The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress

Chapter Ten





FIFTH AVENUE, FRIDAY, AUGUST 29, 1930



MAINE. New Hampshire. Connecticut. The states rolled by in a dull kaleidoscope as Stella sat in the back of the Cadillac, ankles crossed and gloved hands limp in her lap. Three times Fred stopped for gas, but she did not get out to stretch her legs or use the facilities. She kept her perch in the vehicle, wintry eyes fixed on some distant point on the other side of the glass. Late in the afternoon, Fred rolled his window down and stretched his arm outside the car. Fresh air rushed over her, tossing the ends of her hair into her eyes. She shut them, rested her head on the back of seat, and was asleep within minutes. Stella woke to the sharp blast of a car horn hours later.

The Manhattan skyline was a dark silhouette against the evening sky as they turned onto Fifth Avenue.

“What time is it?” Stella asked.


Fred turned his wrist up to see his watch. “Almost seven.”

“Drop me at home, and you can take the weekend off.” She caught his gaze in the rearview mirror. “I’ll be fine.”

A short time later, Fred rested the Cadillac against the curb in front of the redbrick cooperative at 40 Fifth Avenue. Stella took her small suitcase from him as soon as he lifted it from the trunk.

“We’ll drive back to Maine on Sunday evening,” she said.

Fred tipped his hat and climbed back behind the wheel.

She went straight up to the apartment, not even bothering to gather her mail in the lobby. After eight hours in the car, her spine ached and her hair was flat beneath her netted hat. She wanted her own shower and her own bed and a sense of familiarity. She turned the key and dropped her bag by the door.

“Joe! Are you here?”

Nothing.

Stella walked through the rooms slowly. She had no idea what she was looking for. A note, maybe? Surely not a body. The very thought made her throat constrict. But she walked through the apartment and looked. In drawers and cupboards. Beneath sofa cushions. Behind the toilet. Part of her could not tolerate having nothing to hold up and say, See! This is where he went. This is what happened.

Stella saved the bedroom for last. The closet was exactly the way she’d left it, half empty and smelling of cedar. Nothing under the bed but a few errant dust balls. Nothing behind the curtains or beneath the Victrola. Her dresser was empty, as was her jewelry box—she’d taken the contents with her to Maine, just in case. What little of Joe’s clothing that wasn’t pressed and hung in the closet was stored in a bureau against the wall. It was an odd piece of furniture. Long and low and top-heavy. Impractical, really, but Joe had taken a fancy to it at an estate sale years earlier. Made of walnut with five drawers. Two stacked on the bottom and three in a row on top. A single streak was visible in the layer of dust on top. Someone had run a finger along the dark wood but had not bothered to clean off the dust. A bureau scarf covered the middle drawer, and she raised the edge. The gold key stuck out of the lock. The drawer usually held receipts and other oddments that Joe took from his pockets. But instead of the paper and loose change she expected, Stella found four manila envelopes.

She lifted them from the drawer.

On the outside of each envelope, in Joe’s lettering, were her initials and the word Personal. The script was thin and scattered, scrawled across the paper in a hurry. But there was no mistaking the strong slant of the capital letters, as though they were determined to hold their weight. A bit like Joe, those letters were, dogged and brazen.

The first envelope was the heaviest. Stella let it rest on her lap before she undid the clasp and emptied it onto the bedspread. Thirteen stacks of cash, bound with string, and three checks, in Joe’s handwriting and made out to himself.

She knew, simply by the size of those stacks, that it was more money than she’d ever held at one time. The bedroom was still, the air thick, and she could hear herself breathe as she untied the string and methodically laid the bills out before her by denomination. On the street outside, a delivery truck rumbled by. A car honked. Someone slammed a door down the hall. Twelve thousand six hundred and nineteen dollars.

The checks were a bit curious, but she counted them as well. One for $500 even. One for $12. And one for $9. These last two made no sense. None of this did. Stella pushed the money aside and reached for the second envelope.

Joseph Crater held four life insurance policies, for a total of $30,000, and each was payable to Stella. These she found in the second envelope. Seeing her name there on the printed page for such an outlandish sum of money rattled her. Three of the policies were with the Mutual Life Insurance Company of New York—two for $10,000 and one for $5,000—and one for $5,000 was with the Fidelity Mutual Life Insurance Company. She stacked them carefully and set them beside the cash.

The third envelope was the most unnerving of the lot, and she swallowed hard after reading the first line:

I, JOSEPH FORCE CRATER, residing in the Borough of Manhattan, City, County, and State of New York, do make, publish and declare this as and for my Last Will and Testament.

As sobering as it was to read those words, worse was the knowledge that Joe had made her role in their marriage clear from the very beginning. Stay pretty. Be proper. Don’t ask questions. She continued reading:

FIRST: I hereby revoke any and all Wills and codicils heretofore executed by me.

SECOND: I direct that my just debts and funeral expenses be paid as soon as practical after my decease.

THIRD: I give, devise, and bequeath all my property of whatsoever nature and wheresoever situated to my wife, STELLA M. CRATER, and appoint my said wife sole executrix under this my Will and direct that she be not required to give any bond or other security for the faithful performance of her duties as such executrix.

IN WITNESS WHEREOF I have hereunto set my hand and seal to this my Will at the Borough of Manhattan, on the 4th day of July, 1925.

Joseph Force Crater

The five short paragraphs hit her like warm air from an oven. Stella dropped the paper to her lap and wilted on her spot at the edge of the bed. On Independence Day, five years ago, Joe sat in his office and planned out the legal ramifications following his death. Joe, still in his thirties at that time, writing his will.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

Stella laughed at the abrasive sound of her own voice. Her mother had once told her that only crazy people talked to themselves. No, Mother, she’d replied, lonely people do it all the time.

The last envelope was the most puzzling to Stella. In addition to her initials and the word Personal, he’d added a warning: Confidential. A three-page handwritten memorandum gave a startling directive. The letters were large, the pen strokes thick, and the lines straight from one side of the paper to the other, but the hand itself looked distressed. Confidential again, underscored on the first page, and then his instructions:

The following money is due me from the persons named. Get in touch with them, for they will surely pay their debts.

He’d listed twenty companies and individuals who owed him money—a roster of every person who had bribed her husband since he took office. Proof of his corruption. Some of the names were indecipherable, as though he lacked the courage to plainly state them in ink. The instructions ended with a word she could not read.

“ ‘Am very weary’?” She held the paper close to her face, willing the letters to align in a legible way. “ ‘Am very sorry’?”

Weary. Sorry. Those two words spanned a distance so great that a train could pass between them. It was the difference between abdication and apology, and Stella had no idea which he meant.

After that last word, he closed with Love, Joe. And then a reiteration of his final warning: This is all confidential. The phrase was underlined and the ink went off the page, as though with this last instruction he’d lost the will to control his own pen.

Stella put the contents back into their respective envelopes, which she stacked on the bed. Returning them to the drawer was out of the question. Instead, she went to her closet and knelt down to grab a brown leather satchel that she kept behind her hatboxes. Stella set all four envelopes in her satchel and slid it under the bed. Then she went straight to the phone.

FIFTH AVENUE, MARCH 15, 1920

“Why aren’t you dressed for dinner?” Joe asked.

Stella lifted the hem of her skirt. “I wouldn’t consider this nudity.”


He stood in the doorway, watching her set the table. They dined alone that night, a rare occurrence since Joe had turned an eye toward politics. He called the revolving door of dinner guests “mixers,” but Stella found it exhausting at times, never knowing who she’d be entertaining from one night to another. Their grocery bill doubled in the span of months. But for the first time that week, it was just the two of them, and she had taken the opportunity to revel in a casual meal like they used to share. No jewelry. No shoes. Simply a quiet dinner at home.

“That’s not what I mean. You’ve had that dress on all day.”

“It’s a nice dress.”

“It’s a day dress,” he said, eyes on the paper napkins that she folded into triangles and placed beside their plates. “And it’s old.”

Stella studied the simple blue dress. It was pretty and feminine, with a lace collar and pleated waist. “I bought it two months ago.”

“Why don’t you go put on something nice? I’ll set the table.”

She glanced at the neatly arranged dishes and was about to argue with his bizarre request when she caught the determined look on his face. No point in bickering when Joe set his mind to something. She left the dining room with a scowl and went to rummage in the closet for the violet cocktail dress she’d worn on the few occasions they’d eaten with the members of Joe’s Tammany Hall club. It was velvet, with a scoop neck and an asymmetrical hemline, and Joe commented on her figure and the color of her eyes whenever she wore it. For fear of eliciting further criticism, she added jewelry, perfume, high heels, and a fresh coat of lipstick.

“Much better,” Joe said when she returned.

He pulled a chair out for her and waved a hand across the newly set table. Linen napkins and silver candlesticks. He’d found a fresh tablecloth and their wedding china as well.

“What’s the occasion?”

“If I’m to be a judge—and I believe I will—then we must start acting the part. We have to keep the right company. Shop the right stores.”

Stella attempted a laugh, but when she saw the complete seriousness on his face, she cleared her throat instead. “I’m never sloppy with my clothes. Why does it matter where I buy them?”

Joe took the carving knife and cut into the small hen she had roasted for dinner. He sawed back and forth a little harder than necessary, and the tender meat disintegrated beneath the serrated blade. “It matters a great deal. You need to start patronizing the better women’s shops in Manhattan. You’ll be seen there—that’s why it’s important. All the Tammany men send their wives to Mae & Hattie Green on Fifty-Second. But Dobbs on Fifth also attracts an upper-level clientele. Keep your purchases to those two shops for now. It’s the only way we’ll be taken seriously.” Joe tugged at his collar. “I’ve found a tailor on Fifth. He’s the best around.”

“Is that why you’ve been wearing those shirts?” He looked like a turtle walking upright—stiff collar from shoulder to chin—but Stella couldn’t tell him that. Joe was too fond of the price tag and the Smithson label that accompanied his new wardrobe.

He dished a heaping pile of new potatoes and carrots onto his plate. “You know my neck,” he said. “Thin and gawky. The collar covers it up. Can’t have anyone commenting on the pencil-neck lawyer that wants a judgeship.”

The chicken was savory and the potatoes tender, and were it not for the serious turn the dinner had taken, Stella would have thought it one of their more enjoyable evenings.

“I know there are things you have to do,” she said—“paying contribution” was the way he’d actually termed it after returning from a meeting at Tammany Hall one night—“but I never thought I’d be going public along with you.”

“You’re not.” He stabbed a carrot with his fork. “Unless I need you on my arm for a function. Your place is right here, in the home. I’d certainly hate to see you sitting around in those smoke-filled rooms at the club debating politics. It’s just not the right thing for women.”

She bristled at this but hid her frustration behind a cool smile. “It’s inevitable, you know, women in politics.”

“I don’t care if that constitutional amendment did pass last year. You’ll never see a woman in government. Mark my words.”

“You are hopelessly old-fashioned. It might be fun, you know, to see a woman on city council.” Stella needled him with her grin. “Or even on the bench one day. Could you imagine that? A Miss So-and-So for a judge?”

Joe brought his fork down with a loud clank. For a moment, she thought he might have broken the plate. “You can’t mean that,” he said. “And you mustn’t say anything of the sort in public.” Joe’s view of women’s suffrage was not one of his finer points, and this line of talk always irritated him.

“Maybe I’ll start the campaign myself. Go down and buy one of those bloomer girl outfits. You know the ones—those militant suffragettes wore them when they’d picket.”

“Stell!”

“Oh, come on, Joe. I’m only teasing. You’re taking this way too seriously.”

“It is serious! Every bit of it. Wagner says he’s got me on a fast track for the court. Everything you say and do is serious. The length of your hem is serious. Your neckline, it’s serious.” His voice rose until it was almost a shout, but when he saw Stella with her hands in her lap, spine pressed against the chair, he controlled himself. Joe took a sip of water from the crystal goblet next to his plate and forced a laugh. “You’re not like those girls.”

“Meaning?”

“You’re intelligent. Well bred. Proper. Not like those dames who get off the trains or the boats and end up onstage with low morals.”

“That’s an unfair comparison, don’t you think? Being an activist doesn’t make a woman a floozy.”

“There’s more than one way for a woman to whore herself out.”

Stella gaped, appalled. “I can’t believe you, talking like that.”

“Oh, come off it, Stell. You aren’t the type.”

“And what exactly do you know of that type?”

“I know a lot of things. Chief of which is that you need a good spanking.”

Exasperated, Stella threw her dinner roll at him, and he flashed his old mischievous grin. For a few seconds he was the Joseph Crater she met on the dance floor all those years earlier. But then he realized that the French roll had left crumbs on his new suit. He swept them from his lap with a stern look and devoured the rest of his dinner in silence.


MARIA and Jude slid into the velvet-covered seats as the lights dimmed. She took his hand and moved closer, flushed with excitement. The lower floor of the Morosco Theatre was full, and all she could see were heads bent and whispering, the final rush of conversation before the curtain drew back. Only a smattering of empty seats remained in the balcony, and those stuck out like missing teeth, black spots in the theater’s red velvet mouth.

“This is amazing,” she said.

Jude grinned. “The show hasn’t even started yet.”

“The entire night has been amazing. Thank you for dinner.”

“You deserve it. And I’m sorry.”

“You’ve got to stop apologizing.”


The same shadow of sadness that had hovered around him for weeks returned. “I’ll get your rosary fixed. Promise.”

“I know.” Maria tilted her chin and kissed Jude just below his ear. She smiled, dark eyes full of mischief. “I hear this show is scandalous.”

He slipped his arm around her lower back, hand resting on her hip. “It has quite the reputation for loosening the corset.”

“No wonder you didn’t argue when I asked to come.”

“The only corset I’m interested in is yours.”

“Pity I don’t wear one.”

Jude made a show of tugging at the neckline of her dress and looking down it. “Even better.”

Maria swatted at his hand. “Behave yourself. We’re in public.”

“It’s dark.”

“And it’s crowded. You’ll get us kicked out before the opening number.”

Someone shushed them from behind.

“See,” Maria whispered.

The crowd gasped as the dim lights dropped into total darkness. The entire theater was temporarily suspended in blindness, and then a single trumpet note lifted from the orchestra below, followed by a French horn. A honeyed glow rose from behind the still-drawn curtain, and the rest of the orchestra began to fill in and complement the melody as the curtain swept aside. And there onstage stood twenty women, linked at the arms, in pink gossamer gowns split right up the thigh. Each dress was fitted with a sequined bodice, and the matching sequined top hats had plumes that swayed in the air as the women kicked in time to the music. They wound into a tight circle, each dancer holding the train of the girl on her left, moving faster and faster until Maria could not see any individual face, only a blur of legs and flashing smiles.

Maria leaned forward, eyes round and lips pressed in concentration. She did not take her eyes off the dancers once during the number, not even as they swooped and spun across the stage, a streaming, orchestrated whirl of pink.

As the circle broke and the dancers spread across the stage in a tightly choreographed routine, Maria saw a familiar face. Her eyes remained fixed on the curvaceous woman, as though tracking her through an elaborate shell game. At the end of the number Maria stood, along with the rest of the crowd, but she did not clap. She rested her hands on the rail in front of her and leaned as far over the balcony as she dared. Yes. She was certain. The young woman on the far left with the sand-colored hair and hazel eyes was the girl she’d come to see. Sally Lou Ritz, pregnant with the bastard child of Joseph Crater.


STELLA spent much of her evening making phone calls and pacing the wall of windows in her living room, waiting for Joe’s friends to call her back. Her husband once said that he bought the cooperative apartment—at a mind-boggling sum of $14,000—for the view. A manicured garden belonging to the Church of the Ascension sat right beneath their windows and, depending on the season, guaranteed a bevy of color unmatched by many of the city parks. The groundskeeper for the church was a small, arthritic man of indeterminate European descent. Joe insisted he must be Dutch. Look at the tulips! he’d say every spring when the garden exploded in white and pink blooms. But Stella wasn’t sure. They had never exchanged words, but she’d often see him bent over some bed, pulling weeds. On days when she left the windows open, his voice drifted up, a soft and lonely melody that translated only in emotion. Stella did not know where he came from, yet she was certain he was a man acquainted with grief. But the garden lay in darkness now, flower beds rounded into shadow. Somewhere below was a cobblestone path dotted by stone markers engraved with the names of generous members of the congregation, but she could not see them from this distance. In the three years that Stella Crater had lived in this apartment, she’d never once set foot within the church. Until tonight, it had not seemed important. What would she do in there? Light a candle? Say a prayer? She might as well turn a cartwheel in her underwear for all the good it would accomplish. And yet she understood the compulsion of the devout right then, the need to do something.

The phone rang and Stella leapt for it, banging her shin on the coffee table. Bleeding hell, that hurts! “Hello?” She swallowed. Blinked back the pain.

“Stella, it’s Martin Healy. I got your message.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” Her breath came out in a rush. “I can’t seem to get through to anyone. Please tell me you’ve seen Joe.” The phone sat on a secretary desk along one wall, and Stella rifled through the top drawer looking for something to write with, the receiver cradled between her chin and shoulder.

“No. I haven’t. I’m very sorry. I just wanted to return your call. Make sure you’re all right,” he said. She could hear laughter in the background. Glasses clinking. Slurred voices. “You’ll let me know, won’t you, when he shows up?”

She mumbled assent as he hung up, returning to the festivities. Stella slumped into the ladder-back chair next to the desk and rubbed her shin. She could feel the lump rising against her palm. Soon the calls began rolling in, each more unhelpful than the last.

“Stella, such bad news. Wish I had something to tell you. Do keep me posted.” Jimmy Walker.

“Nope. Nothing since we last spoke. I’ve been asking around.” Simon Rifkind.

“Term started four days ago. Things can’t continue in this manner.” Justice Valente. He added a stern warning, as though it were her fault: “It’s imperative we find Joe. We have work to do.”

She methodically worked her way through Joe’s address book, but many of the calls she made went unanswered. Others resulted in messages left with various staffers. She tried three times to call Joe’s legal secretary, Joseph Mara, but the line was busy all evening.

It went on like that, call after call, until she had only one number left. And he wasn’t in. William Klein. Attorney for the Schubert Association. Joe’s closest friend and a theater aficionado. Stella couldn’t imagine that Joe would return to the city without visiting Klein. She knew exactly where he’d be, although now was hardly the time to pay him a visit.

It was almost nine o’clock when Stella made her decision. She quickly showered, chose a dress appropriate for the errand, and fixed her hair and makeup.

The city showed no signs of resting as she walked from her apartment building and hailed a cab. “To the Morosco Theatre,” Stella said, sliding into the backseat and tucking her dress around her legs.

By the time she arrived at 217 West Forty-Fifth Street, the show was almost over. Stella bought a ticket anyway. Once inside, she approached the nearest usher.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I need to have a word with William Klein. I know he’s backstage.”

The young man twisted the cuffs of his jacket and looked away. “I’m sorry, but—”

“You’ll go tell him that Stella Crater is here to see him. He knows me.” She pressed a dollar bill into his palm and watched him debate for a moment. He shrugged and then hustled through a side door that led into the bowels of the theater. She waited, gripping her small clutch, for five minutes. She was beginning to wonder if her bribe had worked when he ducked his head back into the lobby and beckoned her to follow.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Stella could feel the throb of the orchestra. It rose through the floor and shimmied up her legs. While walking that twenty feet of hallway, she understood how those girls went onstage and threw themselves around. It was hypnotic. And then the usher opened another door and stepped aside so she could enter the madness backstage. A roiling mass of bodies and ropes and costume racks danced together in a rhythm that she instantly disrupted. Stella fumbled her way across the throng until she reached the far wall. Standing there, behind the curtain, was William Klein. His back was to her, and he watched a string of girls performing a carefully choreographed routine. Their legs bent, lifted, and kicked in seamless motion.


The entire stage was transformed into an elaborate aviary, and the dancers were peacocks, swirling in a show of blue and green feathers. From where she stood behind William Klein, the nearest dancer was only six feet away. Stella was close enough to see sweat drip down her temples. Watching the swirl of movement made her dizzy.

She grabbed Klein’s forearm. “William.”

“Stella!” He drew her in for a hug. “So good to see you.”

“Where is he?” The sound of her voice was startling. Panicked.

William set his hands on her shoulders and leaned toward her. “What’s wrong?” And then, “What are you doing here?”

“Joe.”

“What about him?”

“He’s missing.”

William Klein looked at her with dark, mud-puddle eyes, surprise registering a few seconds late. When he finally spoke, the question came out forced. “What do you mean?”

“Joe never came back to Maine. I haven’t seen him in weeks. No one has.”

A raucous blast of music leapt from the orchestra pit, and the crowd cheered. The swarm of dancing girls gave a final bow and then festooned around them backstage.

“Show’s over,” Klein said, the young women pawing at him as they passed. They petted and kissed and rubbed him in ways that made Stella’s lips part in astonishment. He tried to appear uncomfortable with the attention but could not fully hide his lecherous grin. Klein shooed them away and pulled Stella a step deeper into the shadows.

“I just had dinner with Joe,” he said.

“When?”

“A few weeks ago, I guess.”

“When. Exactly.”

He scratched the side of his neck. “Dancing Partner had just opened at the Belasco. That’s where he was headed afterward. So it must have been”—he rocked his head back and forth, summoning the playbill from his memory—“the sixth.”

Over three weeks earlier.

“You had dinner. Then what?”

“Then we all said goodbye outside Billy Haas’s Chophouse, and Joe went on his way.”

“All?”

“Me and Joe and …” He hesitated before adding, “Ritzi.” There was no need to explain who she was, so he didn’t. But Klein did glance over Stella’s shoulder. Then back to her face. And back again at someone in the crowd.

Stella’s eyebrows pulled together in a tight frown. “Have you heard from him since?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“You’ll let me know if you hear anything?”

“Of course.” He gave her an awkward side hug, mumbled a goodbye, and then shifted his attention to a patiently waiting brunette.

When Stella turned away, she almost tripped over the showgirl behind her and had to step back with a jerk. The girl was tall and curvy and beautiful—the sort that would catch Joe’s attention. Stella locked eyes with her for no more than a second. She wore a towering feathered headdress and a sequined costume. Her eyes and lips and cheeks were exaggerated with heavy makeup. Still, she looked familiar. Before Stella could get a good look at the face beneath the makeup, the young woman dissolved back into the crowd.

Stella didn’t belong backstage, clearly had no idea how to avoid the traffic that rushed by on all sides, but she stood there anyway, overwhelmed. A stagehand asked if he could help with anything. “Ladies’ room?”

“That way.” He pointed to her left. “Off the stage and down the hall.”


RITZI stood against the wall, breathless. Her chest heaved, heart dancing staccato against her ribs. Around her hummed the orchestrated chaos of Ladies All, the last swell of frenetic activity after the final number. Applause surged and then diluted into the rumble of conversation as the audience collected jackets and purses and nudged one another into the aisles. Her legs trembled, and she drew a deep breath through her teeth.

Beneath the feathered headpiece, her hair lay plastered to her scalp. Sweat ran in trickles down her temples and the back of her neck. For the final number, the entire chorus line wore elaborate peacock costumes, complete with sequined bodices and tail plumes. The effect was spectacular when the girls spread across the stage kicking and spinning. But after hours spent in various costumes, Ritzi’s lower back ached, and her feet were swollen inside the three-inch heels.

Once Ritzi was certain she could get to the dressing room without stumbling, she peeled herself from the wall and pressed into the sea of performers and stagehands celebrating another successful night. Farther backstage, her stomach lurched. William Klein stood beside the curtain. She hadn’t seen him since that morning in his office—had gone out of her way to avoid him, as a matter of fact. Her first thought was that he came to collect payment for his silence. But then she saw that he leaned into conversation with a woman. Tall and blond and …

Ritzi stared. The woman was a stalk of grace. She carried herself with an assurance that was unnerving. Radiant in a knee-length navy dress with a scoop neck, her clavicles like the prow of a ship. Pearls twisted around her neck—exactly the way they were in the photo on Crater’s bedside table. A wedding ring. Even from this distance, Ritzi could see her eyes, pale blue and startling. Ice water eyes. And then Klein looked up, right at Ritzi. His gaze whipped back and forth between them.

Stella Crater. She had come looking for her husband. Ritzi could read that truth right there on Klein’s face.

As usual, he was swarmed by showgirls, vultures in bright plumage picking at whatever scraps he threw them. Some poor girl would end up in his bed tonight and likely be forgotten by lunch tomorrow. Her hatred for Klein was matched only by her fear at the sight of Crater’s wife.

After another short burst of conversation, Klein stepped away from Stella and moved toward one of the dancers. Ritzi was not prepared when Stella turned around and their eyes met. She could see the search for recognition scrolling across Stella’s face. Yes, you know me, Ritzi wanted to say, but she forced herself to keep a neutral expression beneath her mask of stage makeup. Then she turned and walked away. Once their gaze was broken, Ritzi rushed toward the dressing room.

The twenty girls in the chorus line shared a large room backstage for makeup and costume changes. Shorty guarded the door. None of the stagehands made it in or out without his knowledge. For good reason. It was a scene of mass nudity.

“What’s the rush?” Shorty asked as Ritzi pushed by him.

She knocked the bowler hat off his head with two fingers and darted through the door.

Elaine Dawn, one of her fellow dancers, laughed as Ritzi pushed the door shut. She was a busty blonde with powder-blue eyes and full lips. She had the look of a Ziegfeld girl and a permanent spot at the front of the chorus line. “You’d think being so close to the ground, he could get that hat a little quicker,” Elaine said.

“He’s so strange,” Ritzi said, resting one arm against the door. “I don’t know why Owney keeps him around.”

“Need help with your costume?”

Ritzi turned so her friend could release the small clasp on her back and slip the tail feathers off. “God, that hurts. Why’d we sign up for this again?”

Elaine fluttered her eyelids in an expression of mock surprise. “For the fame and fortune, of course.”

“Really? I signed on to this gig so Shorty could get his jollies peeking through the keyhole.” Ritzi smacked the door with the flat of her hand.


He cussed on the other side of the door.

Ritz peeled her headpiece off and hung it on the doorknob. Now that her plumage was gone, she shrugged out of the bodice and stood topless, letting the cool air dry her wet skin. Half of her companions did the same. They walked around the room in varying stages of undress. One by one, the girls slid out of their costumes, collected the pieces, and set them on hangers. The ensembles then went on three long garment racks arranged by number.

“You look awful,” Elaine said.

“Gee, thanks.” Ritzi wiped an arm across her forehead. It came away slick with sweat.

“Seriously. Do you feel okay?”

“I just want to go home.”

Elaine eased into her slip and pulled a snug cocktail dress over her head. “Suit yourself. I’m off to Club Abbey.” She wiggled her eyebrows for effect. “I hear Owney’s in a good mood tonight.”

“How’d you hear that?”

Elaine pushed up her breasts and shook them a bit so they settled into her dress. “I have my sources.”

“June?” Ritzi asked, looking toward the far wall, where June Brice, the vixen of the group, rolled stockings onto her legs and secured them with a black garter belt. “I thought she was with Owney?”

“She’s moved on to some uptown guy. A lawyer or something. Which means”—Elaine turned around so Ritzi could zip her up—“there’s a job opening.”

“You don’t want to mess around with him,” Ritzi said.

Elaine’s eyes narrowed. “You jealous?”

“No. I want you to be safe.”

“And I want off this chorus line.” She looked at the three racks of plumage. Leaned in and whispered, “I’m following your lead. Owney’s my ticket to something better.”

He’s your ticket to the morgue. Ritzi winced at the thought. “Not a good idea.”

“You’ve had him, right?”

Ritzi caught a flash of shame as she saw her reflection in the mirror. “That was a long time ago.”

“Well. It worked for you.” She gave an impish grin. “And Mae West. Look where she is now.”

Until recently, the very mention of Mae West would have made Ritzi quiver with hope. Four years earlier Owney Madden had financed her highly controversial Broadway show Sex. After 375 performances and ticket sales of over three hundred thousand, the show had been raided by the police and the entire cast and crew charged with obscenity. West spent ten days in a prison workhouse and emerged a legend. Since then, her star had only continued to rise. She’d already abandoned New York for Hollywood.

“So,” Elaine said, undeterred. “Any pointers?”

“Stay away from Owney. Find yourself a decent guy.”

Elaine looked in the mirror and applied a coat of deep red lipstick. She smacked her lips twice, assessing her reflection. “I think I’ll give him a shot. Wish me luck.” She kissed Ritzi on the cheek and then left the dressing room.

The knot in Ritzi’s stomach tightened as she watched Elaine leave. She pulled on her undergarments and stepped into her dress. Fumbled with her shoes.

Her cheeks were clammy and her palms damp. She felt dizzy. Ritzi grabbed her purse and ran down the hall to the public bathroom. A line of women waited, but she pushed by them and darted into the first open stall and vomited right into the toilet bowl.


MARIA unlaced her fingers from Jude’s. “I need to use the ladies’ room.”

She had spent the entire three-hour performance searching the chorus line for Ritzi. She appeared in each act, but never so prominently as in the opening. Maria paid little attention to Jude as he commented on this number or that, or even when he jumped to his feet along with the rest of the theater after a particularly elaborate routine. Instead, she kept her gaze on the young woman, mesmerized by her poise and grace. Nowhere could she detect the panicked and embarrassed girl she’d surprised in Crater’s bedroom or the desperate woman at the doctor’s office.

“You should have gone at intermission,” Jude said, “with everyone else.”

“The lines were too long. Besides, I didn’t need to go then.”

Jude led her from the balcony and down the stairs into the lobby. “There.” He nodded toward a sign. “That way. But be quick. I want to get you home.” He traced the curve of her jaw.

“You’re insatiable,” she said, and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Be right back.”

Maria took her place at the back of the line and searched the faces around her. It took five minutes to get inside the restroom itself and then another five for a stall to empty. No sooner had she gotten situated than she heard a rumble of discontent as someone cut in line. And then the door of the stall next to hers crashed open. Angry comments ricocheted around the bathroom until the poor girl began to vomit. Several toilets flushed at once, followed by the rush of faucets, as women hurried on their way. Those remaining in line tried to ignore the retches, and the bathroom hushed into an awkward silence.

When Maria left the stall, the girl was bent over the sink, splashing water on her face and rinsing out her mouth. Maria plucked several paper towels from the nearest dispenser and held them out to her.

“Thanks.” The girl lifted her face to offer Maria a wan smile, but it quickly slipped away. As she reached to take the towels from Maria’s hand, her face twisted with concern. “What are you doing here?”

They stood elbow to elbow at the sink, Ritzi drying her hands and Maria primping her hair. They looked at one another in the mirror as women swirled behind and beside them, adjusting makeup, necklines, and stockings. Ritzi, no longer in costume, with smeared makeup and tangled hair. Her street clothes and pallid skin went a long way to mute her role as the temptress she’d been in Crater’s bed and on the stage that evening.

“My husband brought me to see the show,” Maria said.

“He brought you to my show. Just because?”

“I asked him to.”

A smudge of crimson lipstick marred Ritzi’s chin, and she rubbed it away. Her eyes were heavy and tired-looking beneath the stage makeup. The false eyelashes and glitter did little to hide her exhaustion. “Why?”

It was a simple question. And Maria had prepared for days to answer it. But she found herself unable to utter the words in this place, surrounded by strangers. She took a deep breath. Shook her head. Closed her eyes. “I—”

A toilet flushed behind them, and when Maria looked up, she saw Stella Crater swinging a stall door open. Ritzi stiffened beside her.

Ritzi let out a huff of air and bent her head toward the sink. She did not watch as Stella approached the mirror, pale eyes on her own reflection, but rather swayed for a moment and then clapped a hand over her mouth and darted back into a stall to retch again.

“Mrs. Crater.” Maria forced her eyes away from Ritzi’s hunched form and nodded at her employer in deference. Whatever rules of etiquette applied in this situation were unknown to her.

Mrs. Crater’s expression shifted from fatigue to recognition to relief when she saw Maria. She took in the familiar embroidery of her gown. “You look lovely in that dress.”

“Thank you,” Maria stammered. “You gave it to me.”

“I remember. Joe hates”—she paused, a note of uncertainty in her voice—“hated it on me. Always said I didn’t have the bosom to fill it out. Clearly a deficit you need not worry about.”


Maria turned her eyes to the tiled floor, self-conscious. Crossed her arms over her chest and then dropped them to her sides. She eased her question out without ever meeting Stella’s penetrating gaze. “How is Mr. Crater?”

Stella shifted closer as a patron sidled up to the empty sink and ran her fingertips beneath the faucet. “I was hoping you could tell me. Have you seen him?”

Maria stared at Stella, trying to word her response. How to tell her that she’d seen more of Mr. Crater than she ever wanted to? That she knew more than she could speak aloud? Especially in this place, with so many within earshot. But as she struggled with her words in the brief silence, Ritzi returned to the sink. She washed her mouth out again, spitting politely into the bowl.

“Disgusting,” someone muttered behind them.

A number of women hurried from the restroom without looking at Ritzi. Some whispered on their way out.

“I really know how to clear a room.” Ritzi offered a shaky laugh.

Stella pulled a box of mints from her purse and offered one to Ritzi. “Are you all right?”

“Just dizzy.” Ritzi twirled her finger in the air. Took the mint. Placed it on her tongue. “All that spinning.”

“I only saw the last number,” Stella said. “It was quite impressive.”

“I wasn’t properly trained,” she explained. “As a dancer, I mean. The others know how to balance and keep a point of focus. I just muddle my way through.” Ritzi sucked on the mint and then hesitantly met Stella’s eyes in the mirror. “You’d think I’d have a stronger stomach by now.”

“Strong enough for what you need to do, though, right?” Stella asked.

“For my part. Yes.”

“You do put on a good show.” Stella nodded, approving. The clasp of her necklace had slid down, and she moved it back to the nape of her neck. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have business to attend to.”

“Will I see you this week,” Maria asked, “at the apartment?”

“I’m leaving Sunday. No need for me to stick around, given the current circumstances.” She glanced at Maria and then at Ritzi. It seemed as though she wanted to say more but felt vulnerable in that small room with so many others around.

“I’m sure they’ll find Mr. Crater,” Maria said.

“Let’s hope so. It would be nice to know where he is. For certain.”

Maria lingered as Stella swept out of the bathroom. Ritzi gave Maria a desperate sort of look and, lacking anything else to say, grabbed her purse and left. Even in this, the pecking order remained intact. Wife first. Then mistress. Leave the maid behind to clean up the mess. Without thinking, Maria wiped down the counter with a paper towel and then stepped into the stall to flush the toilet Ritzi had forgotten.


STELLA climbed from the cab shortly before midnight. There was no sign for Club Abbey over the set of concrete steps that descended below street level. She paused and looked around. The location of this establishment was strictly word of mouth, considering its numerous illegal proclivities. The street was lined with cars and the sounds of jazz. Laughter rose from the bar below, but she was the only person in sight. Stella smoothed the creases from her dress, pulled her gloves up, and squared her shoulders. She gripped the rail in one hand and her purse with the other and began her descent. Eighteen steps. Each slow and measured, the heel of her shoe pressed against the riser. She took a deep breath at the bottom and reached out to push the heavy wooden doors.

“Password?” A man stepped from the shadows. He was a good foot shorter than Stella. Stocky. And had the heavy brow ridge of an Eastern European. “No one gets in without a password.”

She snorted and drew a five-dollar bill from her purse. Waved it in front of him with two fingers.

“Works for me.” He took the money and swept one arm toward the doors.

They parted easily beneath her hand. Stella had expected resistance, but instead she almost stumbled into Club Abbey. The bar smelled of smoke and whiskey and floor polish. Perfume. Sweat. It was intoxicating. So immediate, even with one foot still on the threshold.

Laughter.

A ruckus somewhere in the back.

The ceiling was low and dark and warm, with its embossed copper panels and mahogany trim. The speakeasy beckoned her to come in, come closer, get pulled into the fray. Stella stepped inside.

The doors eased shut behind her, and with them went the last hint of fresh air. She almost turned and left. Almost. Instead, she steeled herself and took a step forward, then another, purse clutched in front of her as though she were afraid it would be stolen. With each inch of movement, Stella felt a little bolder, a little more purposeful. Intent on her cause.

A jazz quartet played in the corner, massaging their instruments, almost impervious to the crowd. Notes floated up and around and mingled, cohabitating in the air. She could practically taste each chord change, that little pause in the air before she inhaled and then the new swell of music. The piano player sat tall and straight, his elbows at right angles. So serious. So intense. On the bass was a short black man, barely taller than his instrument but almost as wide. He plucked at the strings with intention and feeling and a sort of reverence that she could feel twenty feet away. Drums and saxophone lifted and bled between the notes, an instrumental game of tag. For years Joe had told her that he visited Club Abbey for business purposes, but she now understood his reasons were far more varied than that. This was a place he must have loved.

In the middle of the room was a large dance floor filled with couples leaning into one another and swaying to the beat with slow, sensuous movements. Stella could feel the heat coming from them. Women with their arms slung over men’s shoulders. Men with hands dangling low in the small of a back. A face buried in a neck. Heads tipped back in laughter. All of it beneath the swirl of cigar smoke and dim light.

Booths lined the wall, and the dance floor was circled by tables of men with loosened ties and women with flushed cheeks. Stella pushed her way through the crowd and slid up to the bar between two men. She did not sit down. The bartender, a young man with startling red hair, poured a drink for a woman who leaned forward a little too suggestively, almost begging him to look down her dress. How did he do it? she wondered. How did he look at her eyes, so clouded with booze that one drifted off to the side, instead of taking her up on the offer of a free peep show? The bartender’s gaze shifted to Stella, and he threw a towel over his shoulder and made his way toward her. The bawdy woman almost fell off her stool as she leaned after him, and the men beside Stella stepped over to catch her. They positioned themselves on either side, each with an eager hand to steady her. They flashed glares back and forth. Marking their territory. Marking their prey. Stella halfway expected one of them to pee on the poor woman and make it official.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

“My husband is a regular.”

“Ah. One of the wives.”

Stella lifted one neatly plucked eyebrow in question.

“We get your type in occasionally. Uptown girl looking for her lowbrow husband.” He lifted a glass from the shelf and set it on the bar in front of her. “You want a drink, or do you want me to rout out your man?”

“My husband isn’t a tosspot.” Stella recognized Stan from their phone call, that voice with the faintest trace of puberty still audible. “But he is in here a lot.”


“Name?”

“Joseph Crater.”

She enjoyed the discomfort that swept across the bartender’s face as he made the connection. His youth showed then in his embarrassed smile. “Which would make you the judge’s wife?”

“Hello, Stan.”

“I know Joe. Good man. Good customer.” He motioned to the barstool. “Have a seat. We don’t bite. Most of us, anyway. But you might want to stay away from that one,” he said with a wink, and nodded at some unidentified patron behind her.

Stella gave him a closer look. Baby face. Probably couldn’t grow a beard if he tried. His voice had solidly changed, but likely it still broke if he got excited. “How old are you?”

“Not old enough to serve liquor.” He poured a shot. “Much less drink it.” He knocked back the glass and shuddered a bit as the whiskey went down.

“You can’t fool me. Bravado aside. You’re a virgin.”

He choked.

“With liquor, I mean! Liquor.”

Stan shifted a little closer, one corner of his mouth twisted into a cockeyed grin. “Neither, miss. But don’t tell Owney. He’d have me fired. Or shot. It’s my job to protect the booze and the girls.”

“So that’s the trick, is it? The way to keep a joint like this in business? Liquor and women.”

“We take a head count every night,” he said proudly. “How many broads you see in here?”

She gave him a scolding look before she turned and rested her elbows on the bar. “I see fifteen women. Maybe twenty. Hard to tell. They won’t sit still.”

“And men?”

“Two or three times as many.”

“Try five. For every gal that comes in that door, you can bet five men will follow her. All of them eager to buy her a drink. And it’s not even midnight yet.”

“I imagine the number will go up significantly?”

“Owney hired a bouncer. He only lets in the ones with looks or money.”

“Well, it cost me five bucks. So I guess I know my category.”

“You ain’t the usual customer, I’ll concede that. But I’d have to argue with the looks issue. You’ve already got admirers. I count seven making eyes at you right now.”

A few men did have their eyes on her. Some looked confused. Others intrigued. “Drunk. Every one of them, I’d wager.”

“Only three.” He raised the bottle of whiskey. “I do keep count, after all.”

Stella looked over Stan’s shoulder at the bottles of whiskey behind the bar. It occurred to her that very little probably got past his keen eye. “Did my husband come in recently?”

He didn’t respond.

“I’m not trying to get you in trouble. I just need to know where he is.”

Stan leaned over the bar. “Joe comes in, right? But he’s not all that regular. Not an every-nighter like some of these guys. I’m not sure the last time I saw him. It’s been weeks.”

Stella chose her words carefully. “Does he come in alone?”

“I don’t see them come in, Mrs. Crater. My job is to watch what they do while they’re here.”

“What about when he left? Was he alone then?”

Stan shook his head. “No good’s gonna come of you being here.”

“If you won’t tell me what I need to know, then I’ll talk to your boss.”

“You’re a pretty lady. And you seem smart. But this”—he motioned around the room—“is not the place for you. Owney don’t cater to your type. The only things you’ll learn here will lead to heartbreak.”

“You think I don’t know about heartbreak?”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know.” He looked at the clock. “The first of which is that in about fifteen minutes this place is going to get rowdy. The dancing girls have let out. I doubt you have the stomach for that.”

“I’m not a prude.”

“Go home, Mrs. Crater.”

“Where’s Owney Madden?”

Stan took his dish towel and began to dry a set of lowball glasses. His eyes were warm and brown, and he looked uneasy. “See that guy back there in the corner booth?”

She looked to her left. A large booth sat on a riser, tucked into the corner. Its occupant was an arrogant-looking man with flinty eyes and a scar on his upper lip. “Yes.”

“That’s Owney. When Joe comes in, it’s to talk to him. That’s all I know.”

“I’d bet you know what my husband has to drink when he comes in here.”

Stan didn’t answer.

“He doesn’t drink tap water. I know that much.”

He slid the whiskey bottle across the bar. “This,” he said. “On the rocks.”

“Pour me one of those, if you don’t mind. Just the way Joe takes it.”

“This is stout liquor, Mrs. Crater.”

Stella set her elbows on the bar and leaned forward a few inches. Her smile was firm and cold. “Who the hell do you think taught me to drink?”

He dropped six ice cubes into the glass and covered them with whiskey. Slid it across the bar. Stella took her drink and walked toward the corner booth, where Owney Madden sat alone. She didn’t turn around when Stan called her name, a clear note of warning in his voice. Poor kid. She’d leave him out of this.

Owney didn’t notice Stella until she was a few feet away. He sat up a little straighter when she stopped in front of his booth and set her glass on the table.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked.

“Looks as though you’ve a mind to do just that.”

Stella forced the amused look from her face. Such a ridiculous accent, Scouse. Lewks as though yeh’ve a meend to do just thaht. None of the dignity of the English or the passion of the Irish. Truly a stew of dialects, just as the name implied. Scouse: named for the lamb soup so favored by the citizens of Liverpool and Merseyside.

She smiled. “I won’t intrude where I’m not wanted.”

Owney spread his arm out. “Be my guest.”

She stepped onto the riser and scooted across the seat until she was opposite him. She set her purse in her lap. “You’re not drinking tonight?”

“I never drink while I’m working, Miss …?”

“Mrs. Crater.”

“Ah,” he said. “Joe’s wife.”

“I assume you know why I’m here?”

Owney laughed. “Don’t start assuming anything. We don’t know each other.”

Stella wrapped her fingers around the glass. The condensation soaked through her gloves, and she steadied herself. “You got my message?”

“Contrary to popular opinion, I do not have a secretary. Only a pubescent bartender who is highly unreliable when it comes to communicating details about the opposite sex.” Owney plucked a cigarette from an open pack on the table. He propped it between crooked front teeth and struck a match. After he’d taken a long drag, he asked, “This message you left, was it important?”

“Do I look like the kind of woman who would be in a place like this otherwise?” Stella took a sip of her whiskey. She cupped it in her tongue, controlling every drop as it slid down her throat to avoid the cough that threatened to roar through her body. She took another sip.

“No, you do not. Liquor aside.”

“Joe was a friend of yours?”

“I’d call him a customer.”

“Your customer has gone missing, Mr. Madden.”


Owney blew smoke out his nose. It clouded in front of his face and then drifted toward the ceiling. “So they say. But I don’t see what you want me to do about it.”

“Joe’s gone. So I want you to return the deed to my lake house.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. During Joe’s campaign to get on the court, he sold a number of properties to raise funds. But the deed to the lake house is in my name. Not his. Something he failed to recall when he sold it to you. And I want it back.”

Owney dropped his air of nonchalance, eyes tightening around the corners. “And what do I get in exchange?”

Stella undid the clasp on her purse and pulled out the business card she’d found in Joe’s coat pocket. She placed it faceup on the table. “You get this. And a promise that I won’t tell the police that you were the person who insisted my husband come back from Maine.”


STELLA made it back to her apartment well after one in the morning. She stepped from the elevator and saw an older woman by the door. She glanced up as Stella approached.

“Where have you been?” the woman demanded, all nerves and sympathy.

“Honestly, Mother.” Stella dug for the keys in her purse.

“A hello would be appreciated. Especially under the circumstances. I had to take the night train.” Emma Wheeler had taken up sentry outside the apartment, sitting on her suitcase, a small purse clasped in her hands. Legs crossed and spine plumb-line straight.

Looks like she swallowed a walking stick in one gulp, Joe often said, marveling at her mother’s posture. It made Emma look severe and uncompromising.

“You could have let me know you were coming.”

“I called from the train station. Five times.”

Stella reached out a hand and helped her mother to her feet. “I was out.”

Emma wrinkled her nose. “Have you been drinking?”

“Only to prove a point.”

“I raised you better than that. Women of decent reputation do not drink.”

“Neither do they have missing husbands. Yet here I am, liquored up and fully abandoned. Now, would you like to come inside, or would you rather lecture me in the hall?”

“I’ve been waiting here”—she looked at her watch—“three hours.”

Stella swallowed her retort and unlocked the door. She held it open. Emma swept into the entry, keen eyes searching for a point of criticism on which to land. She left her suitcase in the hallway for Stella to fetch. From the weight of it, she guessed her mother had packed half her wardrobe.

“I am your mother. It is my duty to comfort you in times like this.”

“How did you know?”

“Your sister called. Said you’d come back to the city to look for Joe. Why didn’t you tell me?”

She lied. “I didn’t want to worry you.” In reality, she hadn’t wanted her mother to interfere.

After Stella set Emma’s suitcase in the hall closet, she found her in the living room, running one finger along the bookcase. She inspected the tip of her glove. “You ought to fire your maid.”

“Maria does fine work. Stop criticizing.” A single lamp was on in the living room, and Stella switched the others on to lighten the room.

“What are you doing?” her mother asked.

“I’ll be up for a while. I have some calls to make.”

“But it’s almost two in the morning.”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Don’t you think it would be wiser to go to bed? You’ve been out half the night.” Emma peeled her gloves off, one finger at a time, and lifted her hat from her carefully set hair. “Doing God knows what.”

“I was taking care of business. Why don’t you go to bed?”

“You’d think a grown man would know how to look after himself.”

“Mother!” The word was sharp, and Stella winced at the sound of her own voice. Her next words were kinder, though unwavering. “Did you come to help or chastise?”

Emma stared at her daughter, face turning to granite. They shared the same startling blue eyes and propensity for saying exactly what they thought. Mother and daughter regarded each other, unsure of the protocol in this situation.

Stella asserted herself. It was her home, after all. Her missing husband. And she’d not asked her mother to come. “I would drink some coffee if you made it.”

Emma did not look up as she made her way to the kitchen, but Stella heard her mutter, “This trauma has addled her senses.”

When Emma was out of earshot, Stella pulled a slim white envelope from her purse and retreated to Joe’s office. She knelt in front of the bookshelf behind his desk and pushed against the lower panel. It swung outward to reveal a small safe built into the wall. She fumbled her way through the combination three times before getting it right. The door opened with a click, and she set the deed to the lake house inside.