The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress (6 page)

“We can sort it out.” Crater’s composure was gone, and Ritzi heard the terror in his voice.

“That deal we made with Martin Healy was supposed to be taken care of clean and quiet. But now”—the slap of a newspaper across Crater’s face—“it’s front-page news. How the
hell
did George Hall sniff out that story?”

“I don’t know shit about that. Nothing.”

“You’re taking a ride with us, Joe.”

“No—”

“Clean the place up, boys. No one needs to know we were here.”

Chapter Four

BELGRADE LAKES, MAINE, THURSDAY, AUGUST 7, 1930

THURSDAY
dawned dark and angry, and Stella woke to the lash of tree branches against the metal roof. A summer storm had blown in during the night. It was a sudden, full sort of wakefulness that dragged her from sleep, and she sat up, grasping at the edges of a dream she couldn’t quite remember. After a moment, she slipped from bed and padded down the stairs in her bare feet to rummage in the kitchen for a tin of coffee. She stood at the window, arms crossed, watching gray water slap across the pier. The lake looked furious. As the smell of coffee started to warm the air, she heard a knock at the kitchen door. Fred Kahler, crouched on the stoop, soaked to the skin. Hands cupped to his face, he peered in the window.

Stella wore nothing but a cotton nightgown frayed thin from use.

They realized this at the same time. Fred was about to leave when she held up one finger.
Wait
, she mouthed, and ran back up the stairs, face crimson.

Her dressing gown hung on the bathroom door, and though she wouldn’t normally wear it in front of a man other than her husband, Stella didn’t have time to get dressed. On her way out of the room, she grabbed a towel and slipped on a pair of socks.

Fred stared at his feet when she opened the door. “I’m so sorry. I—”

“Come in.”

He ducked inside, streams of water running from him in at least four different places, and offered her a grateful smile. Stella handed him the towel, and he wrung himself out while standing on it.

“Coffee?”

The puddle by his feet crept toward the potted fern. Fred stared at
the trail of water. She could tell he was about to politely refuse. And suddenly the kitchen felt dark and lonely, so she said, “Just drop your jacket on the floor. It’s only water.” Stella picked two cups from the cabinet and poured him some coffee.

Fred scooted across the floor with the towel beneath his feet, trying not to make a bigger mess. It was considerate. And funny. She laughed. “Cream or sugar?”

“Black.” He took a gulp of the hot liquid and sank into a chair with a sigh. He stared at her sock-clad toes.

“Cold feet,” she said.

Her feet were fine, actually. She’d thrown them on because there was, by and large, nothing sexy about socks. And juvenile as it may be, Stella felt the need to counteract the sight he’d glimpsed through the window. She searched the icebox for milk and the cupboard for sugar. After Fred drove Joe to the train station on Monday, Joe had told him to stay behind. Fred had spent most of the week in his apartment behind the garage or tinkering with the car. The consequences of the situation were awkward, however. It had been years since Stella had been alone with another man.

She stared at the coffee grains floating at the top of her cup. “Do you think he took the night train?”

“I don’t know.”

“He didn’t tell you what time he’d come back?” She looked over the rim of her cup at Fred.

“No.”

“Did he say anything,” Stella balled her fist and pointed to it for emphasis—“you know, about what happened?”

He inspected the bottom of his cup. “I like you far too much to repeat what he said, ma’am.”

Stella nodded and rubbed her eyes. They sat in silence for a few minutes, drinking coffee and watching the downpour. When the minutes stretched long and Fred had drained his cup, he looked at the clock over the stove.

“The next train will be pulling up any minute,” he said. “I’d better get going. Just in case.”

“Probably best.” Stella forced a smile. “We wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”

Fred set his cap on his head and tapped the brim as he walked out the door. “Back in a few.”

Stella finished off the pot of coffee but didn’t make another. Joe wouldn’t be on that train. Not today or tomorrow—or the next day, for that matter. She was certain of it. This was her punishment for what she’d done.

RITZI
stood in William Klein’s office like a beggar. The Schubert Association had not officially opened for business, but Ritzi implored the doorman to let her in. As usual, William Klein was in the office early, and he’d been only too pleased to see her. Until she made her request. There was no hiding the desperate note in her voice. “Do we have an agreement?”

“I’m not saying shit about being at Club Abbey last night. That’s just asking for trouble.”

“Then don’t. Say we had dinner at Billy Haas’s Chophouse. Crater goes there all the time.”

Klein jerked at the knot in his tie, and his face was flushed. Angry. “I still don’t see how this is my problem.”

She didn’t want to be close to him, didn’t want his sweaty hands anywhere near her, but she leaned over the desk anyway, her best act of intimidation. Ritzi was scared enough to be convincing. “I will make it your problem the second the cops come looking for me. I went home with you last night. That’s the story.”

“I could take it to Owney, tell him you’re blackmailing me.”

The threat landed like a fist in her rib cage.

“Joe is your
friend
.” She choked out the words.

“So?”

“So your friend—a damned supreme court justice, I might add—was dragged out of a hotel room in Coney Island last night. You don’t think that’s going to be a
problem
?”

Klein turned to study one of the many black-and-white prints on the wall. Showgirls, every one. Feathered and sequined and leggy. His favorite leading ladies. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? That this isn’t some racket?”

“I can tell you how they stomped on him. The way he screamed.”
Ritzi held on to the lip of the desk as she moved closer. “Is that what you want?”

“Enough.”

“They can’t know I was there.”

“It’s your mess, Ritz. I don’t want any part of it.”

“What if Crater doesn’t come back? We’re the last people to see him.”

“You don’t know that.”

“But if I’m right, there will be questions. The only thing left to decide is how to answer them.”

His eyes, usually greedy, had a calculating look in them now. Ritzi felt them on her like an itch. Last night’s dress was disheveled, the satin crushed and one shoulder strap torn. She had swapped her pearls for a cab ride early this morning, and her shoes smelled of vomit. The odor drifted upward, stinging her nose.

“You look like shit,” he said.

The anger seeped out of her, and there was a broken-down sort of tired in her bones. Ritzi counted the hours since she last slept and lost track at thirty. “You make it clear that you and I were together last night—lots of nights, for that matter—and I’ll keep my mouth shut. Otherwise, I tell anyone who comes asking that you know what happened to Crater.”

Klein shifted in his chair and twisted his mouth at the unpleasant prospect of her threat. “So, Billy Haas’s Chophouse?”

Ritzi nodded.

There was nothing left to say, so she turned toward the door. The carpet was thick and she didn’t hear him approach from behind. His hand on the back of her neck was a small death, and she choked on the strangled sound that tried to erupt. The backless gown felt daring last night, sexy. But now she was exposed. His hand left a trail of shame against her skin.

“I’ll keep my end of the deal.” He pulled her toward him. His breath, damp on her cheek, smelled of cigarettes and stale coffee. Clammy fingers snaked into her dress and curled around her right breast. “Seeing as how you’re with me now.”

The muscles in her body went rigid. Klein felt the barrier and grabbed her shoulder with his other hand. “That’s my condition,” he said, and bent her over the desk.

MARIA
would be late to Smithson’s if she didn’t hurry. Since she’d last been at the Craters’ apartment, the judge had reverted to his single ways. Dishes in the sink. Toilet seats up and towels mildewing in the hamper. Books and papers and clothing strewn about. The apartment practically looked ransacked. The bed hadn’t been made. Pants on the floor. Jacket tossed at the foot of the bed. Vest nowhere to be seen. The suit probably cost more than she made in a month, and yet he flung it about like so many dishrags. She’d stripped the bed, ironed the sheets, and taken his suit to the cleaners. It took her an hour to clean the kitchen and another to clean the bathrooms. Now, with the clock inching toward twelve-thirty, she tried to finish dusting the bedroom. She would certainly miss lunch, but if she was lucky, she could avoid getting yelled at by Smithson. Maria was mentally calculating her route when someone rattled the handle to the front door. She stood up straight, listening. A key shifted in the lock. Then the door swung open with a heavy, wooden thud.

Maria winced at the thought of facing Mr. Crater again so soon. Two sets of footsteps shuffled through the entry.

“Where is she?” The voice was sharp and cunning and unfamiliar. She froze.

“Gone for the day.”

Maria gasped and spun around. She stood holding the dusting rag, arms stretched out in front of her like a marionette, as her mind adjusted to what she heard. She knew that second voice. Knew it and loved it.

Jude
.

Maria looked back and forth between the closet and the open bedroom door. She bolted across the room and parted the garments with one smooth movement. Then she slipped inside, drawing them together again with a snap. Maria had the feeling of being a child, caught somewhere she didn’t belong. She pushed her back against the cedar-lined wall and scooted over so her shoes weren’t visible. Tucked into the shadowed corner of the closet, she peeked out between two pinstriped suits and saw Jude stick his head in the bedroom, followed by a broad-shouldered man in a Panama hat. Leo Lowenthall. Jude’s partner in the detective unit.

In one hand Jude held four manila envelopes and in the other Mr.
Crater’s house keys—the ones with the key ring made from a silver dollar, the ones he hung by the front door every day. He shoved the keys in his pocket. Maria could barely see him through the louvered slats as he scanned the room.

Jude walked over to the antique bureau on the far wall. A key stuck out from one of the small drawers. He turned it, pulled the drawer open, and placed the envelopes inside. Maria saw him hesitate, his hand hovering above the drawer, as though to lift them out again.

Leo stood in the doorway, staring at the closet. Suspicious. “So that’s why you were stalling?”

Jude spun around. “What do you mean?”

“I thought you didn’t have the stomach for the job. But really you just wanted to give Maria time to finish work. She was supposed to be here, you know. Owney wanted her to see this.”

Jude took three wild steps toward Leo and grabbed him by the lapels. “You leave my wife out of this.”

Leo rose up to his full height and knocked Jude’s arms away. “How else can we make sure you cooperate?”

“And you think threatening my
wife
will keep me in line? Is that it?” Jude shoved him backward a step.

“I think you’re not trustworthy. That you need a little motivation to do as you’re told. To stop asking so many questions.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m not stupid.” Maria knew her husband well enough to detect the fear in his voice, given away by the high note at the end of each sentence. “And don’t go near my wife.”

“It’s not
me
you have to worry about.” Leo laughed at the look of strangled panic on Jude’s face. “What? You think Owney didn’t know she worked for the Craters? That this was all some
coincidence
? Grow up. Nothing in this town happens on accident.” He snorted. “Just do your job.”

The rest happened quickly, and Maria struggled to remain silent. The rustle of paper. The bureau drawer sliding shut. The small, almost inaudible click of a lock.

“Doesn’t matter,” Leo continued. “Now you know the rules. You cross Owney and he goes after your wife.” He left the bedroom.

Jude shifted into her line of sight, and Maria pulled into her spine, willing herself to shrink farther into the darkness. She could not blink,
could not turn away or breathe, as her husband walked out of Joseph Crater’s apartment.

“GET UP
. You’ve got an audition.”

Ritzi heard the words, but they did not register at first. A cool hand grabbed her bare shoulder and shook. Somewhere at the base of her skull, a deep throb muffled the words into nonsense. She squeezed her eyes shut to block out the light.

“I will drag your bare-naked ass into that shower if I have to.”

“Viv?” The word climbed its way out of her raw throat.

“Expecting someone else?” A pause, and then the voice softened. “Owney, perhaps?”

Ritzi jerked at the name and tried to sit up, but the hand forced her gently back to the pillow. “Is he here?”

“Came by this morning. Wanted to know what time you got in. And to make sure you don’t miss this audition.”

Ritzi’s stomach lurched, and she drew a long breath through her nose to quell the nausea. Her voice came, weak and pleading. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to go home.”

“Home isn’t an option anymore, Ritz. You know that.”

She cracked open her swollen eyes and found herself sideways in the sheet, a worn gray sock clenched in her hands. Vivian Gordon sat on the edge of the bed, primped and pressed as usual. Ritzi blinked at her a few times before she noticed the competing expressions of concern and anger on her friend’s face. “What did you tell him?”

Vivian flashed a wicked grin. “The truth, of course. That you stumbled in drunk just after midnight.”

Thank God
.