The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress (24 page)

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I have to go. It’s important.”

“For who?”

“For the investigation. Something’s going on, and I’ve got to get to the bottom of it.” Jude pushed the crocheted afghan out of the way and tugged her down onto the couch. Lifted her into his lap. “I interviewed the last two people to see Judge Crater today. A showgirl and a theater executive.”

“Showgirl?” Maria forced herself to relax into Jude. She hid her face in his shoulder so he wouldn’t see her panic.

“Some girl named Sally Lou Ritz. Goes by Ritzi. Fake name if I’ve ever heard one.”

Maria wondered if he could feel her heart pounding against his chest. “And?”

“And she’s lying.”

“Why? What did she say?” Too eager. She could hear it in her voice.

“It’s what she didn’t say. I can’t explain it. But there’s something off. I just don’t know what it is.”

“What does she have to do with Mrs. Crater?”

“Apparently, fidelity wasn’t one of Judge Crater’s strong suits. And he had a thing for the theater. Wouldn’t surprise me at all if he’d messed around with Ritzi at some point. Or that she knows who he was seeing. If he had a mistress, I need to find her.” Jude pulled Maria tight against his chest. “You worked for the guy. Did you ever see anything?”

What hadn’t she seen? And overheard? And been privy to? “No.” She repented for the lie right there, even as she told another. “Mr. Crater is never around during the day. Mostly, I see his wife, and she’s very private.”

“If you remember anything, let me know. It’s all important.”

Jude shifted on the couch, preparing to stand, but she gripped him tighter. “Please stay.”

“It’s only for one day. You’ll be fine.”

Maria listened to the rise and fall of Jude’s breath as he held her for a while longer. After several minutes, he stood and tipped her onto her feet.

His voice was muffled against her hair as he said, “I’ll be back tomorrow night. I promise.”

Maria watched her husband slip out the door, and then she turned all three locks after him.

RITZI
sat before the mirror in her blue satin robe and stared at her face beneath the lights. Another show done. Only a million more looming before her.

The dressing room was empty apart from her. Cigarette butts and gum wrappers littered the floor. A metallic hum came from the lightbulbs around the mirror. An argument in the hallway outside—most likely Shorty Petak and a stagehand. The smells of sweat and perfume.

Ritzi arched her back and stretched her feet out in front of her. Her
thighs ached and her ankles were swollen. A knock at the door made her jump. She pinched her cheeks and adjusted her dressing gown before approaching the door. “Yes?”

“Shorty. Let me in.”

“No.”

“Open up. Owney sent me.”

Ritzi struggled to keep her voice steady. “Why?”

His voice lowered to a softer pitch, a warning. “This ain’t a conversation we need to have through the door.”

She unlocked the door and Shorty pushed in. He looked like a nervous animal, twitching, touching things, opening drawers. “Owney wants you at Club Abbey tonight.”

She stiffened. “I’m going home.”

“Ain’t optional, sweetheart. He pays the rent, he calls the shots.”

Ritzi tugged at her robe, pulling it tighter across her breasts. She resisted the urge to run a hand over her belly.

Shorty circled her, eyes roving, and she felt the heat of anger rise up the back of her neck. “So you enjoy taking orders? Doing what Owney tells you?”

He sniffed. “I’m my own man.”

“Owney’s the dog and you’re the tail. Everyone knows that.”

His dark eyes narrowed into wicked little slits. “I suppose that makes you the bitch? Get dressed.” He flung the door open.

The door shook on its hinges when he slammed it, and Ritzi sat before the mirror for several minutes, preparing herself for what was to come.

RITZI
hadn’t been to Club Abbey since the night Crater disappeared, and as Shorty led her down the steps, she realized that she hadn’t missed it. Something about the frenetic energy inside made her anxious. He held open the door and followed her through.

The place was packed. In recent weeks, Owney had broadened his vision to include a full band and a singer. Smoke hung low in the air, and smooth jazz rhythms vibrated through the dance floor, up her feet and thighs, and into her rib cage. It lured her with a serpentine motion,
and she leaned into the music. For one brief second, Ritzi forgot her troubles in the seductive embrace of the singer’s voice. Tall and waiflike and clearly not out of her teens, the black woman had a voice so full of emotion that Ritzi gaped.

She knew someone watched her as well. It was a feeling she’d grown accustomed to over the years. More often than not, it was harmless, some guy with more testosterone than courage eyeing her up from the other side of the room. The farther away they were, the more confident. Close that gap, though, and she could separate the men from the boys. Sometimes it was flattering. Usually, it was annoying. But tonight she had to choke the fear down and keep her back turned. Ritzi knew the feel of that dark stare. Owney Madden sat in his booth and watched her walk through the room. She slipped away from Shorty and headed toward the bar.

Stan greeted her with a shy smile as she eased onto a barstool. “The usual?” he asked.

“Not tonight. Just a glass of city juice.”

He poured her water and dropped in a handful of ice cubes.

Ritzi nodded toward the stage. “Who’s the canary? She’s amazing.”

“She goes by the name Billie Holiday. Rumor has it Owney found her in Harlem turning tricks for five bucks a pop.”

Ritzi sipped her water and took a closer look at the singer. “How old is she?”

Stan seemed a little sad when he answered. “Not old enough.”

“You’re a good egg, you know that, Stan?”

“Nonsense. I’m a scamp like everyone else in here.”

She reached across the bar and patted his cheek. “A regular cad.”

“Don’t you forget it.”

“And what of your employer? What’s his mood tonight?”

“Murderous.”

“Figures.” Ritzi winced and swallowed the last of her water.

She slid down the bar and looped her hand through the arm of a stranger. He was well dressed in a self-conscious sort of way, but he’d do. Ritzi’s smile invited him to dance, and he stumbled from the barstool and onto the dance floor. Her partner—Harvey was the name—tripped over his words when he found out what she did for a living. A fan of Broadway. Always wanted to meet a real live showgirl. Damn good luck she found him at the bar. He tapped out the words like a jackhammer.
Harvey had an arm around her waist, and though he moved her around the floor, Ritzi was the one who led. Such a dead hoofer, the poor guy didn’t even know when he’d lost control. She maneuvered her way to the other side of the room, and he fumbled in her wake.

“You’re a great dancer,” he shouted above the band.

They were at the farthest point from Owney’s booth when she braved her first glance in that direction. He was hidden behind a swarm of people, and she breathed deep, letting the tension slip from her body. Her back and calves relaxed, and she settled into Harvey’s arms enough to respond to his attempted leading. He prattled on, obnoxious but harmless. Ritzi nodded and smiled occasionally, but mostly ignored him.

Right when she imagined herself safe, she felt the firm grip of a hand on her elbow.

“This one’s not available,” Shorty Petak said. He wrenched her away from Harvey and shifted his grip so that her arm was pinned against his side, faux gentleman. “Enough of that.”

“Hey, the lady was dancing with me.”

Ritzi warmed at the term
lady
. She usually heard it in a derogatory way. Before Shorty pulled her into the crowd, she laid a palm on Harvey’s arm, gentle. “Do yourself a favor and walk away, okay?”

He sensed both her warning and her fear and hesitated long enough for Ritzi and Shorty to fold into the dance floor, swept away by the crowd. Had she even hinted, poor Harvey would have come to her aid. And it would have been the last, worst decision he ever made.

“It’s time for business.”

“I was just having a little fun.”

“Don’t be a fool, Ritz. Stop avoiding him.”

Shorty’s arm was a vise, and she knew better than to fight him. Ritzi let him guide her toward Owney’s corner booth. If it weren’t for the black eye, Owney would look dapper. But he hid it well, hat tipped low over his face. Jacket off. Tan suspenders over a white shirt. Crisp. In control.

Ritzi sucked her stomach in and relaxed her shoulders. Shorty’s grip on her arm loosened. “He lost a poker game this afternoon. Didn’t take it kindly,” he said out of the side of his mouth as they navigated through a pack of middle-aged men on the edge of the dance floor. “Beat the poor bastard bloody, but not before he took a solid left hook. Don’t stare.”

She nodded, and they stepped up to the booth. Shorty released her into Owney’s care, and she slid into the seat across from him.

“You’ve been keeping your distance.” It wasn’t a question, merely a fact he stated with displeasure.

“You’ve got me busy with two shows.” She met his gaze, smiled.
Damn Scouser
.

That wasn’t good enough for Owney, though. Not intimidating enough. He walked around to her side of the booth and sat next to her, a barrier between her and everyone else. To those watching, it probably looked intimate. His thigh rested against hers, and she felt the heat through the satin of her dress. She was small. Vulnerable.

Without looking around the club, she could sense that the axis of attention had shifted toward them. Whom Owney spent his evening with was always of interest here, much to the chagrin of the politicians and mobsters who beggared themselves at the altar of Club Abbey. She could feel the glances of those in the room, their awareness.

“Drawing a lot of attention to yourself lately,” Owney said.

She faked another smile. “Isn’t that my job?”

Owney moved quick, like a viper. His hand was at her face, and she flinched, anticipating the bite of his slap. But he ran a finger along her chin, deceptively sensual. “You know what I mean.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“How, exactly, do you mean?”

“I was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“What place?” His breath was hot on her ear. That hand moved from her jaw and slid down her neck, thumb caressing her pulse. “All that mess with Crater and Klein.”

“A detective paid you a visit today. What did you tell him?” His palm cupped her throat.

“Nothing he can use. That I had dinner with Crater and Klein that night. And that I haven’t seen Crater since.”

“You mention the club?”

“Of course not.”

He briefly considered this then changed the subject. “You didn’t thank me for the new gig yet.”

“I haven’t had two minutes to myself. It’s a lot to manage.”

“What’s stopping you now? Maybe you think I’m not generous?”

“No.” She swallowed. Softened her look from fear to gratitude. “You are. Very generous. Thank you.”

Owney laid an arm across the bench behind her, casual-like, and pinched the soft spot at the back of her arm. “You need to lose some weight, dollface.” He squeezed until her eyes glassed over in pain. “You’re getting fat.”

Chapter Seventeen

BELGRADE LAKES, MAINE, TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 1930

THE
second time Detective Simon came to the cabin, he wore a look of exhaustion along with his three-piece suit. He took off his fedora as he stepped through Stella’s front door. “Good morning, Mrs. Crater.”

She looked over his wrinkled suit and puffy eyes. “Up late?”

“I took the night train.” He held a large envelope in one hand, and with the other he motioned toward the kitchen table. “May I?”

“Be my guest.”

“Can I bother you for a glass of water? The walk is rather long from the station.”

“If I’d known you were coming, I would have sent Fred to pick you up.” It would have given Fred something to do. Stella didn’t go out much these days, and he spent most of his time in the garage repeatedly washing the car.

Jude looked behind her, as though searching for something. “Short notice.”

Stella led him to the table, where Emma worked a crossword puzzle. She gave her mother a look that clearly indicated her presence was not necessary. Emma collected her pen and newspaper and retreated to the gazebo so she could keep an eye on them through the kitchen window.

Stella went to the sink and turned on the tap. She let it run for several seconds before lifting a glass from the cupboard.

For most of the year, Belgrade Lakes maintained a crisp temperature, dipping into the single digits in winter. But during the summer, the earth softened, warming the waters. In late August and early September, the lake began to turn as the upper layer of water competed for dominance
with the cool underbelly. This turning created a unique taste to the water. A bit muddy. The locals had long since learned that a few cubes of ice and a slice of lemon could disguise the flavor. Stella dropped both into the glass and set it on the table. She took a seat across from him.

Jude drained half the glass in one gulp and then slid the envelope across the table. “A special delivery.”

She didn’t open it.

“It seems you’ve been difficult to contact, Mrs. Crater.”

She set her hands in her lap but did not respond.

“Don’t worry, it’s just a questionnaire.”

“I’ll be sure to fill it out and send it back to”—she peered at the envelope and read the name—“District Attorney Thomas Crain when I have a few moments.”

Jude scratched the back of his neck. “It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. My instructions were to supervise your answers.”

“I am forty-three years old. I don’t need supervision.”

“That is a legal document. And it needs a legal witness. Seeing as how I’m an officer of the law, that means me.”

After several uneasy moments, Stella picked up the envelope. There was no postmark. No stamp. She scratched the upper right-hand corner with a thumbnail. Inside were three sheets of Crain’s letterhead. A total of twenty-nine neatly typed questions. She skimmed them quickly. The first few were questions she’d been asked already: