The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress

Chapter Fourteen





BELGRADE LAKES, MAINE, SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 1930



FIVE thousand dollars. That’s how much the New York Police Department offered in reward for information leading to the whereabouts of Joseph Crater. Stella glared at the missing persons circular, studying the black-and-white photo of her husband. Joe, with his pursed lips and high collar and severe part, stared right back at her from the page. She sat on the edge of the pier, toes in the water and hands stuffed into the pockets of Joe’s dinner jacket, fiddling with the half-empty pack of cigarettes and matchbook she’d found weeks earlier. Stella had taken to wearing the jacket when she retreated to the pier—always in the late afternoon and usually for hours at a time. It still smelled of his aftershave, and the satin lining felt cool against her bare arms.

A copy of the New York World was spread on her lap, along with two letters that had come by post that morning, and she switched between the front-page article, the letters, and the missing persons circular, as though each new reading would explain the mystery of Joe’s disappearance.

The letters were the most distressing of the lot. The first, written in startling blue ink on cheap white stationery, was a clear attempt at extortion. When she’d read of kidnappings and ransom notes as a child, she imagined things along the lines of Robert Louis Stevenson. It was, in truth, far less romantic when she held the clichéd note demanding $20,000 in exchange for the safe return of her husband. Have money small denominations. The quiet way is best. Cooperate fully or you will not see your husband again. She stuffed it back in the envelope.

The second letter was from Commissioner Mulrooney and stated that he would be sending a detective to question her.

As far as the newspapers went, it had been a big week. A reporter by the name of George Hall had written both front-page articles. Above the fold was the now-staple face of Joe and more curious details of how he vanished. Below the fold was a picture of Al Smith at the construction site for the Empire State Building. “Eighty years ago, a very short time when one stops to think, this land was part of a farm,” Al had said in his speech. “More recently it was the site of one of the great hotels in the world; and soon it will be the location of the tallest structure ever built by man.” Stella found it ironic that the two men shared the same newspaper page. It was Al, after all, who had pushed so hard for Joe to get into politics, and then Al again who had helped arrange the details of his appointment to the court years later. She wondered if he’d paused at all that day to publicly acknowledge her husband or if he’d been too obsessed by watching his own dream rise into the New York skyline.


Stella had almost memorized the tersely worded announcement that went out to law enforcement around the country. Fred had brought her the circular, along with the morning papers, after he returned from the village earlier that day, and she’d worn them thin with anxiety.

$5,000.00 REWARD

MISSING SINCE AUGUST 6, 1930

JUSTICE OF THE SUPREME COURT, STATE OF NEW YORK

THE CITY OF NEW YORK OFFERS $5,000 REWARD TO ANY PERSON OR PERSONS FURNISHING THIS DEPARTMENT WITH INFORMATION RESULTING IN LOCATING JOSEPH FORCE CRATER

Description—Born in the United States—Age, 41 years; height, 6 feet, weight, 185 pounds; mixed gray hair, originally dark brown, thin at top, parted in middle “slicked” down; complexion, medium dark, considerably tanned; brown eyes; false teeth, upper and lower jaw; good physical and mental condition at time of disappearance. Tip of right index finger somewhat mutilated due to having been recently crushed.

Stella stopped reading and wadded the circular in her clenched fist. She loathed the words they used to describe Joe: missing, time of disappearance, presumed alive. Commissioner Mulrooney had signed the circular himself. One comment in particular drew her attention: “If we could find some of his papers we might learn something about the cause for his disappearance.”

She could only guess that Mulrooney was hinting at the envelopes she’d found in the apartment, but she couldn’t fathom how he knew about them. His name hadn’t been on Joe’s list of illicit business dealings. Stella hurled the newspaper and the circular into the water. Propelled by her anger, they fluttered in midair, pages spreading out like a fan, and then landed with a plunk and turned gray as water soaked them.

“That’s not a statement,” she said, “it’s an obituary.”

“The neighbors will think you’ve gone strange, talking to yourself like that.”

Stella turned to find Emma standing above her, hands clasped at her waist in that infuriatingly polite way of hers. She hadn’t heard the screen door snap shut or Emma’s purposeful stride down the wooden pier.

“Look around. I have no neighbors.”

“They boat. And they talk. You must maintain propriety. Appearances are important, you know.” Emma pointed back toward the house. “One of those detectives from the city is waiting inside to ask you a few questions.”

“I know.” She held up the letter from Mulrooney. “I’ll come in a minute.”

“You’re going to make that detective wait while you sit out here and talk to yourself? That’s hardly a way for the wife of a missing judge to behave.”

“I’m going to gather my thoughts,” Stella said. “Besides, I don’t really give a damn about appearances right now.”

“Your language is appalling.”

“No. What’s appalling is that Joe’s face is all over the front page.”

“How else will they find him?”

“Those papers are a diversion, Mother. They’re not looking for Joe.

They’re looking for ways to capitalize on his disappearance.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“Every politician in New York just got carte blanche for as long as Joe is the headline. Tammany Hall will be a political free-for-all for months.”

“What on earth are you saying?”

“As long as the headlines are filled with juicy tidbits about a missing judge, then no one will read about the grand juries meeting this month. Or the voter fraud. Or the bribery. We won’t read about the informants and the prostitutes that are disappearing every other day.”

Stella pulled out a cigarette. She ran it beneath her nose, inhaling. It was a bit stale, having sat open so long, but it reminded her of Joe and dinner parties and the few wonderful things that had come with being his wife.

“Since when do you smoke?” Emma eyed the cigarette as though she would yank it from Stella’s hand. But she glanced nervously back at the house instead.

“Since now.” It was easy to rip out a single match from the book and strike it against the strip of sandpaper. Stella tipped the cigarette into the flame just to watch her mother’s eyes widen.

“You’ve been out of sorts since New York. Is there something you need to tell me? If so, do it now, before you go in and talk to that man.”

“No. Should there be?”

Stella never made the conscious decision to inhale. But she did nonetheless. It was sand in her throat and fire in her sinuses. Her lungs forced the smoke out in rapid-fire bursts, and her eyes went slick. Emma laughed. Stella inhaled again. Ashes on her tongue. The taste of soot. Another lungful of smoke, deep into the core of her body, and she held it long enough to grow dizzy. Then she let it out in a sputter. Stella coughed and wiped her eyes. She took a deep breath of clean air and lifted the cigarette to her lips again. This time she took a cautious drag and rocked back and forth on the pier, controlling the tingling new sensation that flooded her body.

“Here.” She handed the second letter to Emma.

“What is this?”

“A fake ransom note demanding twenty thousand dollars for Joe’s safe return.”

“What?” Emma held the envelope away from her body as though it would burn her. “How do you know it’s fake?”

“Read it. Whoever wrote that thing copied the text from a dime-store novel. It’s a scam.”

“Are you sure? Who would do such a thing?”

“Someone who wants to make a quick buck off the grieving wife of a missing judge.”

“Well, what do you want me to do with it?”

“Give it to that detective.” Stella drew her feet out of the water and slowly stood up. Dizzy and nauseated, she reached out to steady herself on Emma’s arm. “And have Fred bring the car around.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to Irv Bean’s store so I can officially report my husband missing.”

“It’s all over the papers.”

“Exactly. I can’t have people wondering why I never reported it.” Stella threw the half-smoked cigarette into the lake. “I must keep up appearances, after all.”

“Pull yourself together, Stella. You’re not going anywhere until you give that detective a statement.”

Stella glared at the house. “Just send him out here.”

BILTMORE HOTEL, NEW YORK CITY, OCTOBER 27, 1927

The crystal vase crashed to the floor, shards spinning across the wood parquet in every direction. An elaborate tulip arrangement lay tangled in the mess, buds broken and stems bent at unnatural angles.

“What in God’s name was that?” Joe struggled with his bow tie as he stumbled from the bedroom in the high-rise suite.

“The cat.” Stella pointed to a bushy-tailed orange tomcat that raced back and forth along the wall. His hackles were raised, and he hissed and spit as though batting away a predator.

“Your cat,” Joe said, correcting her with a stern glance. “I suggested we board him.”

“Chickie is our cat. And two weeks in a kennel would have killed him. Besides, it’s that stupid parrot next door. Can’t you hear it?”

Joe had arranged for them to stay in a suite adjoining that of Governor Al Smith and his wife, Catherine, while their new apartment was being finished. As a political move, it was genius, but it had proved a test of patience when it came to Chickie. The Smiths’ green parrot squawked so loudly it made their eyes throb and had a laugh so eerily human-sounding Stella often couldn’t tell whether she heard the bird or Catherine on the other side of the wall.


“Look at him,” she said. “It’s a wonder he hasn’t dug right through the wall to get that bird.”

“Put him in the bathroom, then. We need to get downstairs. Cocktails started ten minutes ago.”

It took several minutes before Stella cornered Chickie between a set of purple velvet drapes and a large armoire in the sitting room. She held him at arm’s length so he wouldn’t shed orange hair onto her black dress and chucked him into the bathroom.

“That cat is a menace,” Joe said, holding out his bow tie to her.

“He’s a darling.”

“He shit on the rug. Had to clean it up before the maid found it and complained to management. We’d be evicted.”

Stella flipped Joe’s collar up and ran the tie around his neck. She knotted it with nimble fingers. “The governor would never let that happen. Besides, I can only imagine what their place looks like. They don’t keep that bird caged. And Catherine told me the other day that Al feeds it straight from his fork.”

“They’re waiting on us.” He gave her dress careful scrutiny before finally offering his approval. “You look nice.”

Stella spun in a small circle, seeking his approval. But as usual, his gaze didn’t linger. “It’s Chanel,” she said, following him to the door. “Destined to be a classic, the salesclerk said—”

“I don’t care,” Joe interrupted, “as long as it was expensive.”

It was expensive. The latest version of the swing dress, it was long sleeved and sat low on the hips, with a pleated skirt and a hemline that hovered midknee. The dress was perfect for that night’s fund-raiser—sure to involve champagne and the Charleston. Stella dressed it up a bit with pearls, a small netted hat, and a sequined clutch.

Al and Catherine were waiting for them on the first floor in one of the smaller ballrooms adjacent to the Men’s Bar.

“Get ready, dear,” Catherine whispered in Stella’s ear, “they’ll end up in the bar before long.”

Bright and charismatic, Governor Smith had taken a liking to Joe years earlier. That interest had not waned since, and Joe could easily trace his meteoric rise in the political world to the near-constant attention given him by the governor. Al Smith was, at times, almost alarming with his penetrating wit and leprechaun eyes. But Joe had received his blessing and, for the time being, that was all that mattered.

Catherine took Stella by the elbow and steered her toward a small crowd of political wives that stood by the window and nibbled hors d’oeuvres. Shrimp cocktail and stuffed mushrooms. Rolled prosciutto and Brie. A cornucopia of cheese and crackers. Caviar and grapes. Most of it sat untouched on the buffet. Every now and then, a woman plucked a grape from the bunch or ate half a shrimp.

“Aren’t they hungry?” Stella whispered to Catherine.

Catherine laughed and bent close to Stella’s ear. “They’re waiting for us, dear. Grab a plate. Start a trend.”

“Us?” Stella understood why the women would wait to eat until Catherine arrived. She and Al were hosting the fund-raiser, after all. But she couldn’t grasp how she fit into the equation.

“You are my special guest tonight.” Catherine lifted a delicate saucer from the stack and made her way down the buffet table, taking a small sample of each offering.

Stella followed her lead, and one by one, the political wives of New York City fell into line behind them.

That night, like so many that came before, was a blur for Stella. Champagne and music and robust speeches punctuated by periods of dancing. Joe worked the crowd, never attending to her for more than a few moments at a time, and then only to introduce her to this politician or that. And always the wives. They traded names of boutiques and designers like business cards, weighing one another’s social status against the labels they could afford.

“Is that the new Chanel?” Stella was asked on more than one occasion.

“It is,” she said, giving the same little spin she’d practiced for Joe earlier. She let the skirt flare just enough to elicit approval and, in a number of instances, envy.

“It looks lovely on you. You have the right sort of boyish figure to wear the flapper cut.”

Narrow hips and a flat chest, they meant. A backhanded compliment. Occasionally Catherine took pity on Stella and whisked her away for another glass of champagne.

“You’ll get used to it,” she said. “They’re only testing you.”

“I’m not the one running for office.”

She straightened the angle of Stella’s hat. “Of course you are. Haven’t you figured that out yet? Everything Joe says and does reflects on you. And you’ll have to answer for it. In public and in private. Best you make peace with that now.”

Shortly after midnight, the men abandoned their wives in favor of the bar. The women watched them retreat in pairs through the mahogany doors of the male-only establishment.

“Come along,” Catherine said. “They won’t be long.”

The wives had rituals of their own. They scattered around the ballroom in groups of two and three for coffee, cigarettes, and gossip. The band quieted, and Catherine led her to a table in the corner, where Stella slipped off her shoes.

“Do you smoke?” Catherine asked.

“No.”

“You might want to reconsider. Eases your nerves. Makes the time pass quicker.” Catherine lifted a pack of cigarettes and a long cigarette holder from her purse. She lit the cigarette smoothly and set it inside the six-inch tortoiseshell holder.

“I’ll never learn all these rules.”

“Sure you will. It takes time. And practice. But you carry yourself well. And Joe couldn’t be prouder of you. We’ve all noticed.”

“How do you handle these long nights? I’d rather be home in bed.”

Catherine looked at her wristwatch. “They’re like little boys, you know. Give it fifteen minutes and they’ll all begin to crash. Children and politicians have two speeds: running and asleep. But they haven’t gotten loud enough yet. It gets obnoxious just before they wind down.”

Sure enough, the ruckus in the bar began to grow until Stella and Catherine could hear them singing out in chorus:

The suckers will vote in the fall, tra-la;

The suckers will vote in the fall!

“Five more minutes and they’ll come stumbling back in here, red eyed and dizzy.” Catherine tapped the cigarette holder against her bottom lip and smiled, then pulled a long wisp of smoke between her thin lips. Fine lines were etched around her mouth, and Stella saw the telltale signs of age brought on by a hard political life.

True to Catherine’s prediction, the husbands began to trickle back into the ballroom, sedate and exhausted. They collected their wives and ushered them home.

Before parting, Catherine kissed Stella on the cheek. “You’ll do just fine.”

It wasn’t until Joe and Stella were back in their suite that she realized Catherine’s attention that night had been placed on her singularly. It was her statement as the governor’s wife to the other women that Stella was to be respected. And taken seriously. Had she known that earlier, she might have cried with gratitude.

Stella jumped when the bathroom door banged open. Joe stumbled out, stark naked and belting the lyrics to a profane drinking song:

There was a young lady named Lou

Who said as the parson withdrew,

“Now the Vicar is quicker,


And thicker, and slicker,

And two inches longer than you!”

His cheeks were flushed red from whiskey, and he roared with laughter when he saw the horrified look on her face.

She took a step backward. “You’ve been learning a few songs from Al Smith, I see.”

“Meaning what?”

She looked at the wall to avoid Joe’s raunchy gyrations. “That blasphemous song. And the one down in the bar.”

“It’s just a song, Stell. Something silly to lighten the mood.” She flinched but didn’t move as he grabbed her and flipped up the back of her dress. He ran his palm up her leg and tugged at her garter belt. “And that business down in the bar was just party high jinks. The boys were simply letting off steam with a harmless little parody.”

“If your voters heard that, they certainly wouldn’t consider it harmless.”

“My voters,” he said, yanking at her stocking, “would hardly be in a place like this. They’re on the docks. And in the garment district. So don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.” Joe pinned her against the wall. His breath was sour and his hands rough, and Stella stared at the ceiling while he wrestled with her designer dress.

She tried to slide away from him. “You’re drunk.”

He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back. His stubble was rough against her neck as he kissed it. “So?”

“You know I don’t like to make love when you’re drunk.”

“I don’t give a shit about making love, Stell. I want sex.”

Stella pushed her skirt down away from his probing hands. “I’m not in the mood.”

“You better get in the mood. Quick. Considering that I’m giving you a fourteen-thousand-dollar apartment tomorrow.”

Joe’s dark eyes were heavy lidded, and the beginning of each word was slurred. He groped her clumsily and grunted with the effort. Beads of sweat settled along his upper lip. Stella was sure he wouldn’t remember this tomorrow, unless she angered him to the point of sobriety. She tensed between Joe and the wall and grappled with her decision. She could push him away—he’d never forced her, after all—but there would be retribution. Or she could submit to the indignity and he’d likely be asleep before finishing.

Stella sighed and slid out from under his arm. She took his hand. “Let’s at least go to the bedroom.”

“I want to do it here.”

“I’ll get the lights, then.”

“Leave them on. I like to watch.”


STELLA heard Jude walk down the pier, but she ignored him. She leaned out over the lake, eyes focused on some distant point, as he came to a stop behind her. Stella didn’t turn around until he cleared his throat. Back in New York, she had been terrified that he would discover the hidden envelopes and hadn’t noticed how handsome he was. Dark hair. Steel-blue eyes. A strong, square jaw and broad shoulders.

“Detective Simon,” he said, extending his hand.

It hovered between them for a several seconds before she gripped it with cold fingertips. “We’ve met.”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d remember. Do you have a few minutes? I’ve come to take your statement.”

“You could have done that when you came to my apartment.” She could not keep the irritation out of her voice.

“That visit was unofficial.”

“Meaning unsanctioned?”

“No. Meaning off the record until my superiors were certain how to proceed.”

“You mean until another headline in the New York World forced them to proceed?”

“Should we sit? No point making this uncomfortable.”

Stella motioned to two Adirondack chairs at the end of the pier. The white paint was peeling and the wood splintered in places, but they were comfortable. She settled into the one closest to the water and tucked her bare feet beneath her legs, wrapping Joe’s dinner jacket tight around her chest. One hand wandered into the pocket. She lifted a cigarette from the pack and fumbled with the matchbook. Stella didn’t want to smoke it—was sick from the last one, in fact—but she needed something to hold. Detective Simon pulled a silver lighter from his pocket and held it out to her. The flame was tall and immediate, and she passed her cigarette through, eyes watering at the acrid smell of singed paper and burning tobacco.

“I’m sorry about your husband,” Jude said. “But I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Are you? Sorry, that is. You didn’t know him.”

“I met him a few times, actually.”

“Did you like him?”

“I didn’t know him well enough to dislike him.”

“Fair enough.” Stella laughed. She drew on the cigarette but didn’t inhale; rather, she held the smoke in her mouth until her tastebuds tingled and then spit it out.

“When was the last time you saw your husband?”

“August third. We had dinner at the Salt House.”

“What happened that night?”

“When we arrived, Joe went to make a phone call. He was gone about twenty minutes, and when he came back to the table, he told me that he had to return to New York first thing in the morning to ‘straighten a few things out.’ ”

Jude scratched at his notepad in shorthand as she spoke. Each stroke was deliberate and thick, indenting the page. “What sort of things?”

“The sort you don’t discuss with your wife, apparently.” Stella flicked the cigarette and then jumped to brush the hot ash from her lap.

“Do you know who your husband phoned that night?”

“No, I do not.” She put Owney Madden, and their agreement, out of her mind as quickly as possible so the lie wouldn’t register on her face.

“Judge Crater has been missing a month. Why didn’t you report this before you returned to the city?”

“I was told not to.”

Jude stopped writing and looked at her. “Please explain.”

“He left here on the third. My birthday was that next Saturday, the ninth, but he didn’t show up, even though he’d promised to be back in time. So I phoned Simon Rifkind—an associate of Joe’s—and he told me Joe had been seen around town and not to worry.”

“But you did worry?”

“About the wrong thing.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that ‘He’s been seen around town’ can sometimes be jargon for ‘Your husband has picked up a skirt on the side and you need to keep your nose out of it if you want to protect his career.’ ”

Jude’s pen whipped across the page in a frenzy. “Did your husband have a history of infidelity?”

Stella shifted away from him. It took too long to sift her answer. “I’ve learned not to question Joe when he has business that needs tending. That’s why I didn’t argue with him when he went back to the city. And that’s why it took me so long to go after him.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“There are things you learn to live with.” Stella thought of Joe’s bandaged hand. “More or less.”

Jude watched her but said nothing.

“Are you married, Detective?”

“Yes.”

“And do you cheat on your wife?”

His face twisted in offense. “Of course not.”

“All men cheat on their wives. If not with a woman, then with work.” She gave him a sideways glance. “I wonder which method you prefer.”


“I beg your pardon, but I don’t—”

“I’m not the one you need to convince.” Stella finished her cigarette and then tossed the butt into the lake.

“If you knew my wife, you’d understand that infidelity is something I’d never consider.” A spark of anger lit up his eyes but was replaced with an emotion she couldn’t identify. He quickly transformed his face into a look of indifference.

The flash of intensity in his eyes convinced Stella that he was serious, that she’d assumed too much. But at least she’d found his weakness. This pleased her immensely, and she waited for him to continue.

He struggled to segue into his next line of questioning.

“Does Judge Crater have any enemies? Someone who would want to harm him?”

“Joe was only on the bench four months. He didn’t have time to make enemies.”

“What about from his days as a criminal attorney?”

“You must understand that my husband was”—she paused, searching for a generic label—“a man of ideals.” Stella refrained from adding that most decent society did not share his particular brand of ideals. “He taught law for many years at New York University—that’s what he did before getting into politics. I heard him tell his classes, on more than one occasion, that every man, though he be found guilty, is entitled to a defense. I suppose he could have upset someone during that time. But if he did, I never heard about it.”

“How many guilty men did your husband defend?”

Stella stiffened at the insinuation. “A few made the papers.”

“And he made money?”

“We were comfortable.”

“You must have been, for him to get into politics. That takes deep pockets.”

“Joe was highly respected for his legal skills. He was encouraged to get into politics because of his talent and charisma. People were drawn to him, even the ones that didn’t particularly like him. That’s a rare commodity in politics.”

Jude tapped his pen against the small notepad. “Do you have any idea who your husband may have gone to see when he returned to the city?”

“None whatsoever.” Stella felt dizzy, both from the cigarettes and from the growing list of lies she would have to remember if Detective Simon came calling again.

“What about his activities? Any associates that he might have talked to?”

“Joe’s business was his own. He kept definite lines between his professional life and his private life.” Stella settled her cold blue eyes on Jude. “I only had access to one of those lives, Detective. I do not know why he returned to New York City.”

Stella unfolded herself from the chair and faced the lake as Jude scratched the information on his notepad. The late-afternoon sun warmed her cheeks, and a deep weariness wrapped itself around her.

“My chauffeur will drive you back to the station, Detective. You wouldn’t want to miss your train.”