the growing list of lies she would have to remember if Detective Simon came calling again.

“What about his activities? Any associates that he might have talked to?”

“Joe’s business was his own. He kept definite lines between his professional life and his private life.” Stella settled her cold blue eyes on
Jude. “I only had access to one of those lives, Detective. I do not know why he returned to New York City.”

Stella unfolded herself from the chair and faced the lake as Jude scratched the information on his notepad. The late-afternoon sun warmed her cheeks, and a deep weariness wrapped itself around her.

“My chauffeur will drive you back to the station, Detective. You wouldn’t want to miss your train.”

Chapter Fifteen

FIFTH AVENUE, FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 1930

MARIA
didn’t answer the door. She turned, considering, and then thought better of it. Her experiences at the Craters’ apartment in recent weeks had taught her to leave well enough alone. No more covering for her boss. No more reporters. No more surprises. So she stayed where she was, teetering three feet off the ground on a wooden step stool, wiping dust from the top of Mr. Crater’s bookshelves with a rag.

She’d taken to lingering over her work in recent days, trying to earn her paycheck—assuming Mrs. Crater actually mailed it. With Mr. Crater missing and Mrs. Crater hiding in Maine, there was no grocery shopping to do or fancy dinner parties to cook for. There were no trips to the cleaners or ill-fitting clothes to return to the high-end department stores they frequented. No laundry. No dishes. Maria was forced to get creative with ways to make up her time.

The front door rattled again with an insistent pounding. A short silence. And then a key turned in the lock.

Maria leaned forward to see the front door swing inward, followed by Jude’s partner, Leo Lowenthall. She climbed down from the stool and slipped back into her shoes. “Hello?”

Leo stepped into the office, accompanied by three NYPD officers. “You didn’t answer the door,” he said, offended.

“It isn’t my home.”

“No.” Leo eyed her uniform. “It’s your
job
.”

She looked at the key in his hand. “Where did you get that?”