The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress (11 page)

“I must insist that you leave.”

“Are you aware that he’s been selling judgeships to the highest bidder?”

“I—” Seabury pulled his glasses off, cleaned them on a handkerchief, and set them back on his nose. “Excuse me?”

The orchestra erupted below. A man and woman twirled onstage, surrounded by other couples in the background. Round and round they went in widening circles. Her dress flared out like flower petals, and with the last burst of music, they stopped, arms outstretched and chests heaving. The audience gave them tepid applause.

Ritzi brushed her lips against Samuel Seabury’s ear. It was the only way he would be able to hear her next words, and it was vital that he heard them correctly. “Tammany Hall district leader Martin Healy has been stacking your court system with jurists of his own choosing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The audience had risen to their feet now, stretching and talking and looking for the exits so they could find the restrooms. Crater was searching for her in the crowd.

“You should. Because I happen to know that Joseph Crater is just one of the men who paid a year’s salary for the privilege of wearing a jurist’s robe. And that, Your Honor, should concern you deeply.”

“That is preposterous.”

“It is nothing but the truth. And it will come to light sooner or later. The only question is whether you’ll get the glory for uncovering the most graft-ridden scandal in political history.”

Judge Samuel Seabury gazed ahead, silent, as Ritzi slipped from his private box. Patrons were clogged at the top of the stairs, and she had to push her way through in order to get back down to the lobby. She skirted the wall and ran the tips of her fingers through the drinking fountain before joining Crater in the third row.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“Immensely.”

GEORGE
Hall was a tall, twitchy man, the sort who couldn’t seem to find pants long enough. Almost an inch of white sock was visible above his black wingtips. He plowed through the rambling crowd with his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his tie loose, and the first button of his shirt undone. He snapped his head this way and that, looking for eye contact. After a moment of aggravated searching, George stopped near the south gate, within view of the bronze statue of Edwin Booth playing Hamlet, and leaned against the wrought-iron fence, scanning the crowd.

Ritzi ignored him and finished her corned beef sandwich. Melted Swiss cheese. Sauerkraut. Toasted rye bread. For three minutes, she savored every bite. A meal of her own choosing with no one around to harass her. No salads or ice water or boiled eggs. The rare luxury of real food.

The perimeter of Gramercy Park—the city’s most elite private garden—was ornamented with decorative benches, and she sat on one near the newsstand, tucked beneath a large elm, that day’s issue of the
New York World
spread across her lap catching crumbs. She swept them off with her fingers to read George’s latest article, an investigation into whether judgeships were on the block to the highest bidder. The headline screamed corruption:
TAMMANY HALL DISTRICT LEADER MARTIN HEALY INDICTED BY SEABURY COMMISSION
. The article claimed that a local magistrate had purchased his robe in an elaborate scheme brokered by members of Tammany Hall and the underworld. So far, three witnesses were pleading the Fifth Amendment. Others couldn’t be located. Crater’s name was mentioned below the fold as a person of interest.

Ritzi kept one eye on George Hall as he scanned the park. She wore her favorite blue dress with the black satin belt and a wide-brimmed floppy hat that dipped down over one eye. A pair of dark sunglasses and bright red lipstick completed the ensemble. She looked out of place among the crowd, and it didn’t take George long to spot her beneath the elm. He paused, uncertain, and then she held up his article in affirmation. Ritzi beckoned him with a little wave. Poor George seemed undone by the smile she graced him with.

He made his way toward her with a hot dog dripping with mustard and sauerkraut and wrapped in newsprint, then settled onto the far end of the bench and ate his meal in four large bites.

“If I knew my lunch date would be this pretty, I’d have dressed for the occasion.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“This is business, Georgie. Don’t flatter yourself.” She crossed her legs and rocked her foot back and forth.

He looked mesmerized by the motion, a swinging pendulum of bare calf. “Your phone call created one hell of a mess.”

“That was rather the point.”

George tipped his head to the side, trying to recognize her face behind the lipstick and hat and glasses.

“Don’t waste your time. You’ve never seen me before.”

“Wouldn’t mind seeing you again.”

Ritzi glanced at his wedding ring.
They’re all the same
. She turned away, giving him nothing but her profile. “Ever hear of a judge by the name Joseph Crater? Sits on the supreme court?”

George pulled a steno pad from his shirt pocket and flipped backward through pages filled with slanted shorthand, abbreviated words thrown on the page like nails on a table. He tapped the page he was looking for with the tip of his pen, ready to add to his existing notes on Crater.

“Sure. He’s supposed to testify before the grand jury about that Healy mess. They both belong to the same Tammany political club.”

Ritzi nodded. She had already relayed that information to Owney, volatile details that they were.

“So what’s the deal? Cheating on his wife? Stacking both sides of the deck? It can’t be worse than what he’s already caught up in.”

“He stepped into a cab on August sixth and hasn’t been seen since.”

She finally had George’s undivided attention.

“I haven’t heard anything about this,” he said.

“That’s my point exactly.”

“You mean to tell me that a New York State Supreme Court judge is missing?”

“
Missing
would be a polite way of describing his situation.”

“Anyone else know about this?”

She gave him a malicious grin. “Not yet.”

George flipped to a clean sheet of paper in his notebook. “I don’t suppose you’re gonna give me a name, dollface?”

Ritzi folded the newspaper and set it on the bench between them. “If you talk about me in your article, if you so much as mention the color of my dress, I’ll take the rest of the story to Henry Wilson at the
Post
. Understand? I don’t exist.”

“There’s more to the story?”

Ritzi patted George’s cheek. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. “You have
no
idea.”

“When do I get to hear the rest?”

“Get to work, Georgie. Turn over a few stones. Write your story. I know where to find you when it’s time.” She made sure to give George Hall plenty to watch as she left him sitting beneath the elm in Gramercy Park.

Chapter Nine

FIFTH AVENUE, SATURDAY, AUGUST 23, 1930

MARIA
stood outside the Craters’ apartment. She paused, then laid her hand on the knob and twisted. Locked. The key rested in her palm, but she pressed her ear to the door and listened. Mrs. Crater was not due back from Maine for another week. The apartment should be empty. But better safe than sorry. Convinced that all was calm and quiet within, she made the sign of the cross and let herself into the apartment.

“
Superstición
.”

She laughed a little. Perhaps Jude was right and crossing herself was no different from throwing salt over her shoulder. Or spitting three times in reaction to evil. Always the skeptic, he poked and prodded at her faith, searching for thin places where his doubt could push through. Had she possessed a handful of salt just then, she would have gladly tossed it. The lines between religion and superstition were tenuous at best. Today she would take either. Her last two experiences in this home had not been pleasant. Maria locked the door behind her.

She set her purse down and went straight to the master suite. Radio off. Bathroom empty. No one in sight. Maria exhaled for the first time since walking in.

The room looked exactly the way she’d left it the last time she was here. The bed was made and the room straightened. Legal books stacked neatly on the nightstand. Mr. Crater’s robe hung on a hook on the bathroom door. The only difference was the thin film of dust that lay across the furniture. It was undisturbed. Maria ran her finger over the bureau and looked at the mark of clean wood left behind. What had Jude hidden in there, she wondered. Maria lifted the red-and-gold brocade
bureau scarf. The key stuck out of the lock, right where he had left it. An invitation.

Curiosity roared through her mind, and Maria could not take her eyes off that small gold key. She reached a hand out and let it hover in the air long enough for her to take a breath and decide. One small turn. She couldn’t help it. The lock clicked and she slid the drawer open. Four manila envelopes piled on top of each other, with Mrs. Crater’s initials written in jerky letters. Maria pulled out the first envelope and balanced its weight in her hand.

Red string was wrapped around two buttons, sealing the envelope. Maria sat on the edge of the Craters’ bed as she slowly unwound it, telling herself all the while to put the envelope back, to leave it alone. Even as her mind objected to the work of her hands, she pulled the envelope open. What could be so important that her husband was willing to violate his own conscience? She tipped the answer into her lap. Maria regretted her decision as soon as she saw the pile of money. Thousands of dollars were stacked and bound with string. She gasped and lifted one from her lap, fanning through the bills with her thumb.

Maria jumped when someone pounded on the front door. For one terrible moment, she thought her employers had returned and that she would be discovered sifting through their belongings. She stuffed the money back in the envelope and then locked it in the drawer.

Her palms were slick with perspiration and her pulse raced as she went to the door and peered through the peephole. The man on the other side looked as though he stood in front of a fun-house mirror: neck and legs stretched to a comical length, eyes abnormally large. She hesitated, uncertain. He didn’t appear threatening. Maria unlocked the door as he lifted his fist to knock again. She cracked it open but left the chain in place. She waited for him to speak.

“I’m looking for Joseph Crater.” The man was young and clean-shaven with a wide grin. Unusually tall. He seemed to quiver with energy, as though he might come bounding through the door at any second.

She cleared her throat. “He’s not here.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

Maria wasn’t in the habit of telling strangers the location of her employer. But this was general enough. “In Maine.
Vacaciones
.”

He pulled a small notebook from a pocket inside his suit coat and scratched a few indecipherable lines. “When do you expect him back?”

“Who are you?” Maria said, suddenly cautious.

“George Hall, with the
New York World
.” There was barely enough room for him to stick his hand through the crack in the door.

She did not take it. “What do you want?”

“I’m usually the one who asks the questions. This is a nice change of pace. Mind if I come in?”

“Yes.”

“I promise I’ll only stay a minute. Have a look around.” Maria went to close the door, but he stepped back, palms up. “Hey, I’m sorry. Can’t blame me for trying.”

“I think you need to leave.”

“No one has seen your boss in weeks,” George said.

Her hand grasped the knob tighter. “He’s in Maine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”
Maybe
. “We spoke on the fourth. He said he was going back there.” Fears rushed in on Maria. Jude. The cash in that envelope. The woman in Mr. Crater’s bed.

“Is that the last time you saw him?” George whipped his pen across the pad, quick, blunt strokes that almost tore the paper.

“Yes.”

“Did anything seem wrong? Was he upset?”

The image of her boss wrapped in a towel and dripping wet surfaced in her mind. “No.”

“One more question. And it’s not about him. I promise.” George smiled. His pen hovered over his notepad. “What’s your name?”

Maria looked at the notes he’d scratched so far, furious with herself. She’d given him a story. None of the information she relayed could incriminate her employer or the girl he’d brought home or, most important, Jude, but it was still too much. There was no way her name was going in that article. She thought of the first name that came to mind. Her mother’s.
“Amedia.”
She cleared her throat, and then,
“Mi nombre es Amedia Christian.”

Maria pressed her forehead against the door when the reporter left. Mr. Crater signed her paychecks. Mr. Crater was gone. His mistress was intent on getting rid of their illegitimate child, while she herself could not get pregnant. Jude was planting evidence and doing God knows what else. She went back to the bedroom and opened the bureau drawer. She removed the cash-heavy envelope.

IT
took every ounce of Maria’s self-control not to run from the Craters’ apartment. She was flushed and uneasy, the money heavy in her purse. Maria started counting when she locked the apartment door. Fifteen steps to the elevator. Twenty-three across the lobby. Only once she was outside in that thick air did she start to tremble. But she took steady, measured footsteps the five blocks to Smithson’s. She did not hold the bell when she walked in. Did not raise her head. Her only goal was the small work area. Maria crumpled into her chair. A bead of sweat trickled down her rib cage, and she gave herself the freedom to place her hand over her heart. To close her eyes.

Had her father still worked for Smithson, he would have known with a single glance what she had done. But he’d long since gone blind and been forced out of his job. It was his failing eyesight that pushed her to master the art of stitching in the first place. What his eyes could not see, his fingers did. He counted her stitches with diligence, never letting her skip. It was a game they played in recent years, Maria sitting near his feet on the floor doing stitchwork as they talked. Adding or deleting stitches at random to see if he would notice. Then she’d hand the pieces over for inspection. Without fail, he’d call her out.