Murder on Lexington Avenue (8 page)

Someone had hung a black wreath on the front door of the Wooten house, and all the shades had been pulled. The same maid who had opened the door to him before opened it now. She looked positively terrified at the sight of him.

“The family is in mourning,” she tried. “They aren’t seeing any visitors.”

“I’m not a visitor,” he reminded her. Taking advantage of her timidity, he stepped closer to her, knowing she’d retreat. When she’d retreated far enough, he squeezed past her into the house.

“You can’t come in here,” she cried. “You’ve got no right!”

“I’m trying to find out who killed Mr. Wooten,” Frank reminded her. “Don’t you want his killer brought to justice?”

This question obviously confused her, so she didn’t answer it. “Mrs. Wooten won’t like you being here again.”

“I didn’t come to see Mrs. Wooten.”

“Who did you want to see, then?”

“How about Mr. Young? I understand he’s visiting the family.”

Frank had been bluffing, to see if Young really was here, and the girl’s mouth dropped open in surprise, telling him his information had been correct. “You can’t see him either!”

“Annie, who’s there?” a woman’s voice called from the top of the stairs.

“It’s that policeman, Mrs. Parmer,” the girl replied. “The one who was here before. I told him he can’t come in here.”

Frank heard footsteps on the stairs, and in a moment, a middle-aged woman appeared at the top. She wore the unrelieved black of full mourning, and the quality of her clothing and her bearing marked her as a member of the household, not a servant. Her blond hair was touched with gray, and her face bore the signs of recent strain. She wasn’t as striking as Mrs. Wooten or beautiful like Electra, but her face held an intelligence that interested Frank. She was studying him intently as she made her way down to the bottom of the steps.

He nodded politely and introduced himself.

“I’m Betty Parmer, Mr. Wooten’s sister,” she informed him. “Why are you here?”

“I didn’t get a chance to speak with all the family members when I was here on Saturday,” he said as kindly as he could. “I’m trying to find out who killed your brother, and I need as much information as I can get.”

“What sort of information do you need, Mr. Malloy?” she asked.

Frank knew she wouldn’t be satisfied with anything except the whole truth. “I need to know if Mr. Wooten had any enemies, anyone who might be angry enough to kill him.”

“Wouldn’t his partner, Mr. Young, be in a better position to help you?” she asked.

Frank debated how honest to be in his reply, but something in her tone when she said Mr. Young’s name made him take a chance. “Mr. Young says everyone disliked your brother.”

The maid Annie made a small sound of outrage, but Mrs. Parmer’s lips pursed as she held back a smile. “He would.”

“I also would like to speak with Mr. Young Junior,” Frank added. “He was at the office on Saturday, and I was told I might find him here.”

Mrs. Parmer’s fair eyebrows rose at this. She looked at Annie. “Is Terry Young here?”

Annie’s gaze flickered to Frank and back, as if weighing the wisdom of revealing that information in front of Frank against the penalty for refusing to answer Mrs. Parmer. “Yes, ma’am.”

“They’ll be in Mrs. Wooten’s sitting room, I assume,” Mrs. Parmer said, but it wasn’t a question, and Annie said nothing. She just looked terrified again. “Come with me, Mr. Malloy. I’ll take you to him.”

“She said no interruptions,” Annie tried desperately, moving as if to follow them as Mrs. Parmer led Frank up the stairs.

“I’ll take full responsibility,” Mrs. Parmer assured her.

The promise didn’t relieve Annie’s anxiety in the slightest. She stood at the foot of the stairs, wringing her hands in impotent distress as she watched them climbing higher and higher.

“I’m sorry about your brother’s death,” Frank said as they reached the top.

“So am I,” Mrs. Parmer replied. “He wasn’t always like . . . Well, he wasn’t always a man whom no one liked,” she added. “And he was very kind to me after my husband died.”

She led him past the room where Frank had met with Mrs. Wooten the other day and up another flight of stairs to the part of the house where the family would have their bedrooms. Ordinarily, a stranger would never be admitted to this floor of the house. Mrs. Parmer had guessed that Mrs. Wooten was entertaining Young in her private sitting room. The families must be very close, Frank thought, as Mrs. Parmer stopped in front of one of the doors that lined the upstairs corridor.

She half turned, looking at Frank over her shoulder, as if checking for something. He couldn’t imagine what she’d be checking for, and then she threw open the door, and he realized what it was. She’d wanted to be sure he was in a position to see straight into the room, and she had stepped aside in one swift motion to make sure his line of sight was unimpeded.

At first he didn’t comprehend what he was seeing, and then the two figures on the sofa pulled apart and jumped to their feet. The two figures were Mrs. Wooten and a man Frank guessed to be almost young enough to be her son. When the door had opened, they had been in an embrace. There was no other word for it. Frank didn’t think it was a comforting embrace either.

“I told you, Annie—” Mrs. Wooten was fairly shouting, and then she saw who was there.

Mrs. Parmer stepped in front of Frank and preceded him into the room. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Valora,” she was saying as if nothing untoward had happened, “but Mr. Malloy told me he needed to speak with Terry, so of course I brought him right up. It’s about Nehemiah’s death, so I know you’ll both want to help him in any way you can.”

Frank looked at Mrs. Parmer in amazement. She must have known what they would find here, and she had wanted to make sure he understood exactly what was going on between Mrs. Wooten and Terry Young.

Mrs. Wooten was glaring at Mrs. Parmer as if she’d like to rip her head right off her body, but Mrs. Parmer appeared to be blissfully unaware, although Frank knew that was impossible. Young was still too shocked to really comprehend any of it. He stood blinking in surprise, looking from one to the other of the women and then at Frank, trying to make sense of what they were saying. Then Mrs. Wooten wrapped her arms around herself and hunched over, as if suddenly in pain, and uttered a startled cry.

“Valora?” Mrs. Parmer said in apparent concern. “What is it?”

Then they all noticed that Mrs. Wooten was looking down in horror at where a puddle was rapidly forming around her on the beautiful carpet.

“T
HE BEST THING ABOUT THIS TIME OF YEAR IS THE fresh fruit,” Mrs. Ellsworth was saying as she pulled a pie out of the oven.

“I never had peach pie before,” Maeve said, inhaling the delicious aroma. “I never even saw enough peaches at once to even make a pie!”

“I love peaches,” Catherine informed them all, looking up from the half-eaten one she was cradling in her hands.

“I do, too,” Sarah said with a smile. They were all gathered in Sarah’s kitchen, and Mrs. Ellsworth had spent the morning helping the girls peel and slice the fruit she’d gotten at the Gansevoort Market that morning and bake it into pies.

“Look how many pies we’ve got,” Maeve said, looking at the collection they had cooling on every flat surface in the room. “Can you count them, Catherine, and tell me how many we have?” she added. She’d been teaching Catherine her numbers.

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Ellsworth exclaimed in alarm. “You mustn’t count them once they’ve come out of the oven. They’ll go bad.”

Sarah and Maeve exchanged a glance, but Sarah decided not to scold her neighbor for her superstitions.

“Well, however many we have, what are we going to do with all of them?” Maeve wondered.

“Maybe you can take some to Mr. Malloy and Brian,” Mrs. Ellsworth suggested archly.

“I’m sure Mr. Malloy’s mother would be insulted,” Sarah reminded her.

“All the more reason,” Mrs. Ellsworth replied with a twinkle, making Maeve laugh.

“Why do you want to insult Brian’s granny?” Catherine asked with a frown.

“We don’t, dear. Mrs. Ellsworth is just teasing,” Sarah replied with a warning look at the older woman.

“That’s right, I am,” Mrs. Ellsworth assured her.

“It’s not nice to tease people,” Catherine informed them gravely.

“That’s right, it’s not,” Maeve confirmed in her best nursemaid voice.

They heard the doorbell, and everyone looked up with varying degrees of disappointment. The doorbell usually meant Sarah was being summoned to work.

“I didn’t tell you this morning, but I saw four crows on the fence when I came out my back door,” Mrs. Ellsworth said apologetically. “That always means a birth.”

Sarah managed not to wince. She didn’t believe in Mrs. Ellsworth’s superstitions, but she didn’t like to hurt the older woman’s feelings. “We should be happy,” Sarah reminded them all. “Delivering babies is what keeps a roof over our heads and peaches in our stomachs!”

Catherine giggled.

“I’ll get the door,” Maeve said, hurrying off with Catherine at her heels.

Sarah got up and started removing her apron. “Thank you for this morning,” she said to Mrs. Ellsworth.

“I get more pleasure out of being with the girls than they do from being with me, I’m sure,” she replied, waving away Sarah’s gratitude. “You better get your things together.”

Sarah followed the girls out to the front room, which served as her office. A young man in a footman’s uniform stood just inside the door. He seemed enchanted with Maeve, but the girl was more interested in a note he had handed her.

 

 

E
VERYONE KEPT STARING, TRANSFIXED BY THE PUDDLE. Frank felt a rushing in his ears and everything grew fuzzy, as if a fog had formed around him. Suddenly, he was no longer in the Wooten house but in his own, in the flat he’d shared with Kathleen when they were first married, on the night when Brian was born, on the night when Kathleen had died. The pain of her loss was like a knife, as it always was, but his mind was racing past it, on to something else, something vitally important that he had to remember. That evening Kathleen had stood up and water had started running down her legs and forming a puddle on the floor around her. That’s how she’d known her baby was coming.

“Valora, what on earth is wrong?” Mrs. Parmer was saying, genuinely confused and not a little horrified.

“Valora?” Terry Young said, equally confused and horrified.

What was wrong with them? Didn’t they know what was happening? He hadn’t suspected, but surely, they both knew about Mrs. Wooten’s condition.

“It’s the baby,” Frank said when no one made a move to do anything to help her.

They looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. Except for Mrs. Wooten, of course. She simply looked terrified.

“She’s going to have her baby,” he told them, mortified to be mentioning such a subject in mixed company but knowing it had to be done.

“Baby?”
Mrs. Parmer echoed, her horror increasing tenfold. “What are you talking about?” And then she must have realized the answer to her own question and turned to Mrs. Wooten. “Are you with child, Valora?”

Terry Young made a strangled sound in his throat, but no one seemed to notice.

Valora Wooten’s eyes narrowed with pure hatred as she glared at Frank. “You’re insane,” she informed him. “Get out of my house!”

But Mrs. Parmer had realized the truth of it.

“You
are
with child!” she cried in outrage, looking the woman up and down. “That explains . . . Did Nehemiah know?” She looked at Young, who had paled visibly. “Of course he didn’t know,” she realized. “Nobody knew because it wasn’t Nehemiah’s child!”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Mrs. Wooten hissed. “You don’t know what you’re saying!”

“Shouldn’t someone get a doctor?” Young said, glancing reluctantly at the puddle again. He looked as if he might faint.

“No!” cried Mrs. Wooten, terrified again. “No doctors! I don’t need a doctor. I just need for all of you to get out of here and leave me alone!”

“Of course,” Young said and made a break for the door.

Frank caught his arm before he could escape. “Don’t leave the house,” he warned the young man. “I need to talk to you, and I’ll be very annoyed if I have to go looking for you.”

Young blanched, but he nodded frantically before wrenching free and fleeing the room.

“Don’t be a fool, Valora,” Mrs. Parmer was saying, her disgust evident in her voice as she studied the moisture staining the carpet. “You’re going to have a baby. You need someone to help you. I’ll send for Dr. Smith.”

“Not that old busybody! He’ll tell everyone in the city!”

“It’s not a secret you can keep much longer,” Mrs. Parmer pointed out reasonably.

“Not Smith! Not anyone who knows us!”

“I know a midwife,” Frank said.

The two women looked up in surprise. They’d completely forgotten he was there.

“I know a midwife,” he repeated. “She’s Felix Decker’s daughter,” he added, in case his own recommendation wasn’t enough.

“Felix Decker?” Mrs. Parmer echoed.

“Felix Decker’s daughter can’t be a midwife,” Mrs. Wooten said with disdain.

“Well, she is,” Frank said impatiently. “I’ll send one of your servants for her, and you can see for yourself.”

“Who’s Felix Decker?” Mrs. Parmer asked.

“The
Deckers
,” Mrs. Wooten snapped. “One of the oldest families in the city.”

“That’s right, and I’m going to send for her. You can send her away if you decide you want your doctor, but somebody has to do something,” Frank said, turning away from them in exasperation.

Frank found Terry Young pacing the hallway at the bottom of the first flight of stairs. “What’s wrong with her?” he demanded, but Frank ignored him.