The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress (37 page)

“Here.”

“Good. Your handwriting is shit, but it’ll work.”

She heard the banging of drawers and the sound of someone rummaging through the closet. “You keep a safe-deposit box, right?”

Crater’s voice, almost a whisper. “Yes.”

“And the key? Where do you keep that?”

“On the ring. In my pants pocket.”

“Which bank?”

“New York Bank and Trust.”

The jumble of keys on a ring. “That where you’re keeping my money?” A silent affirmation, and then, “What else is in the box?”

“My will. And the remaining life insurance policies that I need to cash out. You know I’m good for it, Owney. I wouldn’t stiff you.” Crater coughed twice and spit on the floor. “That what this is about? You think I wasn’t going to pay?”

“I don’t want your money.”

“What?”

“If I don’t collect my fee for getting you on the court, Seabury can’t trace the deal back to me. The trail dies with you.”

“You know I wouldn’t talk to Seabury.”

Owney’s voice lowered, and Ritzi had to strain to hear it. “You won’t be talking to anyone. Ever again.” The sound of a kick in Crater’s rib cage and a furious bark of pain.

The nausea that Ritzi had fought since Crater rolled off her rose to the back of her mouth. She swallowed and breathed and prayed. In the dark coffin of that cabinet, her heart raced so loud she could hear the rush of blood in her ears. Ritzi saw Crater in her mind, naked and bruised, crouched on the floor with a pen in his trembling hand. And as much as she loathed the touch of that hand on her skin and the taste of his kiss, she felt pity for him. She knew what it was like to look in the eyes of the man who stood over him and fear for her life. She wouldn’t wish that feeling on anyone.

“Get up. Get dressed,” Owney said. “You’re taking a ride with us.”

Ritzi didn’t move when the light went out or even when the hotel room door clicked shut. For over an hour, she huddled there, fist rammed in her mouth to muffle the scream that boiled in her chest, drawing blood from her knuckles.

Chapter Thirty-Five

SHELBY, IOWA, TUESDAY, MARCH 3, 1931

RITZI
kept to the side, where the country road softened to dirt, and walked along in a pair of new patent leather shoes that pinched her toes and rubbed a blister on her heel. As a girl, she ran down these gravel roads with bare feet toughened to leather and wind in her face. There wasn’t a swimming hole or a rope swing within ten miles that she hadn’t befriended. It seemed like another lifetime. Another woman, really.

The fields were wrapped in snow, and the sky was a clear cornflower blue. Beneath the frozen soil lay a crop of winter wheat, planted after the corn was harvested. Ritzi could see the gentle rise of each row, dormant, waiting for the warmth of spring before it would send tender green shoots skyward. She scanned the fields, peering into the horizon, and then tilted her head up and drank in the sight. No skyscrapers to block the view. No exhaust or smog. A cathedral of sky above her.

She’d been walking for almost an hour, and stiffness rose up through her calves and into her lower back. Her entire body felt strained and heavy, cracked at the seams. At the train station, a kind farmer had offered her a ride, and she’d allowed him to bring her as far as the turn onto Rural Route 79. She took the rest on foot, and with each step her courage waned. For the last twenty minutes, she’d been walking slower and slower, looking for opportunities to stop and ponder this or that.

When Ritzi came to the last rise in the road before the Martin farm, she stopped. There was no way to count the number of times she had traveled this road, both as a child and as an adult. She knew its curves and dips. That pothole a quarter mile back that no one ever bothered to fill and everyone swerved to avoid. She knew where the split-rail fence
buckled over the culvert and how that ditch always overflowed in spring when the rains came. The fields, whether newly planted, bursting with wheat, or stripped bare, were intimate friends. She had lived within two miles of this farm for all but three of her twenty-two years. Yet Ritzi was not prepared for the terror that filled her as she stood atop that knoll and looked down at her old home.

Ritzi stared at the thin gold band on her left hand. She rubbed it with her thumb, took a deep breath, and made her way toward the gate at the bottom of the hill. Ritzi had all the courage of a newborn calf. She would have turned and run, but her belly weighed heavy and her lower back groaned with the strain. This was the end for her. She had nothing left. And so she limped across the yard and up the front steps. They sagged in the middle, same as always, and the porch rail still needed painting. Everything looked the same as it had the morning she left, only sadder, emptier.

There was a hush in the air, as if the farm held its breath, as she reached out, hand curled into a fist, and rapped on the screen door with her knuckles. It was the first time she had ever knocked. Ritzi locked her knees and waited. Seconds later, she heard boots thumping down the hall. The rattle of a hand on the knob, and then the door opened. Ritzi looked at her husband.

“Hi, Charlie.”

He pushed the screen open and filled the doorframe, shoulders broader than she remembered. Chestnut-brown hair flipped out in curls above his collar. His eyes were still kind and blue, but he’d gotten the sort of lines around them that only sorrow could bring. He hadn’t shaved in days. Charlie stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists. She watched as his face contorted from shock to rage to sadness to relief. He looked her up and down, over and over, wincing every time he glanced at her swollen abdomen.

Finally, Charlie took a deep breath and looked straight in her eyes. His voice cracked. “That ain’t my baby.”

Ritzi stepped backward and dropped her chin. “It is if you’ll have it.”

He flinched as though she’d slapped him, and she saw that look on his face, the one he got when trying not to curse. Charlie couldn’t look in her eyes any longer, so he stared at her feet instead. His arm twitched like he wanted to slam the door shut in her face.

“You been gone a long time, Sarah.”

The name was a blow. Her name. Coming from Charlie’s lips, it sent a shudder through her body, and she reached out to steady herself against the side of the house. But there was no stopping the tears. They were a flash flood, coursing down her face. “Nobody’s called me Sarah in years.”

“That so?” There was a long pause as he stood there, one arm propping the door open.

She wiped her cheeks. “Mostly, they call me Ritzi these days.” She’d tried to say it with nonchalance, but all she could muster was embarrassment. It was the stage name she’d picked for herself as a child, when she dreamed of being something more than a farmer’s daughter.

Charlie barked out a mirthless laugh. He shook his head there in the doorway like he’d never heard anything so ridiculous in his life. Her breath clouded between them in the cold, and she rubbed her arms, shivering.

“That’s a right stupid name.” He turned and walked back into the house.

The tears came even though Ritzi fought against them. She stood on the front porch of the home she had once shared with Charlie and stared at the door. He’d left it open.

Five months later …

Chapter Thirty-Six

CLUB ABBEY, THURSDAY, AUGUST 6, 1931

STELLA
stood across the street from Club Abbey on the first anniversary of Joe’s disappearance. She’d dressed for the occasion in black satin, pearls, and two-inch heels—enough to be dressy but not celebratory—and carried a simple black clutch. Her hands were bare except for her wedding ring. It was almost ten o’clock. The girls of the evening sauntered from the shadows and into the bars of New York City near midnight, but the respectable women did their drinking before then. Especially when swilling for two.

She made her way down the steps and through the double doors without hesitation. The band played a subdued tune, and half the tables were occupied, despite the early hour. Stella found a seat at the bar and made eye contact with Stan.

Stella
, he mouthed, and she nodded, oddly pleased at being remembered. He threw the bar towel over his shoulder and made his way toward her.

“What are you doing here?” He flashed his boyish grin.

It was an easy question. Nothing invasive. But when Stella went to answer it, she couldn’t find the right sequence of words. She swallowed her first attempt. She shrugged and said, “A year ago. Today.”

Stan needed no further explanation. “You’ll be drinking, then?”

“Who’s to say I haven’t started already?”

He shook his head. “You’re not the type. I’d wager you’ve saved up a year’s worth of liquor for tonight.”

“I hate being predictable.”

“I believe they call that classy.”

“Is that the term now? I thought it was stodgy.” Of all the people in
the world, an underage bartender in a seedy Greenwich Village speakeasy seemed to be the only person who could put her at ease.

“What’ll you have tonight?”

“Same as last time. Whiskey on the rocks. But make it two.”

“Where do you want to drink?” He spread his arm out across the bar.

“I’ll clear any table in the place.”

“Don’t bother. Here is fine.”

“No way. You came to drown your sorrows, and you’ll do it in style.” He pointed to Owney’s booth in the corner. “Over there?”

“Looks like it’s taken.”

“Not for long.” Stan stuck his thumb and middle finger beneath his tongue and let out a sharp, high whistle. A few seconds later, Shorty Petak stepped behind the bar.

“Who’s that in Owney’s booth?” Stan asked.

“Some prick.”

“Does the prick have a name?”

“Harris, I think.”

“Well, you tell Harris to take his sorry ass to another booth.”

“Why?”

“This lady here needs a seat.”

“Looks like she’s sitting. And that guy”—he pointed at Harris, who was busy whispering in a young woman’s ear—“is a paying customer.”

Stella suspected that the woman, not the alcohol itself, was the commodity Shorty referenced.

“This here is Stella Crater.” Stan grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “I believe you are familiar with her departed husband?”

Shorty’s eyes filled with knowledge. He nodded.

“A little respect for the dead, then.”

“Shorty Petak.” He stuck out his hand. “I knew your husband. Good customer.”

Stella tried to smile, but her mouth drew tight at the corners. “You saw him often?”

He backpedaled. “A few times.”

“Often enough to think highly of him as a
customer
? Like Harris, perhaps?”

Shorty played with the brim of his bowler hat. “Your husband was a good man.”

“So they say.” Stella hadn’t been in the place five minutes and had already grown weary. “Stan, can I get my drinks? Then I’ll be out of your way, and you gentlemen can continue with your
business
.”

Abashed, he turned to Shorty. “You clear that table for Stella. Send Harris and his … lady friend … to me.”

Stella watched Shorty approach the booth. He said nothing to the middle-aged man, merely cocked his head back toward the bar, and Harris slipped out, tugging on the woman’s arm.

“Don’t you think it’s a bad idea? Me sitting in Owney’s booth?”

“He won’t be in tonight. You’ve earned the spot, I think.” Stan picked up the glasses. “Follow me.”

They skirted the edge of the dance floor, and she followed close behind, eyes away from the growing crowd. She could feel them watching. Recognizing. The bartender leaving his station and escorting a woman through the room was a flare for attention, and the crowd responded. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed.

Stan set his palm on her elbow as he guided her onto the riser that held Owney’s booth. “Mrs. Crater,” he said. “Your drinks.”

Those nearest her booth began to whisper.

“Thank you.” Her words came out stiffer than she intended. Colder.

Stan stepped away with a wink. Somehow the little charade had become a spectacle. The band played on, oblivious, but half the room stared at her. Stella met as many glances as she dared, unafraid. She would make certain they remembered this.

On the other side of the room, at a small round table, sat Detective Simon. She wasn’t sure if he’d been there when she came in or if he was a new arrival, but he seemed intent on her every movement. Stella matched him blink for blink, then turned her attention to the two glasses on the table. She took a deep breath and lifted the first glass. Sniffed the pungent whiskey. Took a long, slow sip and let it roll around her tongue before she swallowed.

“Good luck, Joe.” Stella said it loudly. Clear. Then she lifted the glass a little higher so that the amber liquid was eye level. She could almost imagine him, amused, on the other side of the booth. That arrogant, lopsided grin on his face. “Wherever you are.”

She drank the rest of the glass in three slow, measured gulps. Stella felt the whiskey rush through her system. She blinked hard at the ice
cubes in the bottom of her glass. Her usually thin frame had shrunk considerably over the last year, and she could feel the tingle in her veins.

Stella pushed the other glass to the middle of the table and stood, steadying herself with one hand as the edges of her vision blurred. Stan watched her from the bar. He wiped up a spill and grinned. She gave him the hint of a smile and then wove her way across the dance floor with uncertain footsteps, toward the doors of Club Abbey.

When she reached it, Detective Simon stepped in front of her.

“Stella.” He pulled the doors open. “May I have a word with you?”

She looked to the street above. Eighteen steps. It may as well have been eighteen stories for the way her head swam. “If you hail me a cab.”

Jude followed her up the narrow concrete stairwell. “What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”