The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress (25 page)

When was the last time you saw your husband?

Did your husband come in contact with anyone suspicious in the days leading up to his disappearance?

Did your husband indicate that he was in any sort of trouble?

But halfway down the first page, they became more salacious, and she clenched her jaw.

Did your husband have a history of infidelity?

Was your husband involved in any illicit business affairs?

Were there any large cash withdrawals from your bank account in the weeks leading up to your husband’s disappearance?

Did your husband frequent any establishments of ill repute?

Stella threw the questionnaire on the table. “What is this?”

“I didn’t write them. I’m only the messenger.”

“They’re insulting.”

Jude looked at her, his pupils large in the dim light, and steepled his fingers. “Don’t be so quick to dismiss them, Mrs. Crater. It may well be that you don’t know your husband the way you imagine.”

The tremor began in her shoulder and ran all the way to the tip of her index finger. She pointed it squarely in Jude’s face. “How dare you.”

He lifted a sheet from the pile and tapped one of the questions. “Take this, for example: ‘Who would your husband be most likely to communicate with—aside from yourself, of course—if he were in distress or in trouble?’ ”

They stared unblinking at one another.

She was stingy with her admission, offering only a halfhearted shrug.

“I have to wonder, Mrs. Crater, how well you actually know your husband if such a basic question leaves you without an answer.”

Stella’s eyes itched with tears, but she resisted the urge to rub them. When her response came, it sounded hollow and dishonest. “Joe is a good man.”

“Are you sure?” Jude slid his pen across the table.

It took some time before she had the courage to pick it up.

“I would remind you, Mrs. Crater,” he prodded gently, “that the grand jury will regard any omissions or false information as cause for legal action.”

“You threaten me in my own home?”

“Not at all. I simply mean to reinforce the seriousness of this matter.” He took another long sip of water.

Stella plucked the cap off the pen and stared at its sharp point. “I haven’t seen my husband in almost two months. Do you think that I have forgotten for one moment how serious this is?”

Jude’s expression—the flinty blue eyes and hard set of his mouth—made her realize that he was far shrewder than he let on. “I doubt very much that you have forgotten anything.”

Stella read the remaining questions, and her fury grew with each line:

Before this instance has your husband ever absented himself without letting you know his whereabouts?

Did you notice anything strange about your husband’s behavior leading up to his disappearance?

Has your husband recently suffered from memory loss?

Have you received any monies from anyone since August 5th, 1930, which may have come from Judge Crater indirectly or which were advanced to you on his account?

Who was the first person you communicated with when you suspected he had disappeared?

Will you please list the names of your husband’s most intimate social friends, along with their addresses?

On and on they went, questions about Joe’s business dealings and how he spent his spare time. Several others sought information on their bank accounts and safe-deposit box. The district attorney wanted to know who Joe’s investment banker was and about any money that may have gone unreported. It seemed no area of their lives was off-limits from intrusion.

“None of this has to do with Joe’s disappearance.” She shook the papers in Jude’s face. “It’s a waste of time.”

“Please answer them to the best of your ability,” he said.

That was the last Stella argued with him. She turned her full attention to the questionnaire. Of the twenty-nine questions, thirteen were answered with a single word. To four she responded with
I don’t know
. Two she replied to with flat-out lies. And one she left blank altogether. The rest she attacked with an acerbic wrath, pen imprinting the paper so deeply that it almost cut through. No sooner had she signed her name than she shoved the questionnaire across the table. “There.”

Jude collected the three sheets of paper, tapped them on the table until the corners lined up crisply, and slid them back in the envelope. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Crater.”

“I’ll thank you not to waste it again.”

Chapter Eighteen

WEST SIXTY-FOURTH STREET, SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 21, 1930

RITZI
woke sometime after midnight and ran for the bathroom. She barely made it to the toilet before she threw up. Her stomach knotted and clenched and purged as she heaved forward, on and off, for fifteen minutes, and then she lay on the floor, her cheek pressed to the cold tile. When the spots no longer floated in her peripheral vision, she pushed herself up and knelt before the sink, cupping water in her palms. She rinsed out her mouth and splashed her cheeks. Then she sat with her back to the wall and pulled her knees to her chest. Ritzi laid her forehead on her arms and groaned.

“How far along are you?” Vivian stood in the doorway, a crimson robe cinched around her impossibly thin waist.

“Just sick. That’s all.”

“I’m not stupid, Ritz.” Vivian stepped into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub. “You look like shit.”

“Seems to be the general consensus lately.”

“How long have you known?”

Ritzi wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Debated whether to tell the truth. Relented. “Awhile.”

“Crater?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Does he know?”

She snorted. “Yeah. He took it
real
well.”

Vivian’s eyes narrowed. “How about Owney?”

“He’d kill me.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized how true they were.

“You’ll have to leave the show.”

“No.” Ritzi shook her head and immediately regretted it. Spots floated at the corners of her eyes again, followed by a throb in her temples. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a long breath through her nose to quell the nausea that tugged at the back of her throat. “The show wraps December thirteenth. I can make it until then.”

“What about the next one?”

“I can hide it.”

“Unlikely.”

“I’m not showing.”

“You look green all the time. You’re dizzy. And from what I hear, you’ve been tossing your lunch in every alley and trash can around Manhattan.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not the only chorine I’ve placed, Ritz. And you’re not the hungriest, by a long shot. There’s a string of girls lining up to take your place. One miss. That’s all it will take, and you’ll be replaced.”

“Then I won’t miss.” She forced herself up and stumbled back to her room. Vivian followed, unconvinced.

Ritzi reached for the cigarettes on her nightstand.

“How can you smoke those in your condition?” Vivian curled her lip in disgust.

She fumbled with the lighter. “Calms my nerves.”

“Every smell turned my stomach when I was pregnant. Eggs. Ashes. Pee. You name it.”

“You’ve got a kid?”

“Rose,” Vivian said, settling next to her on the bed. “She’s twelve now.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I haven’t seen her in seven years. Lost custody of her when I went to prison.”

Ritzi lowered herself to the edge of the bed. Gave Vivian such a look of disbelief that she laughed.

“An asshole cop on the vice squad got me on a trumped-up charge. I worked for Polly Adler back then.” She shrugged. “It was good money, but I like management better. Three years in a women’s prison upstate taught me the nuance of extortion. Losing Rose was the worst part of it. Felt like someone ripped my soul out. I wasn’t a perfect mom, but I did keep her away from the johns. No way I’d have let her end up like us.”

“No. I don’t guess you would.” Had it come to that? Was Ritzi in the same category as the notorious madam Vivian Gordon? Vivian, with her client list a mile long and a little black book reportedly holding the names of almost every influential man in Manhattan.

In all the time they’d lived together, Vivian had never been so forthcoming with personal information. Her face softened, was almost kind, as she looked at Ritzi’s stomach. “I’m getting Rose back, though. Soon. And when I do, I’m done with all of this. I suggest you make plans as well. It’s going to get ugly.”

“What are you talking about, Viv?”

“I’ve made an arrangement with Samuel Seabury to testify before his grand jury. Names and dates. I’m going to tell him about every bribe and every shakedown and every tip-off. The judicial scandal alone will keep him busy for months.” Vivian picked at the quilt. “That’s the trade. I tell him what I know, and he arranges for the state to return Rose to my custody.”

“Are you
crazy
?” Ritzi hissed. “Do you
want
to get killed? Do you have any idea who will come after you if you testify for Seabury?”

“I’ve arranged my safety net with Seabury.” Her smile was full of sympathy. “Listen. You’re a sweet girl, Ritz. And I like you. But I don’t plan on ever seeing you again after that. Make sure you have somewhere to go.”

Ritzi took a long, shaky drag on her cigarette and closed her eyes. She set a hand on her stomach. Pulled it away quickly. “What do I do about this?”

Vivian motioned her to follow. “Come with me.” She led Ritzi down the hall and into her bedroom.

Ritzi stood in the doorway, cigarette dangling from her hand, while Vivian rummaged through a small secretary desk in the corner. She had never been in this room. It was larger than her bedroom and decorated much more simply than she would have expected. Cream bedspread. Dark furniture. A hand-braided rug in the middle of the floor. Dark curtains. Not a single picture on the walls. Vivian never brought her Johns home and made sure that Ritzi didn’t either. The apartment was a safe zone. No men allowed.

Vivian scribbled something onto a scrap of paper. “Here.” She thrust it at Ritzi.

“What’s this?”

“You’ll need a corset. It’s gonna hurt like hell. And they don’t come cheap.”

Ritzi looked at the address. “How long can I wear it?”

“If you can hold on until the end of February, I’ll help you get out of this hellhole. But you’ve got to wait until then. I can’t risk losing my chance to get Rose back.”

RENAISSANCE CASINO AND BALLROOM, HARLEM, THURSDAY, JULY 31, 1930

Ritzi had never seen anything like it. So many people in one room, laughing and gambling and huddled in groups at the bar, crowded around the craps tables cheering with each roll of the dice. She couldn’t breathe for the smoke. Liquor on the breath of everyone within a three-foot radius.

Crater grabbed a lowball glass from the tray of a passing cocktail waitress and shoved it in her hand. “Here.”

Ritzi sniffed the clear liquid. Her nostrils stung with the odor. “What is it?”

“Does it matter?”

“I’d like to know.”

Crater gave her the look he reserved for the times he thought her especially unreasonable—lips folded in on themselves, eyes pinched. But he humored her and sniffed the glass. “Moonshine. Probably.”

“It smells like piss.”

“That’s how they make it in Appalachia.”

She handed it back to him. “I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.”

He lifted the glass out of her hand and took a swig. Didn’t even wince. It must have gone down like pipe cleaner. “Let’s go to the craps table. I feel lucky.”

Joseph Crater was a terrible gambler. Bad with the money and mean when he lost. She, on the other hand, had remarkable skill with numbers—not that you could ever really beat the house, but all those years helping her father with the farm ledgers paid off when it came to taking a calculated risk. It was something Crater depended on her for.

“Which table?” Crater asked, waving a finger between the only two in the casino.

Each table could easily accommodate twenty-four people, with a much larger crowd gathered round if the dice were hot. That’s what the one on the right looked like—a mass of bodies shoved up against the green-felt-covered table. Cheering. Jumping. Slapping backs and congratulating one another. The other, at the far end of the room, sat nearly abandoned, its dealer, boxman, and stickman glancing across the room with envious expressions, waiting for new players able to roll something other than the dreaded seven.

“That one.” Ritzi pointed to the empty table.

Two years ago, Crater would have argued, would have said that she’d lost her mind and was intent on losing his money. But he’d learned better.

“Remember,” she said, patting his arm. “It’s always the player.”

“Looks like it could be the dice this time. Lead weighted, I’d wager.” He gave one last wistful glance at the crowded table and then led her to the open one.

“They’re broke,” she whispered. “And drunk. Now’s the time to make our luck.”

The stickman pushed the dice to the shooter and did his best to keep the tempo going. He looked grateful as Crater and Ritzi stepped up to the table.

“Comin’ out. Bet those hard ways. How about the C and E? Hot roll comin’, play the field! Any mo’ on yo?”

“Don’t forget your penny,” she reminded Crater.

He found one in his pocket and tossed it under the table for good luck. In reality, it was a wasted penny, but the point was to appear knowledgeable. Never toss both dice in the air at once—only amateurs did that. But one made you look like a pro. It was all about looking the part. Raising the bets. And, ultimately, making money. Ritzi picked his numbers, blew on his dice, and gave her sultry smile to any man who made eye contact.

Within ten minutes, Crater was up twelve dollars. A buzz built in the air around them like static. Stragglers drifted to their table. The cocktail waitresses circled, making sure the booze was plentiful.