Cold Morning (4 page)

Planted behind a clump of evergreens, witness to the unsettling domestic skirmish, I suddenly realized how cold I was—my cheeks were numb to the touch and my eyes watered. I headed toward the hotel's back entrance, my head swirling with images of that ugly confrontation. Yet as I opened the back door, I sensed movement behind me. Turning quickly, I caught sight of a person sheltered behind a brick wall, the slightest hint of a shoulder, a dark shadow that disappeared immediately. I blinked wildly, focusing—had I imagined someone there? Of course not. Someone had been there, watching, listening, someone who'd probably spotted me trailing after Annabel into the hotel. My heart beat rapidly, fear sweeping through me. I didn't move. I waited. But nothing happened. Not a soul in sight. Hard silence in the cold morning. No one in the deserted parking lot but me, I told myself. But I didn't believe that. I
knew
someone had been there. Watching.

The clerk behind the reception desk looked up as I hurried in, his eyes narrowing. “Ma'am?” A bony young man with plastered-down hair over his forehead, he'd been buttoning his jacket and removing a piece of lint from his lapel. “Ma'am?” he repeated, alarmed that a middle-aged guest was stumbling into the lobby from the back entrance, her cheeks slick with cold.

“N-n-no matter,” I stuttered, which of course made no sense, but he wisely turned away, fiddling with the cubbyhole mailboxes behind him, though I noticed a surreptitious glance over his shoulder to check on my level of utter madness.

At that moment a porter snapped open the wide French doors of the café, so I wandered in. Though I smelled roasted coffee, there was no one in sight.

“Hello?” I announced.

The waitress—Peggy, I recalled—peered through the small glass window of the kitchen door, frowned at me, but cracked the door.

“Darling,” she said in a warm voice, “we're not open yet. A few minutes.”

“Any chance for coffee?” I was shivering.

She looked over her shoulder, said something to someone behind her, and then stepped into the dining room. “Have a seat.” A thin but friendly smile. “I can get you a cup of java right now.”

I sat by the front window in the seat I'd occupied yesterday, and she placed a cup of coffee before me, then left a small earthenware pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar cubes next to it. She whispered, “We don't open for a bit, but I got to have my coffee before my shift starts.” She chuckled. “I bet the aroma drew you in. Ain't nothing like the pull of coffee.”

“It did, indeed.” I smiled up into her face. “Thank you.”

“Well, you looked chilled to the bone, ma'am.”

“I took a walk.”

At that moment a clatter of rushed footsteps sounded from the back of the room, and a door at the end of the hall opened quickly. The manager, Horace Tripp, rushed in, his overcoat half off his shoulders, one arm still struggling with a sleeve. A compact man, below average height, he moved with the assured stride of a tall, cocky man. He had the look of a stage-door Johnny, a prominent jawline and flashing eyes—a man who'd whisper sweet nothings into your ear. Now he looked flustered, uncertain, and his eyes drifted from Peggy to me.

He muttered, “I'm late.” But he was speaking to no one in particular, though Peggy, glancing back toward the kitchen, nodded at him.

“Miss Ferber, we are not open yet.”

“Obviously, you are.” I grinned at him, but he shot a look at Peggy.

“The poor dear was numb with cold,” she told him.

Horace spoke over her words, ignoring me. “Is Annabel in yet?”

“I'm right here.” The door behind him opened and Annabel, running her fingers down the buttons of her uniform as if to check whether any were undone, spoke to his back.

“Where's your wife?” Annabel asked him. “She didn't come with you? We're short-handed today as it is.”

He looked at Peggy. “Martha is under the weather.”

Annabel grunted. “So she says.”

Horace nervously looked at me, then back at her. Then he rattled off a few other names, and Peggy nodded toward the kitchen. “Everybody is straggling today, Horace.” His overcoat slung over his arm, Horace walked toward the kitchen door, but he spoke to himself. “It's going to be another long, long day.”

Peggy called after him. “Looks like you could use a cup of coffee yourself.” The line was surprisingly warm and affectionate, yet somehow a coy plea for attention. He smiled back at her.

“I was outside too long,” he explained. “The bucket of bolts I call a car wouldn't turn over this morning.”

Annabel sucked in her cheeks and said in a voice so low I could barely make out her words. “Not the only thing he couldn't turn over this morning.”

Hearing her, Peggy flushed and she bumped the edge of the table where I sat sipping the steaming coffee, warming my chilled hands around the hot cup.

Ah, I thought, the delicious melodrama continues, act two.
The Kitchen Gods: A Farce
. Adultery in a cold climate.

Annabel rapped her knuckles on my table in bizarre punctuation, then headed to the kitchen. She shook her head and said too loudly, purposely, “Them two. Romeo and Juliet, they ain't.” She winked at me.

Sputtering voices drifted out from the kitchen, Annabel's alto rumbling, Horace's voice telling her to pipe down. “
She'
s out there.” A young waiter I hadn't seen before walked out, a tray of glasses balanced over his head, and managed to place the precarious load deftly on a sideboard. He was startled to see a guest seated in the room Yes, indeed.
She
was undoubtedly out there.

As I finished my coffee, dropping a generous half dollar on the marble-top table, a young boy in knickers and a slough-boy cap rushed in and deposited a stack of newspapers on a table. He spotted me watching him and with an impish grin on his round face, thrust out a paper, executing a little half-step with a flourish. I tipped him a nickel. Standing there, I scanned the headlines of the thin paper, the
Hunterdon County Democrat
. The bold headline caught my attention:

LINDBERGH ARRIVES IN TOWN

And underneath:

Jury Selection Today
Bruno Paces in His Cell
.

A large photograph, center page, showed Colonel Lindbergh stepping out of a Franklin. A pugnacious Colonel Schwarzkopf had his hand on Lindbergh's elbow, a fatherly gesture, protective. Lindbergh was staring to the side, as though surprised by the photographer. His lips were drawn into a thin, disapproving line. Schwarzkopf's eyes—hard, unfriendly marbles—looked into the camera.

But in the upper right corner of the large grainy picture was a tiny inset—Bruno Richard Hauptmann staring into a camera, a mug shot, the size of a postage stamp. A stony expression on his triangular face, the eyes also hard, fierce. A dreadful juxtaposition, the two pictures, looking, indeed, like stamped mail. A postcard sent from the edge of hell.

I tucked the newspaper under my arm and left the café. The lobby was lively with movement now, hustling reporters and guests, a hum of excitement. As I headed to the stairwell, I glanced toward the sitting area. Still nestled into one of the overstuffed side chairs, arms wrapped around his chest, was that annoying scamp, Joshua Flagg, slumped over, asleep. A copy of the
Hunterdon County Democrat
rested on the arm of his chair. I stood there watching him, his chest rising and falling. But he wasn't asleep—that much I knew, because for a second his eyes fluttered, half-open, as he surreptitiously surveyed the room. Most likely he spotted me watching him. Then he tucked his head into his chest, sighed heavily, but I detected a hint of a smile. It had nothing to do with dreaming. He was watching me watch him.

Chapter Four

The next day, late afternoon, Aleck and I sat in the church basement, the last diners, lingering over coffee and buttery sour cream cake that Aleck insisted was manna from the gods. He refused to leave and kept blowing ridiculous kisses to the matronly woman who ladled out the confection, though she did her best to ignore the drooling epicure. “Really, Aleck,” I chided him, “people will think you're mad.”

“Enviable, that diagnosis. Thus folks stay far away from me.” His stubby fingers stuffed crumbs into his mouth.

“There may be other reasons for that, Aleck.”

“Jealousy. A horrible thing, Ferb.” He rolled his tongue into the corner of a lip, retrieving a flake of the crispy pastry. He spoke with a full mouth. “We sit here while Rome burns.”

“And I sit here with you. We should be securing our seats in the courthouse.” I smiled at him. “I do question my own common sense sometimes.”

“My dear, there's nothing common about you.”

“Thank you.”

He swallowed loudly. “I didn't mean it as a compliment.”

“Of course you did. You're simply speaking the truth because you're dizzy with sugar.”

“You can't resist the wisdom I spout at you—gratis, I might add—because I know my words will appear in the mouth of one of your dashing heroes. Gaylord Ravenal uttering Aleck Woollcott
bon mots
.”

I raised my eyebrows and changed the subject. “What happened yesterday? What did I miss?”

I'd spent most of yesterday back in the city arguing with Doubleday. I'd been driven around noon into Manhattan, meeting with my publisher, sleeping at my own apartment, but I'd been squired back to Flemington in time to have lunch with Aleck.

He shrugged. “Jury selection is over, as of this morning. You didn't miss a thing. Opening statements—going on now. Last night Lindbergh himself stepped into the Union Hotel lobby for a minute, his lovely wife, Anne, at his side. The place froze. Anne looked tired, though she smiled at everyone. She has to testify today, this afternoon—maybe. His lawyer Henry Breckinridge was with them. Both disappeared into a back room. Oddly, they were trailed by Walter Winchell, who followed them in. The door closed behind them all, though some hack reporters put ears to the door until shoved away by the clerk. Quite intriguing.”

“I don't like Winchell.”

“Of course you don't,” he said. “He has a radio show, and you don't. People actually read what he writes in his columns.”

I ignored that. “And then?”

“Nothing. A half-hour later they all walked out, the Lindberghs slipping into Breckinridge's car, and Winchell retreating to Nellie's Taproom out back to regale lesser souls with his brassy commentary. Strangely, he passed around forbidden copies of the ransom notes, asking opinions on whether they matched samples of Bruno's handwriting, which he also had copies of.”

I jostled him. “Aleck, we have to leave this basement. They'll make us pay rent shortly.”

He wiped his lips with a napkin, looking longingly at the dessert plate that that held measly crumbs and a slight smear of creamy frosting.

“There was a bit of a flurry early this morning,” Aleck continued. “Breakfast at the café was sporadic. No one got what they ordered.”

“Lindbergh?”

He shook his head. “No, nothing to do with that. Actually I have few facts, just what the night clerk told me.”

I waited. “And?”

“Dear Ferb, you must allow me the dramatic pause.”

“Empires rise and fall during your pregnant silences.”

He glanced around the room and pointed to a copy of the
Hunterdon County Democrat
on one of the tables. “One of the waitresses who works in the café was strangled by her boyfriend last night.”

I caught my breath. “What?”

He leaned over and retrieved a tattered, folded copy of the morning paper. “Perhaps I am the only out-of-towner who peruses this slight rag, filled as it is with dairy production estimates, chicken maladies, and library budgets. There must be something in it, I'm assuming.”

I rushed my words. “Aleck, tell me now.”

“What the clerk told me—and that was all I heard—was that a young woman got into a brouhaha with her Neanderthal boyfriend, some knock-down-drag-out screaming match right in the café, around six last night, and the argument spilled over into her rooms at the boardinghouse on Blake Street. I gather she was a mouthy broad, dear Ferb, so said the clerk who had no affection for her. But said boyfriend followed her home and, well, strangled her. Her roommate returned from a late shift to find her body just inside the doorway. Dead. As a doornail.”

“Tell me…” I stammered,“her name?”

“Edna, why are you getting so het up about this?” But he perused the newspaper and thumbed his fingers on the page. “Here. The bottom of page one, a short squib, easy to ignore.”

“Read it to me.”

He did, and I trembled. Annabel Biggs had been strangled in her room last night, discovered by a returning roommate, Peggy Crispen, at nine o'clock. Four or five lines, nothing more. Police allege…police believe…police conclude…“Miss Biggs, a new employee at the Union Hotel Café, recently moved here from Chicago where she worked as a waitress at the Palmer House. Witnesses told police she had a loud confrontation with Cody Lee Thomas, a local man from town. Thomas was picked up at Jeb Stubbin's farm where he lives with his mother and works as a handyman.” Thomas now sat in the county jail.

“That's it?” I asked.

Aleck was getting ready to leave. “What knowledge they have, I suppose.” He peered at me through his thick eyeglasses, owl-like. “Now don't tell me, dear Ferb, that you
know
these people.”

I stammered. “I met her in the café. A loud, annoying woman, cocky, not my cup of tea. And I saw this…this Cody Lee Thomas fighting with her yesterday morning. Early. I was taking a walk.”

“Lord, Edna, you're a witness to murder.”

“Well, hardly. A fight between lovers.”

“Was it something you said to them?”

I ignored that. “Let me read that.” I grabbed the paper from him, but the short piece said little else. My eyes swept up the front page: a photograph of Anne and Charles Lindbergh walking with Anne's mother, Mrs. Dwight Morrow, and her younger brother, Dwight Morrow, Jr. The brother looked angry, his hand thrust out, traffic-cop style, at the photographer. A lengthy profile of the young prosecuting attorney, Attorney General David Wilentz, who looked spiffy with slicked-back hair and a broad smile. A short history of the storied Herndon County Courthouse, where the drama was being played out. The brutal death of Annabel Biggs was a random footnote, noted but dismissed.

That rankled.

Aleck nudged me. “Edna, the testimony begins shortly. We have our coveted seats.” He withdrew a card from a breast pocket, waved it at me. I noticed it was food-stained, tattered at the corner. He glowed. “Official Pass. Hauptmann Trial. Signed by John H. Curtiss, Sheriff of Hunterdon County.” He pointed to a line of boxes at the bottom. An X was checked next to “Press.”

“Did you lose yours, dear? These slips of paper are worth their weight in gold.”

I scarcely listened to him. “I have something to do, Aleck. You head back into the courtroom. I'll be there shortly.”

“Your seat will be taken by—maybe James Cagney. Or Jack Benny or Jack Dempsey. I heard they're all here today.”

“They'll stand for a lady.”

“I would, too—if I ever chance to meet one.” A suppressed belch. “I'll send you a wire when I do.”

I hurried to the café, which, at this time of day was filled with folks, every table occupied. A group of men waited to be seated. Standing in the doorway, I searched for a familiar face, but the young waiters rushing about were men I hadn't seen before. I waved, and one approached me, looking irritated.

“A table'll be free shortly, ma'am.” He pointed at the waiting men, but didn't look into my face, turning away quickly, headed to the kitchen.

I put my hand out to stop him. “A minute, young man.”

He turned back, his voice brusque. “We're very busy.”

“I see that. Business as usual.”

Perplexed, he waited. “Yes?”

“May I please speak with the manager, Mr. Horace—” I hesitated. “—Tripp, I believe.”

“He's in back.”

“I can wait.”

But within seconds Horace Tripp flew out of the kitchen, hurled orders as he moved through tables, and approached me. “Miss Ferber?” He bit his lip. “A problem?”

But before I could say anything, the kitchen door swung open, and his wife, Martha, wiping her hands on an apron, joined him, standing so close her shoulder touched his. Her hand reached out and grazed his, though involuntarily he pulled his away. A warning, I thought—she is telling him something.

“I just learned about the sad end of one of your waitresses,” I began, watching both of their faces close up. When Horace cleared his throat, ready to say something, Martha cast a sidelong glance at him, then stared directly into my face.

“We've been told by management not to alarm the guests,” Horace whispered.

“I'm a guest and I'm already alarmed.”

“But why?” Horace wondered. “Did you know…?”

“No, not at all. But we had a brief talk in here, and I…well, I remembered her.” I breathed in. “Such a gruesome end. Sad.” I waited.

Husband and wife looked at each other. “We only know what the cops told us.” Horace's voice was hesitant, scratchy.

“Which is?”

Again the furtive glance, one to the other. Horace stepped closer, and I noticed a bead of sweat on his brow, an imperfection on the nightclub gigolo. But Martha spoke up. “Sorry, Miss Ferber. We don't know much. This Cody Lee Thomas—a man who'd stopped in before, a big man, crude, rough—interrupted her service, though she shrugged him off. They had a brief argument with Annabel finally shoving him away. He made threats—you know how angry people do that.” Martha locked eyes with mine. “Men get carried away.”

“But what happened?”

Horace glanced around the busy room. “Miss Ferber, I understand you're a reporter looking for a story—and famous and all…”

I was impatient. “Could you please tell me what you know?”

Resigned, he motioned to Martha, and I followed both to a small office. He shrugged, and whispered, “If you insist…”

“Please, sir.”

“This is what we know. Cody Lee stormed away. Annabel laughed about it, talked too loudly about it as she talked about
everything
. She…well, she
crowed
—that's the word—crowed that he was a big dummy. But then she went home.”

“Where she was strangled.”

Martha added, “By Cody Lee Thomas.” She grasped Horace's elbow and he looked at her.

“He admitted it?”

She shrugged, her face tightening. She was through with the conversation. “Dunno. I assume so.” She started to back away. “We have to…”

“Her roommate found her,” Horace went on. A quiver in his voice.

“And she is?”

“You met her, I think. Peggy Crispen. The chubby waitress.” This from Martha, who rolled her eyes at Horace, who reddened. “The one who sashays around here.”

“May I speak with her?”

Horace bit his upper lip. He cleared his throat. “She didn't come in to work today. The shock, I guess. I mean, you come home and open the door and there is Annabel on the floor. Peggy told me that her neck was twisted….” His words trailed off.

“They were friends?” I asked.

Martha answered. “No, just roommates, forced to room together because every room in Flemington is worth a fortune these days. I don't think they even liked each other.”

“Why do you say that?”

Horace shot her a look. “Tales out of school, Martha.”

A sarcastic grunt. “You should know.” Then, a fake smile directed at me. “Peggy is older than all of us—a decade maybe.”

“But I don't understand your interest in all this, Miss Ferber.” Horace glanced toward the doorway.

“I'm not certain myself.” I offered an anemic smile. “Only that—well, I overheard a bruising spat between Annabel and, I'm assuming, the man they say killed her. Yesterday morning. Early. In the parking lot. I don't know whether to contact the police or…”

Martha broke in, anger in her voice. “A big lug of a guy. Unshaven, a slob. Annabel said he hauls lumber out of South Jersey.”

“Well, that does sound like the man I saw.”

Horace stepped back. “Then…”

“What did you know about Annabel?” I wasn't ready to leave. “Her family? I know she was British.”

They looked back and forth, though Martha frowned. “Not much,” Horace said. “We're all new here. Management hired her a few weeks back. I come out of Trenton. She came a day later. Peggy, a week later, don't know much about her either. You know, more staff considering the trial coming up and all.” A quick smile. “Then Martha followed me. Newly married, the two of us.”

Martha added, “Last summer.” She rolled her tongue into the corner of her mouth. “A whirlwind romance, me and Horace.” A pause. “None of his secrets shared with me.”

Horace hissed, “Martha, for God's sake.”

“Romeo,” she muttered.

I raised my voice. “But I am curious about something Annabel said to me in the café. Something about her payday—something like that. Like she was expecting some good fortune. Something that she planned for…”

Horace blanched. “She told you
that?
”

I smiled. “A chatty woman.”

“Bossy and noisy and loud,” interjected Martha, refusing to look penitent when her husband narrowed his eyes at her.