The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress (23 page)

“I interviewed her a few days after Joe made the papers. She was a real firecracker.” It’s Jude’s turn to be cruel, and he flings the words at her like shrapnel. “No wonder your husband was so fond of her.”

“What does Ritzi have to do with that money?”

“When it comes to this case, Ritzi has to do with everything. But you already knew that, didn’t you, Stella? I imagine you’ve spent a whole lot of time thinking about Sally Lou Ritz. And hating her.”

Stella drops the pearls back to her chest, considers her lack of curves, the way her dress hangs limp where it should be stretched over the fullness of breasts. “Joe had a thing for brunettes,” she says at last, as though this admission explains everything.

Chapter Sixteen

BROADWAY THEATER, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1930

RITZI
slipped into the dressing room in search of a bandage. Two hours of rehearsal on swollen feet resulted in a dime-size blister at the back of her heel, and she’d taken the opportunity to skip out early and have a few minutes to herself. She kicked her shoes off and shrugged out of the skimpy rehearsal dress, digging around the supply cabinet until she found a bottle of Gold Bond and a bandage large enough to cover the back of her foot. The powder stung as it settled into the raw blister, and her face twisted in pain. She recoiled at her own reflection: stretched, gaunt. Wrung out.

Her rehearsals for
The New Yorkers
had begun a month earlier, turning an already busy schedule into a grueling merry-go-round of rehearsals in the day and live performances of
Ladies All
at night. Two different theaters. Two different plays. And a world of things to remember each time she stepped onstage. To make matters worse,
The New Yorkers
required a double role: the supporting part of May the prostitute and a filler in the chorus line. The Ritzi of the chorus lines was seductive and coquettish. But the Ritzi who played May in Cole Porter’s musical was sad and lonely and appealing for entirely different reasons. Of the two roles, she much preferred May.

Once the ache in her foot dulled, she covered herself in a satin robe and tied a loose knot at her waist. Ritzi dragged one of the stage chairs up to the mirror and stretched out her legs until both feet rested on the dressing table. She lit a cigarette and listened to the not-so-distant sounds of rehearsal. The orchestra. The steady rhythm of tap shoes against the wooden floor:
turn, turn, touch down, back step, pivot step, walk, walk, walk
. She imagined the other girls linked at the arms, artificial
smiles spread wide, as they cascaded across the stage in formation. Each woman strained in concentration to match the movements of those next to her.
Must. Keep. In. Step
.

Ritzi was relieved not to be out there. The thought startled her. And she might have pondered whether to feel guilty about it had a sharp knock not sounded on the door. Shorty Petak didn’t wait for her to respond. He pushed the door wide open. Grinned. She shifted the robe to better cover herself.

Ritzi tapped her cigarette on the arm of the chair. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

“You have a visitor.” Shorty stepped aside to reveal a clean-cut, attractive man in a fedora and gray pinstriped suit. “Detective …?”

“Simon.”

“That’s right. Detective Simon wants to have a few words with you.”

“That so?” Ritzi stared. He was the sort of man who could make a girl lose her place in the chorus line if she saw him from the stage. A couple years ago she would have been flustered at the sight of such a man. But now she smiled and wrapped her lips around the end of her cigarette, drawing smoke into her lungs. She left her bare legs stretched out on the dressing table and flicked a hand at Shorty. “Go on. I don’t need a chaperone.”

Shorty seemed reluctant to shut the door, but he stepped away and gave them privacy.

The detective was young, maybe early thirties, with dark hair and bright blue eyes. The shape of his mouth hinted at dimples, but she couldn’t tell with his stern countenance.

“Do you have a first name, Detective?” Ritzi asked. “I hate formalities.”

“Jude.”

“And is there something in particular I can do for you?”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Joseph Crater.”

“What about him?”

“You know him?”

“Sure.”

“How?”

“Everyone knew Crater. You could hardly go fifty feet in the theater district without seeing him.”

His eyes narrowed a bit, and Ritzi immediately regretted her word choice.

“Knew?”

She puffed on her cigarette and then waved it around. “Sure. All the papers say he took a ride.”

“Last I checked, they said he was missing.”

Ritzi shrugged. “Same thing.”

Detective Simon pulled a notepad and pen from his suit pocket. He flipped it open and walked through the dressing room, scanning the costume racks and piles of clothing discarded by the girls. Makeup. Trashy magazines. Cigarette butts. Stockings and high heels and underwear. Elaine had left her diaphragm on the counter, probably so she wouldn’t forget to use it later. He pushed it aside with the tip of his pen.

“Not the classy place you were expecting?”

“I had no expectations, Miss Ritz.”

“Sit down, Jude.” She nodded at one of the other stage chairs. “And call me Ritzi. No one calls me Miss Ritz except my landlord, and he’s a shyster.”

Jude grabbed the other chair and set it a few feet away from her. He was careful not to glance at her bare legs or the plunge of her dressing gown, instead looking around the room while she smoked and waited for him to speak.

“My wife and I came to see your show a couple weeks ago. Maria was quite impressed with that opening number. And the one at the end. With the peacocks.”

Surely not
. “Maria? Pretty girl with big brown eyes? Bit of a Spanish accent?”

Jude tensed. “Yeah. How do you know her?”

Better than I should
. “Met her in the bathroom after the show. I wasn’t feeling too well. She helped me clean up.”

“Maria didn’t say anything about that.”

Interesting
. “She doesn’t seem the type to brag on herself.” Ritzi graced him with a disinterested smile and then drew on her cigarette again. “That all you came to tell me? That Crater’s gone missing and you saw my show?”

“I’m afraid not Miss—Ritzi.” He tapped his notepad with the end of his pen. “How well did you know Crater? Personally?”

Ritzi wished there were a window in the dressing room. The air was stifling and smelled of industrial cleaner and fresh paint and old cigarette smoke. She had to force herself not to twirl a piece of hair or rock
her foot. Ritzi met his gaze and offered a small shrug. “Well enough. Crater’s a regular. A real patron of the arts, you could say.”

“You had dinner with him”—Detective Simon looked at his notes—“on August sixth?”

“Billy and I had dinner with him.”

“Billy being … William Klein?”

“That’s right.” So he’d spoken with William Klein. The horrible, sticky memory of that morning in his office came rushing back, and Ritzi fought against the shiver that threatened to race up her spine.

Jude scratched a few notes, pen held at an odd angle in his left hand. “You and Mr. Klein are an item?”

“We spend time together.”

“He said you were his girlfriend.”

“Yeah. I suppose I am.”

Jude tipped his head to the side.

“It’s not good for me to seem attached,” she explained. “Bad for business. You know, it ruins the fantasy. The producers like us to appear attainable. The regular Joes keep coming back if they think they have a chance.”

He circled back to the question like a dog after its own tail. “But you were William Klein’s date on the sixth?”

Ritzi nodded.

“What happened after dinner?”

“Crater went to see a show, and I went home with Billy.”

“What can you remember about that night? It may seem trivial to you, but a random piece of information could be of huge import to this case.”

She played with the belt on her robe. “We were having dinner … Billy and I. And then Joe showed up.”

“Uninvited?”

“Late. And he plopped down at our table, ordered almost everything on the menu, then sent me off to powder my nose so they could talk business.”

Jude scratched her answers into his notebook in some form of shorthand she couldn’t read. “How long were you away?”

“I don’t know. Ten or fifteen minutes?”

“Any idea what they spoke about while you were gone?”

She laughed. “Why do you think he sent me off, Detective? To redecorate the bathroom? When it comes to men like that, I’m not privy to most of what they discuss.”

“I spoke with William Klein this morning, and he didn’t say a word about having a chat with the judge that night. Why would he leave out a detail like that?”

“Don’t know.”

Jude seemed unconvinced. “They spoke privately. Then what?”

“They ate dinner, but I,” she said, motioning to her figure, “am expected to survive on air and compliments. Jerks finished off my salad while I was in the powder room.”

“Did anything else significant happen that evening? Anything you found odd? Then or now?”

“No. It was a normal night. Nothing unusual.”

“What time did you part ways?”

“A little after nine.”

Jude conferred with his notes. Eyes on the paper, he asked, “You said Judge Crater went to see a show. Do you know which one?”

Ritzi remembered the marquee lights as she waited in the cab that night. “
Dancing Partner
, I believe.”

“Do you know if Mr. Crater reached his destination?”

“He got in a cab. We got in a cab. Everyone left. That’s all I know.”

“Where did you say you ate dinner?”

There were few things she agreed with William Klein on, but leaving Club Abbey out of their rehearsed story was one. “Billy Haas’s Chophouse. It’s a favorite in the theater district.”

“And this
Dancing Partner
, where was it playing?”

“The Belasco Theater.”

“That’s odd, don’t you think?”

“What?”

In that moment, Ritzi realized that she had underestimated the young detective. What she’d first taken as a sort of amiable nonchalance revealed itself to be a cunning interest in every word she said. His eyes were bright and focused. Lips formed into a barely suppressed smirk. Pen gripped firmly between two fingers.

“The restaurant and the theater are only about three blocks apart. Why would he take a cab on a nice summer evening?”

It was a good question. Logical. Especially if they had actually been at the restaurant that night. One she failed to consider. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

“Did you actually
see
him get in the cab, Miss Ritz?”

“Ritzi,” she said, holding her breath and settling on the best lie she could deliver. “And no. I did not.”

“Did you see which direction he went when you left the restaurant?”

She shook her head.

“Can you tell me with any certainty that he even attended the show he’d purchased a ticket for?”

“I assume that he did,” she said, drawing on the last of her cigarette and then stubbing it out on the arm of the chair.

“All trace of Judge Crater stops outside the Belasco Theater. Which means you are one of the last two people to see him alive. So I need to know everything—and I mean
every thing
—that happened on the night of August sixth.”

Ritzi eased her aching feet down from the dressing table and set them on the cool floor. “I’ve told you everything I know, Detective.”

They locked stares in a frozen challenge. Ritzi’s thoughts tumbled over one another but she didn’t voice any of them. Instead, she listened to the growing tremor of voices outside the dressing room. Rehearsal was over.

The door swung open and the showgirls flooded the dressing room. The sight of Ritzi wearing nothing but a thin dressing gown and seated in front of a young, handsome man instantly brought out the vixen in many of them. Jude was mobbed by a throng of half-dressed women who giggled and petted him as they walked by.

“Tough luck, girls,” Ritzi said, giving Jude a victorious smile. “This one’s married.”

They booed and hissed and ran brightly painted fingernails along his jaw.

Jude jumped out of the chair, nearly knocking it over. The interview was done. He was outnumbered.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Ritzi asked.

“Not today.”

“Then, if you don’t mind, I have a show to get ready for.”

Jude tipped his fedora and pulled it lower over his face, trying to hide the sudden rush of color in his cheeks.

“Will you be in the audience tonight?”

“No.”

“Pity. We could have given you an eyeful.”

“No offense, Miss Ritz, but you already have.”

Ritzi remained in her chair until Jude ducked out of the dressing room. Then she stood and leaned against the counter, ignoring the curious—and, in some cases, jealous—glances of the others. She applied another layer of medicated powder to her blister and covered her heel with the bandage. Ritzi wasn’t sure what bothered her more: that Jude had come so close in his questioning or that he was married to the only person who knew she was pregnant with Crater’s child.

“I DON’T
understand why you have to go back.”

“This.” Jude tossed an envelope onto the kitchen counter. “The district attorney wants this questionnaire hand-delivered to Maine. And I’ve got to supervise while Mrs. Crater answers. She’s not exactly cooperating with the investigation these days.”

Maria glared at the envelope. “Why can’t they send Leo?”

“Because it’s my case.”

“Right. The case Leo
recommended
you for?” Her voice rose until Jude stared at her in disbelief, his diminutive wife raised up on the balls of her feet, straining with anger.

He set his hands on her arms and gently pressed her back to the ground. “What’s wrong?”