Katie Rose (13 page)

“I suppose,” Monica appeared unconcerned. “Mr.
Shane said much the same thing when I first came here. Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a flask of brandy on you, would you? I could use a stiff drink.”

“No, unfortunately, I do not.” Winifred was beginning to need a drink herself. “Mrs. Black, do you realize the seriousness of the charges against you?”

“What, that I tried to kill the old man?” Monica shrugged. “I do not remember if I did or not. I know I wanted to. I couldn’t stand the old bastard another minute. ‘Monica, get me a drink. Monica, get out of my sight. Monica, you are not as pretty as you used to be. You cannot do anything right.’ I thought if I got rid of him, I could go to Europe for the summer and have some peace at last.”

Mrs. Black spoke as if poisoning her husband were a way to rid herself of an annoying insect. Even if her motive was to escape an untenable marriage, one that society’s mores had forced on her, she should seem more upset. Charles’s words nagged at Winifred, but she pushed them aside. Her job was not to determine the woman’s guilt but to help her get a fair trial.

“Mrs. Black,” Winifred began, opening her notebook, “let us start at the beginning. How did you meet Mr. Black, and what was your marriage like?”

Monica settled into a chair, her brows knitted together, deep in thought. “I was a dancer, on the Broadway stage,” she said softly, and her face brightened at the memory. “My, I had the looks then! I was going to try and be a singer, but the stage manager took a peek at my legs and said I was born to be a dancer. My dream was to become a real actress. I guess it wasn’t in the cards.”

Monica wiped at her eyes, and Winifred felt a pang of pity for the woman. “So you met Mr. Black at a show?” Winifred prodded.

“Yes. He was seated right in the front, passing
hundred-dollar bills around as if they were nothing. Can you imagine? Well, all the girls were impressed with him. He was good-looking, too, with his flashy silver vest and diamond pins. I didn’t know at the time that it was all a show, that he was really stingy.”

“Did he court you?”

Monica nodded. “I fell for him, just like the romance books say. I should have known on our honeymoon how things would turn out. He drank too much at our wedding, then passed out on the table. His butler had to carry him to bed, while I took off his shoes. The next day he had a powerful headache. Claimed it was all my fault, that he had made a mistake. He said I did not … could not … you know.” The dark eyes stared plaintively at Winifred.

“Arouse him?” Winifred guessed.

The woman’s head nodded vigorously. “Yes, that’s it. What a nice way to put it! Anyway, it never got better after that. He was always yelling at me, everything I did was wrong. I wondered why he even married me, but I think he needed a wife for business purposes, you know? Then when I did not give him a son, he got even madder and would barely speak to me, though what he thinks I should have done about it, I can hardly guess.”

Winifred felt a blush creeping up on her face. Dear God, it was a good thing she had come to see Monica Black right away! If the papers got hold of this.… Gently, Winifred continued with her questions.

“When you imply that Mr. Black treated you poorly, do you mean he struck you?”

For the first time, Monica Black looked embarrassed. Averting her gaze, she spoke softly. “Yes, he hit me once when he thought I was flirting with a gentleman at a party. I did not expect that! When I
wrote to my pa, he wrote back that he could not interfere in a marital disagreement, that I had made my bed and could lie in it. There was no one else I could tell, not even my friend Delilah from the stage. So I hid it with powders.”

She appeared as mortified as if she were confiding some secret shame for which she was personally blameworthy.

“Did you ever confront Mr. Black about his abominable behavior?” Winifred tried to keep the outrage from her voice.

Monica giggled. “I did one better than that. I waited until the old man fell asleep, and I conked him with a frying pan! He slept real well that night, I’ll tell you. Never laid a finger on me again.”

Winifred felt her mouth fall open. She admired the woman’s pluck in fighting back, but her life had clearly been hopeless. She had no way out—no strong family background, no money of her own. Her plight was clear.

“So”—Winifred took a deep breath—“what do you mean when you say you are not certain that you tried to kill him? Wouldn’t you know if you poisoned your own husband?”

“One would think,” Monica replied. “Yet it was like a dream. Did I just imagine it, or did I really do it? I will tell you what I remember. He was drinking more than ever, calling me every name he could think of. I was sick of it. My neighbor told me she’d bought a large supply of arsenic, due to the rats. New York’s full of them, you know. I saw her carting them out of the cellar the next day. I bought a supply myself. It occurred to me that if it worked on one kind of rat, it would work on another. I do not recall putting it in his tea—but I reckon I must have, mustn’t I? They
found it in the tests, all right. Funny, I can’t recall for sure.”

Winifred felt a thrill. Was the woman blocking out the memory, or was she being deliberately obtuse? “And the servant called for a physician?”

“Yes.” Monica nodded. “After drinking the tea, Willy—I mean, Mr. Black—collapsed and began vomiting everything up. When he did not stop after an hour, Bridget went for the doctor. I tried to help him, but he was very ill. You wouldn’t think a little poison would make him so sick.”

As Monica stared out the bars of her cell, Winifred took a deep breath. The woman was like a child in some ways, acting on impulse with no clear thought as to the consequences.

Monica turned her gaze back to Winifred. “The doc said he recognized a poisoning case when he saw one, and the next thing I knew, I was brought here. When the policeman asked me if I did it, I told them the truth. I didn’t remember. Can’t you see?”

“Yes, unfortunately I can,” Winifred replied softly, “Mrs. Black, we have to be very careful here. I know you did not mean for things to turn out the way they did, but an all-male jury and judge will not be likely to understand your viewpoint. They have never stood where you are, slept with a man they despised, been blamed for everything from sexual impotence to loss of beauty, and struck by a marital partner who is twice their size. Do you understand?”

“My Willy is not a big man,” Monica said. “He is barely a hundred and a half—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Winifred said quickly. She rose and laid a comforting hand on the woman through the bars. “Mrs. Black, I am confident we can help you win this case. But you must listen carefully to my directions, as well as Mr. Shane’s. Do not give
interviews to any newspaper without one of us present. If anyone else tries to talk to you, tell them to speak to your attorney. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” Monica said, appearing confused. “I think the papers are coming here today. That nice Mr. Dana from the
Sun
asked to speak to me. At three o’clock.”

“Then that nice Mr. Dana will speak to both of us,” Winifred said decidedly. “We have got a case to win, Mrs. Black, and I am here to help you.”

The woman squeezed her hand in gratitude, and Winifred left the cell. She heard the policeman lock the door behind her, then escort her to the door. As soon as she reached the main hall, she heard a familiar voice behind her.

“Good afternoon, Miss Appleton. I would say I am surprised to see you here, but I am not.”

She turned to face Charles Howe.

M
r. Howe.” A shudder of awareness went through her as she saw him. Charles. Her lover. Her opponent.… Was he still furious at her? Deciding not to take any chances, she assumed her best businesslike manner. “What are you doing here? If you are interviewing Mrs. Black, I respectfully request to be present.”

“We have already talked to her,” Charles said bluntly. “Enlightening conversation, I must admit.” His expression changed, and he spoke to her sternly. “Winnie, you know what you are doing is wrong. This woman is guilty as hell. If you have interviewed her, you must have seen that much. Playing the ‘poor female’ angle is not going to do anything for you.”

“You do not have any idea what angle I am playing!” Winifred said—rightly, because she didn’t know. “And my name is Miss Appleton. Although I appreciate your advice, I certainly do not need it.” She started to storm away, when he stopped her.

“All I am saying is, you have picked the wrong case to latch on to. Nothing good will come of this—
not for you, nor for her. I do not want to see you heartbroken, that’s all.”

He sounded sincere. Winifred felt her defenses crumbling. He was so much easier to handle when he was angry at her! Unfortunately, at that moment, he looked so handsome, his crisp white shirt a startling contrast to his dark tailored suit. Visions of their lovemaking scorched her as she suddenly noticed the sensual lines of his mouth, his hands.… She shook her head. She could not give in to her attraction to him, or all would be lost. Holding her head high, she gave him a cool smile.

“I appreciate your concern, Charles, but it is misplaced. I am a big girl, and I can take care of myself. Now if you will excuse me, I have a case to prepare.”

“Winifred!” he called after her, but this time she did not stop. She turned and walked swiftly out of the building. The policeman looked up from his coffee and gave Charles a sympathetic grin.

“Women,” he muttered. “Can’t live with them, and can’t live without them.”

Charles could not have agreed more. How could one woman be so stubborn? What she was doing was wrong, yet she didn’t care. All that seemed to concern her was “poor Mrs. Black.”

Charles fumed, digging through the police reports. Apparently, Winifred was able to put everything else from her mind, including her relationship with him. Well, if she could do it, so could he. Taking the documents he was looking for, he slammed the file shut and stormed out the door.

The policeman shook his head, then went back to the newspaper. “Women,” he muttered to no one.

•  •  •

“W
HAT THE HELL
is this?” Charles snatched the newspaper from his secretary the following afternoon. The headline screamed:

MRS. BLACK TRIAL TO BEGIN! PLIGHT OF
WOMEN EVERYWHERE EXPOSED! POOR MRS.
BLACK, NOBLE HEROINE FOR WOMEN’S RIGHTS!

Charles stared at the paper, appalled, as the secretary backed out of the room. This could not have happened so soon. Scanning the columns, he smothered a groan as he read an outrageous account of Monica Black’s story.

Charles tossed the paper into the nearest rubbish bin. “ ‘Poor Mrs. Black!’ ” he growled, pacing the room in frustration.

This was undoubtedly Winifred’s doing. She was obviously the “friend” at the jail, the mysterious Miss A. with such decided political convictions. The battle had already begun, and Winifred had fired the first volley. She had taken a murderess and portrayed her publicly as a noble martyr.

Cursing under his breath, Charles flung open the door, facing the startled Crocker. “Get Marton, Witherspoon, and McAlister in here right away. I also
want to see that reporter from the
Times
, the one who has been following me for weeks.
Now
!”