Front Page Affair (4 page)

“I beg your pardon, madam?” The secretary came back,
sans
the offending bloom.

“Don't you agree that Hunter was killed because of his gambling?”

“It's possible, Mrs. Basshor.” Hotchkiss stared at his feet.

“Either that or some Germans mistook him for someone else and did him in.” She finished her tea and handed her man the empty cup. “One thing I know without a doubt is that none of
my
guests had anything to do with it. Please make sure you put that in your article, young lady. I want all my friends to be quite certain that they are completely above suspicion.”

“I'll let Mr. Flanagan know,” Kitty replied. “He will write the final story.”

“That's a nice dress you have on.” Elizabeth Basshor took a moment to rearrange her shawl. “I liked your frock yesterday too. What did you say your name is again?”

“Capability Weeks,” Hotchkiss replied before Kitty could answer.

“Capability?” Mrs. Basshor's eyes widened. “As in Capability Brown?”

“You're familiar with his work?” Kitty hadn't expected the hostess to recognize her name's origins. Mr. Brown was England's most famous designer of landscapes, but an eighteenth-century gardener nonetheless.

“He's a man!”

“Yes, but the name isn't very common, so most people don't realize—”

“I've seen examples of Mr. Brown's brilliance in parks all over Britain,” Mrs. Basshor cut in coldly, “particularly at the grounds of Blenheim Palace. The Duchess of Marlborough, whom I've known from when she was just little Consuelo Vanderbilt, is a great friend of mine. It's not done to give a girl a man's name. And your surname is ‘Weeks'?” The hostess waved a dismissive hand. “Never heard of it.”

Kitty's head spun with the speed at which Mrs. Basshor jumped between topics.

“Allow me to tell you something for your own sake, my dear,” she went on. “Don't get ahead of yourself. You will never marry if you continue in this vein.”

The pronouncement caught Kitty off guard. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Basshor?”

“I have no quarrel with women who do what they need to in order to take care of themselves. But girls like you who don't need to work but do so anyway? That's intolerable. It's showing off. What does your mother have to say about it?”

“My mother has passed away, madam.” Kitty had lost control of the conversation and didn't know what she had done to prompt the change.

“Well, that explains it. And your father hasn't remarried?”

Kitty's ears burned. “No, he has not. But perhaps we might return to the matter at hand?”

“In a moment, my dear. Given your situation, I feel it is my duty to warn you that your problem will be—if it isn't already—that you will never fit in. You're obviously much too well-off to have working friends, and you work too much for the rich ones. You can't be in two worlds at once. If you try, you end up in neither. I
know
. I learned that the hard way. Today's young men don't have the courage of their convictions. They may flirt with a girl who seems different, but they'll never marry her. Aren't I right, Hotchkiss?”

Kitty had heard enough. “Well, thank you, Mrs. Basshor. I'll try to keep your advice in mind.” She stood.

“Are we finished then?” The hostess sounded disappointed.

“Yes, we are.” Kitty kept her voice carefully neutral.

“I hope you haven't taken any offense, my dear. I may have my faults, but varnishing the truth is not one of them.”

As she left the room, Kitty heard Mrs. Basshor call, “Mark my words, you will benefit more from scrutinizing your own life than from any amount of inquiry into Hunter Cole's murder.”

Chapter Six

By the time Kitty was seated at Tipton's tea shop on Madison Avenue, she had calmed down a bit. She pressed the glass of ice-cold water that the waitress served her against her forehead. She couldn't fathom Mrs. Basshor's behavior.
Mark my words
indeed. What was she, a punching bag for the older woman to beat about as she pleased?

“What will you have to eat, miss?” asked the young waitress in her starched cap and white apron. Kitty ordered a roast beef sandwich. At the tables around her, women in small groups laughed and chatted easily to one another.

It occurred to Kitty that there might be another reason Mrs. Basshor didn't want her poking around in the circumstances surrounding Hunter Cole's death. The hostess might be protecting someone. But whom? One of her guests? Hotchkiss?

She recalled the secretary's remark about Hunter Cole being a bully.

Perhaps, Kitty thought, Mrs. Basshor was worried that Kitty had seen or heard something incriminating during the party, and that's why she had deflected the attention away from Mr. Cole.

Kitty took a bite of the salad that came with her sandwich and looked around at the smiling, laughing faces. Young or old, not one of them sat alone. All the ladies had come out with company.
Perhaps Mrs. Basshor was correct.

She reached into her purse for a pencil and pulled out a postcard advertising
The Romance of Elaine
, the new series featuring her favorite motion-picture actress Pearl White. “Fearless, Peerless Pearl” had been set loose in a hot-air balloon, kidnapped by bandits, and regularly faced all sorts of perils. She would never allow any setbacks to deter her—let alone one middle-aged woman's disparaging comments.

Kitty put away the postcard, taking solace in the fact that Pearl and the intrepid characters she played probably had occasion to eat alone in tea shops and hotels. That was the price they paid for their independence. She finished her sandwich and left a dollar bill on the table.

Mrs. Basshor's stinging attack could have been nothing more than the older woman's attempt to protect herself or someone close to her—but she, Capability Weeks, had seen through it.

• • •

The smell of frying onions wafted through the sixth-floor landing. Kitty hadn't expected the Coles to live in such a modest place. The building was on a noisy side street in the Fifties, just west of Broadway. The stairwell looked like it hadn't been painted in years, and the elevator creaked and shuddered all the way up. Kitty was quite relieved when the operator—who also doubled as the building's doorman—shut the metal grille behind her with a clang, and she stepped out to safety on the landing.

A small, hard-faced woman peered out from behind the Coles' door when Kitty knocked.

“From the
Sentinel
?” she asked after Kitty introduced herself.

“Let her in, Mama,” a girlish voice called from within.

Kitty entered the flat with trepidation. It was small and compact: a simple foyer opened into a living room, which was connected by French doors to a dining room.

Aimee Cole sat in an overstuffed brown sofa beside an army of fragile porcelain shepherdesses. Her skin looked sallow, and her dull hair hung uncombed around her shoulders.

“It's so kind of you to come.” She introduced Kitty to her mother, Mrs. Henderson, who mustered a grim smile. “It's so nice for me to have a friend here.”

Kitty thought it odd that Aimee Cole thought of her as a friend when they had only met the day before and under such strange circumstances. Then she wondered whether the widow hadn't realized that Kitty had come as a representative of the paper.

“Have one.” Mrs. Henderson held out a plate of brightly wrapped bonbons in a cut-glass serving bowl.

Kitty demurred. She found the atmosphere in the apartment oppressive and would have liked to open the windows to let in some fresh air. More Dresden shepherdesses filled the sideboard in the dining room. Aimee must have a real fondness for them.

“Go on, take one,” Mrs. Henderson insisted.

Kitty unwrapped a chocolate and put it into her mouth. It tasted dusty and dry like some her father had once sent her from Russia. She swallowed quickly and offered both daughter and mother her condolences.

“I'm so sorry for your loss, but I'm afraid I'm here on business.”

“I know all about business,” Aimee Cole managed with a laugh. “How can I help you?”

“I'll leave you young ladies to yourselves.” Mrs. Henderson withdrew to the adjacent dining room, where she busied herself dusting the porcelain figurines. Another girl peeked in, only to scurry away when Aimee's mother flashed her a warning glare.

Kitty asked Mrs. Cole whether she would mind talking about her husband so that the
Sentinel
could print an accurate, respectful report of the tragic occurrence.

“I'd be happy to.” Aimee twisted the fringes of the throw draped over the sofa around her finger. “You know, we haven't had any visitors so far. The police were here earlier this morning, and other than that, it's just been me, Mama, and Alice, my sister.”

“The Learys brought cake,” her mother spoke up from the other room.

“That's right. The Learys are our downstairs neighbors. Hunter's parents called on the telephone but decided to remain in Connecticut.”

“It must be dreadful for you.” Kitty perched on the far edge of the sofa, leaving the cushion between her and Aimee vacant.

“I've been up all night, asking myself why we went to that party.”

“Was it Mr. Cole's idea to attend?” Kitty felt like a vulture circling for a tidbit, but she reassured herself that the public ought to know more about the man who had been killed.

“We went every year for the three years we've been married. It's just something we did,” Aimee replied. “Although Hunter never enjoyed it.”

“He wasn't one for society?”

“My husband despised Mrs. Basshor and her friends. But he liked to get dressed up and appreciated good food and drink…Hunter had been jittery ever since he heard about the Morgan shooting on Sunday,” she added in a quiet voice, “which is why he decided to bring his pistol with him. The police told me this morning that they're certain he was killed with it.”

“That's terrible.” Kitty paused for a moment. “And you arrived early to the party?” She phrased it as a question, but of course she'd seen them strolling about.

“Hunter hated to be late. But I didn't want to be a nuisance, so we walked around the grounds.”

“Do you recall who Mr. Cole spoke to during the party and what kind of mood he was in?” Kitty asked.

“Well, let me see. Things weren't any different than usual. Hunter seemed content once we arrived. He said hello to Mrs. Basshor and some of the men, and we both spoke to Mrs. Clements. She's always been very kind to me. As you've probably gathered by now, Miss Weeks”—Aimee Cole's pale skin flushed red—“even though I married Hunter, the others have never let me forget that I'm not one of them.”

Kitty sympathized with the widow. From her years abroad, she knew what it was like to feel like an outsider.

Mrs. Henderson stared in from the dining room, but Aimee turned away from her. “This morning, the detective asked why I didn't go looking for my husband when the fireworks began. I said that Hunter often went off on his own and that he liked his privacy. Was I wrong in remaining where I was, Miss Weeks? Would you have gone if you had been in my shoes?”

Kitty glanced at the frumpy blue slippers on Mrs. Cole's feet. They matched her dark blue housecoat. “No,” she said. It made no sense to add regret to the widow's grief. “How could you have known what would happen?”

“Hunter had very little patience for society and no interest in fireworks. He must have decided to see the horses just to amuse himself.” Aimee's voice cracked. “Sometimes, I think he loved them more than he loved people. You'll hear people say that Hunter went too often to the races, but I never faulted him for it, Miss Weeks.”

In the background, Kitty could see Mrs. Henderson shaking her head.

“He grew up riding,” Aimee Cole went on. “What else was he to do?”

“Aimee's too generous.” Mrs. Henderson couldn't hold back any more and rejoined them in the living room. “I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but I'll tell you this: my son-in-law was no good either as a man or as a husband. He went to the racetracks, frittered away whatever little fortune he might have had, and even though we heard so much about the great Coles of Connecticut, his people never helped my daughter one bit. Whatever they have, Aimee brought to the marriage. People like to say that she connived to get him, but that's a lie. My girl didn't do anything underhanded to win his affections. He met her, he fell in love, and he asked her to marry him. She said yes, and that was the problem.”

“Mother,” Aimee protested, but Mrs. Henderson wouldn't be silenced.

“It's true, Aimee. He got the better half of the bargain. What were you ever but a good, decent wife to him, and what did he give you? Nothing!” Mrs. Henderson waved an arm across the room. “Even this apartment is rented. Now, if you'd accepted that nice Padrewski fellow like your father and I told you, you'd be lording it over everyone in a mansion, and he'd be smothering you in furs from head to toe.”

“Paderewski, Mother.” Aimee smiled unguardedly for a moment, her watery blue eyes lighting up, and Kitty thought she might have caught a glimpse of the spark that had attracted Hunter Cole when he met her. “And I never married in order to be smothered.”

“He still wants to marry you, my dear.”

“Mother.” Aimee's tone turned sharper.

“I'm just saying, Aimee. I'm just saying.”

A dwarfish maid brought tea on a tray, and Mrs. Henderson poured three cups.

“I hope I don't seem like I'm prying,” Kitty said delicately, “but did Mr. Cole have an occupation?”

“Hunter didn't really work,” Aimee replied. “But we got by. We always managed.”

Mrs. Henderson pursed her lips. “It's nothing like what you'd have had if you'd married the furrier. And you'd be living just down the street from us in Brooklyn.”

Kitty took a sip of her tea. It was probably time to leave mother and daughter to each other's company. “I should be on my way.”

“Can I show you around the apartment?” Aimee said.

“Of course.” Kitty put down her cup and rose.

The tour didn't take long, since all that remained for Kitty to see were the dining room, the bedroom (to which Mrs. Cole didn't open the door), and Mr. Cole's study.

To Kitty's surprise, she felt most at ease in the dead man's private room. It had been sparsely yet tastefully furnished with a rolltop chestnut desk, swiveling chair, rich Persian carpet, and curtains that reached the floor. An antique clock with a mother-of-pearl face sat on his desk. An eye-catching canvas of a muscular stallion posed against mountains hung on the wall above low walnut bookshelves.

“Is that a Stubbs?” Kitty stepped in to take a closer look.

“Hunter's grandmother left it to him in her will. I don't know much about art, but I do know that it's the one good piece we have from them.”

The widow put her hand on Kitty's arm. “I hope I can trust you to be kind, Miss Weeks. The public will say cruel things about me. They may even point fingers in my direction.”

“Mrs. Cole—” Kitty pulled away.

“Call me Aimee. After all we've been through, I think we might allow ourselves that.”

“I just work for the
Sentinel
.” Kitty hoped to avoid the invitation to be intimate. “I'm not in charge of what they print.”

“I understand.”

“I do hope the police will apprehend the culprit—”

“You have a lot to learn, Miss Weeks,” Aimee Cole burst out in anger. “Where I'm from, we know what the police do and what they don't, how they pin the crime on whoever happens to be convenient. What I want is
justice
for my husband.” She spoke with force. “I'm not interested in watching them haul away some poor sod just so that they can cross the case of their list.”

Kitty took her leave of the widow shortly afterward.

Mrs. Henderson walked Kitty to the landing and waited with her for the elevator. “We're supposed to go to Connecticut on Friday for the funeral, but none of them will come here to see my daughter.”

The rattling machine arrived, and the operator pulled open the fretwork grille. Kitty stepped inside.

“The Hendersons may not have come here on the
Mayflower
,” the older woman continued as the gate shut between them with a clang, “but Aimee will be so much better off without Hunter.”

With a jerk, the elevator lurched downward, slowly erasing Kitty's view of Mrs. Cole's bitter parent.

• • •

For once, the typists' incessant clacking didn't drive Kitty to distraction. She filled two sheets of paper with neat script and brought them upstairs to the sixth floor, where a glass wall partitioned the newsroom off from the rest of the hallway. Behind it, the real reporters, all men, went about their business. Some spoke on the telephone; others sat at their desks, writing or chewing on their pencils; still others smoked cigarettes or chatted with their colleagues.

Kitty knew she wasn't allowed to enter, so she tapped on the glass, caught the attention of one of the reporters, mouthed the words “Mr. Flanagan,” and then, acutely aware of sidelong glances in her direction, waited until Flanagan emerged from within.

“Not bad,” he murmured, glancing over her notes. “I can do something with this.” He looked up. “You'll speak to a third party tomorrow?”

“Yes, Mr. Flanagan. First thing.” Kitty planned to telephone Mrs. Clements to set up an appointment.