Noon at Tiffany's (28 page)

The young officer standing by the door came to his superior’s defense. “I hope you appreciate, ma’am that it’s impossible to drag a lake that has over twenty miles of shoreline and is one hundred thirty-six feet deep.”

“I would never have requested that the lake be dragged,” Clara said, raising an eyebrow. “Mr. Waldo is much too self-absorbed to even think of destroying himself.”

The two men exchanged glances that indicated they were just as sure he was not.

Fannie coughed and rose gracefully from her chair. Everything about her spoke of her genial nature; she could have been at a garden party instead of in a cheerless police station surrounded by disagreeable and incompetent men.

“I do hope we haven’t stepped too far out of line, Mr. Pratt, but my daughter sent a telegram to Pinkerton’s Detective headquarters in Chicago yesterday asking for assistance in finding Mr. Waldo. They have already dispatched one of their detectives, so if you would be so kind as to return our photograph of Mr. Waldo, I will arrange to have copies made.”

Mr. Pratt gave a stiff nod to the young officer. Within seconds, the officer returned with the photograph and handed it to Fannie. Unable to look at the likeness of the man who had betrayed her daughter, she dropped it into her purse.

“You’re wasting your money hiring private detectives, Ma’am,” Pratt said. “They aren’t going to do anything different than we did.”

“Perhaps,” Clara said, “but while you’re waiting for Mr. Waldo to surface, so to speak, kindly supply the Pinkerton’s detective with any information you’ve collected thus far. Hopefully, he’ll find a lead.”

At the station door, Mr. Pratt stared hard at the street as if checking for criminals who might be lying in wait. “You shouldn’t allow yourself to hold out much hope, Mrs. Driscoll. I’ve seen this before in young fellas. They get themselves all wound up and ask some gal to marry ’em then they fall to nerves and … and … then they—”

“… Throw themselves in the lake?” Clara took her mother’s arm. “That might be true for some, but as I’ve said, Mr. Waldo would never do that, considering he doesn’t know how to swim.”

The Diary of Kate Eloise Wolcott:

July 19:
No word of Edwin. Mama and Clara will arrive in Chicago tomorrow. They plan on staying in Oak Park with Rev. Cutler’s sister, where they’ll wait for the detective to contact them. K.W.

July 26:
No word. K.W.

August 1:
Clara’s telegram arrived. Edwin traced to Dubuque, Iowa, where he bought a pair of shoes—hopefully ones he can run in. K.W.

The hammock swayed as Clara stared through the branches of the oak trees. From the kitchen, the sound of her mother and Susie Cutler putting up green tomatoes provided a momentary distraction from the barbed thoughts that left her without sleep or appetite.

It was the matter of Edwin’s trunk that upset her. Each night she’d lain awake staring at it as if she half expected it to tell her the reasons for his desperate flight. Several times she’d gotten out of bed to circle the thing, her desire to know what was inside battling with her moral code. In the end, it wasn’t much of a fight—her need for the truth outweighed her anxiety about actually finding it.

Her hatpin was handy in springing the lock. As the trunk swung open, the queer smell of his Chinese pipe tobacco assaulted her nose. His shirts and collars were in perfect order, as were his shoes and extra pair of linen trousers.

The shiny brass pull knobs on the four small compartments proved too enticing. She pulled open the top drawer and found an uninteresting pair of gold cufflinks and an inexpensive watch fob. The second was crammed with vials of black pills that she assumed were the ones he took to calm himself. She hesitated before opening the third drawer, wondered what her mother would think if she were to discover her firstborn involved in such a nefarious task, then slid it open.

Instead of socks and garters, she found three jars of white powder. On top lay a lock of hair bound by a green ribbon. Gingerly, she picked it up
between two fingers and examined it. It was too blonde and over-treated to be his mother’s or his cousin Irenie’s. She sniffed it and wrinkled her nose—it reeked of cheap perfume. She dropped the thing back into the drawer and slammed it shut. Whatever was in the fourth drawer no longer mattered. She reset the lock and the next morning sent the trunk on to his parents.

Fannie came out to the porch carrying a tray of lemonade and cookies. “Come have some lemonade, dear. Susie is going upstairs to take a short nap, so it’s just us.”

Clara climbed the veranda steps and plunked herself down in a green wicker chair that squealed under her weight. “How could he have done this, Mama?”

Fannie handed her a glass of lemonade. “Obviously, Mr. Waldo was stricken down by some sort of brain fever, since no one in his right mind disappears without leaving a note. I honestly can’t imagine what could have gotten into the man to do such a thing to his family. His poor mother must be beside herself.”

Clara jiggled her glass, making the chipped ice clink against the sides. “I don’t know how I’m going to face anyone ever again.”

“When you overcome the shock of this calamity, you’ll be surprised at how warmly your friends will receive you. I’m sorry, dear, but you must have noticed that your betrothal to this man was met with less than enthusiasm.”

“I thought you were happy for me.”

“I was only happy because you were, but in my heart I’m glad the thing has turned out as it has. I never believed you and Edwin were meant to be husband and wife. He didn’t seem to be an elastic being who could throw off cares or be buoyant. He seemed more the type of man who would settle gravely down and allow the worries of life to encrust him with so thick a covering that he’d lose interest in the active world. I feared he’d soon fall victim to depression and erratic behaviors that would vex you.”

Fannie lightly patted her hand. “I doubt Mr. Waldo would have provided you with one moment’s joy or peace. You would have spent the rest of your life constantly wanting of him that which he was unable to give. Why, even Emily thought he was—”

Clara slapped the table. “I don’t care what Emily thinks. Emily doesn’t like anybody.” She covered her face as misery seized her. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I feel like such a fool.”

“You’ll survive,” Fannie absently stirred her lemonade. “Mr. Waldo isn’t the end of your world, nor is this the end of your loving soul.”

Clara shook her head. “I’ll never again place my trust in any man.”

“You mustn’t limit yourself in that way, Clara. There are good men who can and will be as devoted as your …”

Clara silenced her mother with a look. “If you mean to use my father as an example of devotion and love, please don’t. He was the worst disappointment of all.”

Fannie drew back, “How can you say such a thing?”

“Because it’s the truth. He was an impenetrable man, who paid little attention to his daughters except to scorn them.”

Fannie started to protest, but Clara shook her head. “The night Josie was born, Kate and I were in the barn hayloft making straw necklaces for you when father and Uncle Walter came in, I suppose seeking refuge from the houseful of women.

“We thought it would be great fun to eavesdrop, but instead of happy talk about the new baby, father was full of complaints about being saddled with useless girls. If I recall, his actual words were: ‘If a man’s life is measured by his issue, then I’m a failure.’

“Those words changed my life; I was determined to make him proud of me. I always worked twice as hard at everything I did, even after he died.”

Despite her mood, Clara suddenly laughed. “Do you remember how you always hung my drawings in your sewing room? Every poor soul who called was ushered into ‘Clara’s Gallery.’ If they didn’t respond enthusiastically enough, you’d prompt them until they did.”

“Not much prompting was ever needed. You were accomplished even then.”

Fannie took Clara’s hand in hers. “You shouldn’t judge your father so harshly, dear. It’s true that he wasn’t generous with his affections, and perhaps he didn’t give praise as often as he should have, but he did love you in his own way.”

Clara was about to ask what way that might have been, when Susie Cutler stepped onto the porch waving a Western Union telegram.

The Diary of Kate Eloise Wolcott:

August 9:
Clara has called off the search. The Pinkerton detective confirmed that Edwin boarded a westbound train at Council Bluffs, Iowa. Mama and Clara arrive home tomorrow. K.W.

August 11:
We received a letter from Alice saying that the Waldos believe Edwin is dead despite Pinkerton reports. George sailing home from Italy. K.W.

August 12:
Clara arrived home thinner, but no worse for wear. She seems not so much heartbroken as suffering from hurt pride. Her anger will save her in the end. Mama keeps us busy with errands. K.W

August 25:
No further news on Edwin. No one has mentioned his name. The newspapers are reporting him dead. Just as well. K.W.

August 26:
Rev. Cutler and Clara to Akron to shop and talk. She returned much cheered and more like our old Clara. Rev. Cutler is a marvel at making people see their follies for what they are—learning opportunities in life’s classroom. K.W.

September 6:
Clara made watermelon pickles and then went out to dwell on where to put the new driveway. We paid a moonlight call on cousin Annis, who was already in her nightdress, but we threw pebbles at her window until she came out. We talked and giggled like schoolgirls until well after midnight. K.W.

September 18:
We put Clara on the train for New York this morning. I prefer to think of this farce in a positive way—as if she’s been in a sanitarium and miraculously cured of a life-threatening illness. K.W.

San Francisco, California

September 25, 1897

Mr. Tiffany:

Your lost bird is free. How you manage to get her back into your cage is your concern. Wire reward posthaste to: Stockton Street Western Union Office, Union Square, San Francisco.

According to the newspapers, I’ve met my end. I prefer to keep it that way.

E. W.

Lenox Hill

November 22, 1897

I have arranged for my ‘lost bird’ to pick up where she left off. I shall say nothing more about it. Belknap is due to return to work next week as well. Strange coincidence.

Father has once again shown his true colors. Mother has not been in her grave a full week, and he has already turned Burnie and our spinster sister out of the house. L.C.T.

44 Irving Place

March 14, 1898

Dearest Mama et al,

I devoured the robin while having breakfast, and what a magnificent bird she was! No, there has been no word on Edwin. I have all but forgotten about that unfortunate incident, and I hope you will follow my example in this matter. It seems so long ago that I stepped off the ferry at Christopher Street, worn and heart-weary, amazed at how much bigger and busier New York was than any other place on earth. But now I’m back in the flow of work and the loving embrace of my New York family.

I was flabbergasted at Mr. Mitchell’s kind letter asking me to return to Tiffany’s, and then, to find everything just as it was when I left—as if everyone knew I’d return.

The best prize of all was to find my own dear Alice hired on as my assistant! Mr. Tiffany likes her work, and the Tiffany Girls have taken to her like ducks to water.

Please send cherry and apple blossoms and primroses the moment they’re in bloom. I need them to make studies of the colors and veining for my lampshade designs. I have so many ideas for lamps that I can barely get one drawn before another is crowding my brain. Mr. Tiffany is still reluctant to put the finished samples in the showroom, but I’m hoping he’ll soon overcome his fears and get on with it.

You can see from the above address that there’s been another change.
Last Monday, our landlady gave Alice and me the bad news (not quite as bad as Tammany Hall being elected, however) that either we sign a year’s lease or vacate. We found Miss Owens’s Boardinghouse the same day. It’s a first-class house with all the modern improvements—electric fixtures, hot and cold water, baths, furnace, etc. The rooms are clean and airy. The owner, Miss Mary Owens, seems a practical, capable woman who has excellent sense about varying and adapting her table to the weather. Best of all, most of her boarders are artists of one persuasion or another, with a few schoolteachers and businessmen thrown in as stabilizing influences on the more passionate artistic temperaments.

On the evening we visited the house, several of the boarders were rehearsing a play one of them had written, while others were reading Jane Austen’s
Emma
aloud. That alone decided us. This and three meals a day comes at a cost of $50 a month. Yes, expensive, but worth it. The house is surrounded by parks—Union Square, Madison, Gramercy and Stuyvesant. Before long, I’ll have enough money to buy a bicycle, and then I shall be free to visit every park in the city at my leisure.

Mama, you needn’t worry over my going about unchaperoned. New York is the safest place I can imagine, with all these masses of people milling about every moment of the day and night.

I’ve joined the Town and Country Club for $10 a month. It’s a place where I can go for a hot lunch each day and lie down to rest my eyes. I also subscribed to The Nation, ($3) which comes once a week and gives me the best articles from the daily papers.

Henry Belknap found extra work for George at Georges Glaenzer Decorating for $3 a week. If he works out, he’ll be sent to Hyde Park to help decorate the new Vanderbilt mansion. He found a doctor here, who recommended some sort of elixir to treat his fits, but he discovered it was made from lizard droppings so into the East River it went.