Tiffany Girl (40 page)

Feeling a need to get away, he left Klausmeyer’s at dawn and went to East New York to see his home. He just wanted to look at it, to luxuriate in the thought of one day returning to it. He walked down the deserted business section closed up in observance of Sunday, the day of rest. He tried to imagine his parents on this street. Which bakery was his mother’s favorite? Which butcher? And what of his father? Had the harness maker on the corner made the saddle his father had rode out west in?

He glanced inside a barbershop’s window. Had his dad sat in one of those chairs? Had he? He thumped the red, white, and blue barber pole and wondered where Mr. Jayne’s shop was. The man clearly loved his daughter and most likely loved his wife, yet he’d gambled away his wife’s earnings on horses? It had never occurred to Reeve a wife would want to keep her wages for herself or that she’d even need to. He found himself empathizing, though, for his
grandfather had kept all of Reeve’s earnings when he’d been living with him.

He took a left on Georgia Avenue, then walked alongside several houses. Houses with front porches, picket fences, and even a house with a swing hanging from a limb of a giant oak tree. A croquet set leaned against a gazebo, four empty chairs inside it. He pictured a group of adults laughing, talking, playing.

Had they known his parents? Had any of the residents on this street? Surely someone from back then still lived here. Would they be able to tell him of his childhood? Had he perhaps played with their little boy?

A familiar wave of loneliness assailed him. It had been his lifetime companion, though he was an expert at hiding it. No one at the newspaper suspected it, he was sure, and no one at Klausmeyer’s had, either, until Flossie had come along.

Being lonely is a choice, you know
.

Just thinking about her nerve in saying that still made his hackles rise. But ever since she’d spoken the words, he’d had to confront them, take them out, turn them over, and look at them. He sighed, unsure of what exactly he was supposed to do. It wasn’t as if he could ask people to waltz around the parlor with him so he could make a—what had she called it?—a connection.

Reaching the cottage, he stopped and studied it. It was too early to knock, though a bit of smoke coming from the chimney indicated someone was up and about.

He took a slow breath, basking in the sense of warmth and belonging the place evoked. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know why, he just knew that returning to it was the first step in conquering his loneliness. And he did want to conquer it.

CHAPTER

57

F
lossie plopped down on her bed, then fell onto her back, her feet dangling off the edge. Even though she was supposed to be coming up with ideas for Mrs. Driscoll, she simply hadn’t had the wherewithal to be innovative. So she’d taken her sketchpad and charcoal to Central Park for a bit of peace and quiet.

“Did you get any sketches done?” Annie Belle asked, folding a stack of handkerchiefs.

Flossie draped her arm over her eyes. “No, I mostly just sat and thought.”

And she’d decided she’d first pay back her family at 438, then she’d pay her mother. She’d calculated all her expenses—room, board, streetcar fares, the occasional cab fare, fuel for her heater and lamps, incidentals—and found she only had about fifteen cents a week to spare. At that rate, it would take years to pay off the seventy-five dollars. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears away. How old would she be? Thirty? Thirty-five? Well past the marrying years. She hadn’t even realized how much she’d wanted to someday get married and have children until the choice had been snatched away. Funny, but there was no square on The Board Game of Old Maid that said, ‘New Woman Swindled. Go Straight to the Old Maid Square.’

Yet that’s exactly what had happened. So, she’d best readjust her thinking. No doubt her mother would object to being reimbursed, but Flossie would not be swayed. Not only that, she would continue to sew for her mother until the debt had been paid. She’d thought about it all morning and her mind was made up.

Annie Belle opened a drawer and put her hankies inside. “I’m glad you’re back. I . . . I need to tell you something.”

Moving her arm, Flossie turned her head toward her. “What?”

Annie Belle crossed her arms, chewed her lip, and darted her gaze about the room.

Flossie pushed herself up, then leaned back on her hands. “What is it?”

“It’s about the Trostles.”

Flossie straightened. “Has something happened to them?”

“Not exactly, but they’ve left.”

“Left?” Flossie frowned. “What do you mean ‘left?’ ”

Annie Belle sat beside her on the bed. “You know how Mr. Trostle was called away to Milwaukee on business and Mrs. Trostle kept visiting her sister all those nights?”

Flossie nodded.

“Well, Mr. Trostle was never in Milwaukee.”

She pulled back. “What do you mean? Mrs. Trostle received a letter from him most every day.”

“I know. And according to Mrs. Klausmeyer, his letters promised to settle his accounts upon his return. Only, he was right here in the city the whole time, over on the cheap side of town.”

She put a hand on her hip. “Now, why would he do that? Then he’d have to pay for two places.”

“That’s just it. He never has paid Mrs. Klausmeyer.”

Flossie’s lips parted. “Never paid? Not anything? Ever?”

“Not a cent. Right before rent was due, he left for ‘Milwaukee.’
And the dinner basket Mrs. Trostle took to her ‘sister’s’ night after night?”

“Yes.”

“Not only was it filled with dinners they never paid for—which she shared with him—it was also filled with stolen items from each of our rooms.”

Sucking in a breath, Flossie grabbed the edge of the bed. “No. That can’t be right. She stole things? Out of our
rooms
?”

Annie Belle looked down. “All of the souvenirs from the fair you brought us are gone.”

Flossie jumped to her feet. “No. Surely not.”

Annie Belle rose, too. Shaking out a handkerchief, she blew her nose. “It’s true. That lovely fan you brought me is gone. So are my brush and comb set, and . . . and . . .” Her eyes watered. “The thimble that belonged to my grandmother.”

Flossie took Annie Belle’s hand into hers. “Oh, no. This is horrible. This is terrible. I . . . are you sure? Are you sure you didn’t simply misplace them?”

“I’m positive. She took Mr. Nettels’s metronome, some music folios, and his tuner. Anything that would fit inside that dinner basket. Several of Mrs. Dinwiddie’s doilies and china cups are missing. Mr. Oyster’s gun is gone, as well as a collection of stereoscopic cards. Mr. Holliday’s spectacles—”

“Spectacles? She took his
spectacles
?”

“Yes, but that’s not the worst of it. She took Mrs. Holliday’s silver frame
and
the photograph inside.”

She gasped. “Of their
wedding
?”

“I know.” Annie Belle pressed the handkerchief to her mouth. “I can’t believe it.”

Flossie whirled around looking about the room. “What about my things? Do you know what she took of mine?”

“Oh, Flossie. She—they—took your money. Don’t you see? They were in cahoots with Monsieur Bourgeois the entire time.”

Backing away, she shook her head. “No, Annie Belle, no. They couldn’t have been.”

“Of course they were. Why do you think she wasn’t there with the rest of us when we discovered the gallery was a hoax? Why do you think she donated such a generous amount to the kitty when we passed the hat?” She pressed her lips together. “Because she knew they’d get every dime back. It was even her idea to pass the hat to begin with. Just one more way to fleece us.”

“But—but they’re part of our . . .” She was going to say family, but Reeve’s words reverberated in her mind.

None of us at 438 are your family  . . . We’re simply housemates who pay rent to the same landlady . . . They think of you as nothing more than a housemate who keeps them entertained.

She looked down at her hands. “And Mr. Wilder? Did she steal from him, too?”

“We don’t know. He’s been gone all morning, but the cat you brought him from the fair and his writing pen are still on his desk. Probably because he has so few things that he’d have missed them last night, the minute we got home, and the police would have been summoned much earlier.”

“The police have been summoned?”

“Well, of course. They’ve already come and gone.”

She began to pace in front of their washstand. “I still can’t believe it. Mrs. Trostle? And Mr. Trostle, too? It’s simply . . . I can’t . . . I mean, how did she get her trunk out of her room without anyone noticing?”

“She didn’t. It’s still there, and it’s empty. She must have worn two layers of clothing and left one of them with Mr. Trostle—if that’s even their name. But we do know she did the bulk of her stealing while we were at the gallery. She must have been watching the house, waiting for us to leave. Mrs. Klausmeyer saw her briefly—basket in hand—but didn’t think anything of it.”

“What did the police say?”

“
That the Trostles have been running this swindle all over town, though they use different aliases, of course.”

Flossie dropped into the chair by her bookshelf, then gasped. “My Jane Austen books.” She spread her hands over the now empty section. “My grandmother gave those to me.”

Annie Belle gave a tiny moan. “I bet we’ll be discovering things for weeks that we haven’t missed yet. The officer said to keep a tally. Then, if anything turns up, they’ll know who to return it to.”

Flossie shook her head, unable to fathom it. The Trostles were older than her parents, for heaven’s sake. They were personable, kind, engaging, and well dressed. She’d shared meals with them, laughed with them, played parlor games with them while they knowingly, wittingly planned to rob everyone. And out of all the family members in the house, they’d singled her out for the most nefarious of their plans.

Her eyes pooled. Why? Why her? What had she ever done to them other than welcome them into her family with open arms?

None of us at 438 are your family.

She wished she could put her hands over her ears and make those words go away, but they played over and over in her mind. She thought of each boarder at Klausmeyer’s. What did she really know about them? Nothing. Nothing other than what they’d told her.

She covered her face with her hands. “Could this get any worse?”

“I hope not,” Annie Belle said. “I really hope not.”

But at dinner the next evening, Mrs. Klausmeyer announced rent would go up twenty cents next month. The bite of codfish Flossie had just taken stuck in her throat. Since she shared a room, her portion would be ten cents. That would mean she’d only be able to pay Mother five cents per week instead of fifteen. She quickly divided seventy-five dollars by five cents. She wiped her
mouth with her napkin. Thirty years. It would take her thirty years to pay everything off. She’d be in her fifties by then.

For the first time since moving in, she set down her fork and excused herself from the table without waiting to hear the answers to everyone’s questions.

PHENAKISTASCOPE 
³³