The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress

Chapter Sixteen





BROADWAY THEATER, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1930



RITZI slipped into the dressing room in search of a bandage. Two hours of rehearsal on swollen feet resulted in a dime-size blister at the back of her heel, and she’d taken the opportunity to skip out early and have a few minutes to herself. She kicked her shoes off and shrugged out of the skimpy rehearsal dress, digging around the supply cabinet until she found a bottle of Gold Bond and a bandage large enough to cover the back of her foot. The powder stung as it settled into the raw blister, and her face twisted in pain. She recoiled at her own reflection: stretched, gaunt. Wrung out.

Her rehearsals for The New Yorkers had begun a month earlier, turning an already busy schedule into a grueling merry-go-round of rehearsals in the day and live performances of Ladies All at night. Two different theaters. Two different plays. And a world of things to remember each time she stepped onstage. To make matters worse, The New Yorkers required a double role: the supporting part of May the prostitute and a filler in the chorus line. The Ritzi of the chorus lines was seductive and coquettish. But the Ritzi who played May in Cole Porter’s musical was sad and lonely and appealing for entirely different reasons. Of the two roles, she much preferred May.

Once the ache in her foot dulled, she covered herself in a satin robe and tied a loose knot at her waist. Ritzi dragged one of the stage chairs up to the mirror and stretched out her legs until both feet rested on the dressing table. She lit a cigarette and listened to the not-so-distant sounds of rehearsal. The orchestra. The steady rhythm of tap shoes against the wooden floor: turn, turn, touch down, back step, pivot step, walk, walk, walk. She imagined the other girls linked at the arms, artificial smiles spread wide, as they cascaded across the stage in formation. Each woman strained in concentration to match the movements of those next to her. Must. Keep. In. Step.

Ritzi was relieved not to be out there. The thought startled her. And she might have pondered whether to feel guilty about it had a sharp knock not sounded on the door. Shorty Petak didn’t wait for her to respond. He pushed the door wide open. Grinned. She shifted the robe to better cover herself.

Ritzi tapped her cigarette on the arm of the chair. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

“You have a visitor.” Shorty stepped aside to reveal a clean-cut, attractive man in a fedora and gray pinstriped suit. “Detective …?”

“Simon.”

“That’s right. Detective Simon wants to have a few words with you.”

“That so?” Ritzi stared. He was the sort of man who could make a girl lose her place in the chorus line if she saw him from the stage. A couple years ago she would have been flustered at the sight of such a man. But now she smiled and wrapped her lips around the end of her cigarette, drawing smoke into her lungs. She left her bare legs stretched out on the dressing table and flicked a hand at Shorty. “Go on. I don’t need a chaperone.”

Shorty seemed reluctant to shut the door, but he stepped away and gave them privacy.

The detective was young, maybe early thirties, with dark hair and bright blue eyes. The shape of his mouth hinted at dimples, but she couldn’t tell with his stern countenance.

“Do you have a first name, Detective?” Ritzi asked. “I hate formalities.”

“Jude.”

“And is there something in particular I can do for you?”

“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Joseph Crater.”

“What about him?”

“You know him?”

“Sure.”

“How?”

“Everyone knew Crater. You could hardly go fifty feet in the theater district without seeing him.”

His eyes narrowed a bit, and Ritzi immediately regretted her word choice.

“Knew?”

She puffed on her cigarette and then waved it around. “Sure. All the papers say he took a ride.”

“Last I checked, they said he was missing.”

Ritzi shrugged. “Same thing.”

Detective Simon pulled a notepad and pen from his suit pocket. He flipped it open and walked through the dressing room, scanning the costume racks and piles of clothing discarded by the girls. Makeup. Trashy magazines. Cigarette butts. Stockings and high heels and underwear. Elaine had left her diaphragm on the counter, probably so she wouldn’t forget to use it later. He pushed it aside with the tip of his pen.

“Not the classy place you were expecting?”

“I had no expectations, Miss Ritz.”

“Sit down, Jude.” She nodded at one of the other stage chairs. “And call me Ritzi. No one calls me Miss Ritz except my landlord, and he’s a shyster.”


Jude grabbed the other chair and set it a few feet away from her. He was careful not to glance at her bare legs or the plunge of her dressing gown, instead looking around the room while she smoked and waited for him to speak.

“My wife and I came to see your show a couple weeks ago. Maria was quite impressed with that opening number. And the one at the end. With the peacocks.”

Surely not. “Maria? Pretty girl with big brown eyes? Bit of a Spanish accent?”

Jude tensed. “Yeah. How do you know her?”

Better than I should. “Met her in the bathroom after the show. I wasn’t feeling too well. She helped me clean up.”

“Maria didn’t say anything about that.”

Interesting. “She doesn’t seem the type to brag on herself.” Ritzi graced him with a disinterested smile and then drew on her cigarette again. “That all you came to tell me? That Crater’s gone missing and you saw my show?”

“I’m afraid not Miss—Ritzi.” He tapped his notepad with the end of his pen. “How well did you know Crater? Personally?”

Ritzi wished there were a window in the dressing room. The air was stifling and smelled of industrial cleaner and fresh paint and old cigarette smoke. She had to force herself not to twirl a piece of hair or rock her foot. Ritzi met his gaze and offered a small shrug. “Well enough. Crater’s a regular. A real patron of the arts, you could say.”

“You had dinner with him”—Detective Simon looked at his notes—“on August sixth?”

“Billy and I had dinner with him.”

“Billy being … William Klein?”

“That’s right.” So he’d spoken with William Klein. The horrible, sticky memory of that morning in his office came rushing back, and Ritzi fought against the shiver that threatened to race up her spine.

Jude scratched a few notes, pen held at an odd angle in his left hand. “You and Mr. Klein are an item?”

“We spend time together.”

“He said you were his girlfriend.”

“Yeah. I suppose I am.”

Jude tipped his head to the side.

“It’s not good for me to seem attached,” she explained. “Bad for business. You know, it ruins the fantasy. The producers like us to appear attainable. The regular Joes keep coming back if they think they have a chance.”

He circled back to the question like a dog after its own tail. “But you were William Klein’s date on the sixth?”

Ritzi nodded.

“What happened after dinner?”

“Crater went to see a show, and I went home with Billy.”

“What can you remember about that night? It may seem trivial to you, but a random piece of information could be of huge import to this case.”

She played with the belt on her robe. “We were having dinner … Billy and I. And then Joe showed up.”

“Uninvited?”

“Late. And he plopped down at our table, ordered almost everything on the menu, then sent me off to powder my nose so they could talk business.”

Jude scratched her answers into his notebook in some form of shorthand she couldn’t read. “How long were you away?”

“I don’t know. Ten or fifteen minutes?”

“Any idea what they spoke about while you were gone?”

She laughed. “Why do you think he sent me off, Detective? To redecorate the bathroom? When it comes to men like that, I’m not privy to most of what they discuss.”

“I spoke with William Klein this morning, and he didn’t say a word about having a chat with the judge that night. Why would he leave out a detail like that?”

“Don’t know.”

Jude seemed unconvinced. “They spoke privately. Then what?”

“They ate dinner, but I,” she said, motioning to her figure, “am expected to survive on air and compliments. Jerks finished off my salad while I was in the powder room.”

“Did anything else significant happen that evening? Anything you found odd? Then or now?”

“No. It was a normal night. Nothing unusual.”

“What time did you part ways?”

“A little after nine.”

Jude conferred with his notes. Eyes on the paper, he asked, “You said Judge Crater went to see a show. Do you know which one?”

Ritzi remembered the marquee lights as she waited in the cab that night. “Dancing Partner, I believe.”

“Do you know if Mr. Crater reached his destination?”

“He got in a cab. We got in a cab. Everyone left. That’s all I know.”

“Where did you say you ate dinner?”

There were few things she agreed with William Klein on, but leaving Club Abbey out of their rehearsed story was one. “Billy Haas’s Chophouse. It’s a favorite in the theater district.”

“And this Dancing Partner, where was it playing?”

“The Belasco Theater.”

“That’s odd, don’t you think?”

“What?”

In that moment, Ritzi realized that she had underestimated the young detective. What she’d first taken as a sort of amiable nonchalance revealed itself to be a cunning interest in every word she said. His eyes were bright and focused. Lips formed into a barely suppressed smirk. Pen gripped firmly between two fingers.

“The restaurant and the theater are only about three blocks apart. Why would he take a cab on a nice summer evening?”

It was a good question. Logical. Especially if they had actually been at the restaurant that night. One she failed to consider. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

“Did you actually see him get in the cab, Miss Ritz?”

“Ritzi,” she said, holding her breath and settling on the best lie she could deliver. “And no. I did not.”

“Did you see which direction he went when you left the restaurant?”

She shook her head.

“Can you tell me with any certainty that he even attended the show he’d purchased a ticket for?”

“I assume that he did,” she said, drawing on the last of her cigarette and then stubbing it out on the arm of the chair.

“All trace of Judge Crater stops outside the Belasco Theater. Which means you are one of the last two people to see him alive. So I need to know everything—and I mean every thing—that happened on the night of August sixth.”

Ritzi eased her aching feet down from the dressing table and set them on the cool floor. “I’ve told you everything I know, Detective.”

They locked stares in a frozen challenge. Ritzi’s thoughts tumbled over one another but she didn’t voice any of them. Instead, she listened to the growing tremor of voices outside the dressing room. Rehearsal was over.

The door swung open and the showgirls flooded the dressing room. The sight of Ritzi wearing nothing but a thin dressing gown and seated in front of a young, handsome man instantly brought out the vixen in many of them. Jude was mobbed by a throng of half-dressed women who giggled and petted him as they walked by.

“Tough luck, girls,” Ritzi said, giving Jude a victorious smile. “This one’s married.”

They booed and hissed and ran brightly painted fingernails along his jaw.

Jude jumped out of the chair, nearly knocking it over. The interview was done. He was outnumbered.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” Ritzi asked.

“Not today.”

“Then, if you don’t mind, I have a show to get ready for.”

Jude tipped his fedora and pulled it lower over his face, trying to hide the sudden rush of color in his cheeks.


“Will you be in the audience tonight?”

“No.”

“Pity. We could have given you an eyeful.”

“No offense, Miss Ritz, but you already have.”

Ritzi remained in her chair until Jude ducked out of the dressing room. Then she stood and leaned against the counter, ignoring the curious—and, in some cases, jealous—glances of the others. She applied another layer of medicated powder to her blister and covered her heel with the bandage. Ritzi wasn’t sure what bothered her more: that Jude had come so close in his questioning or that he was married to the only person who knew she was pregnant with Crater’s child.


“I DON’T understand why you have to go back.”

“This.” Jude tossed an envelope onto the kitchen counter. “The district attorney wants this questionnaire hand-delivered to Maine. And I’ve got to supervise while Mrs. Crater answers. She’s not exactly cooperating with the investigation these days.”

Maria glared at the envelope. “Why can’t they send Leo?”

“Because it’s my case.”

“Right. The case Leo recommended you for?” Her voice rose until Jude stared at her in disbelief, his diminutive wife raised up on the balls of her feet, straining with anger.

He set his hands on her arms and gently pressed her back to the ground. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“I have to go. It’s important.”

“For who?”

“For the investigation. Something’s going on, and I’ve got to get to the bottom of it.” Jude pushed the crocheted afghan out of the way and tugged her down onto the couch. Lifted her into his lap. “I interviewed the last two people to see Judge Crater today. A showgirl and a theater executive.”

“Showgirl?” Maria forced herself to relax into Jude. She hid her face in his shoulder so he wouldn’t see her panic.

“Some girl named Sally Lou Ritz. Goes by Ritzi. Fake name if I’ve ever heard one.”

Maria wondered if he could feel her heart pounding against his chest. “And?”

“And she’s lying.”

“Why? What did she say?” Too eager. She could hear it in her voice.

“It’s what she didn’t say. I can’t explain it. But there’s something off. I just don’t know what it is.”

“What does she have to do with Mrs. Crater?”

“Apparently, fidelity wasn’t one of Judge Crater’s strong suits. And he had a thing for the theater. Wouldn’t surprise me at all if he’d messed around with Ritzi at some point. Or that she knows who he was seeing. If he had a mistress, I need to find her.” Jude pulled Maria tight against his chest. “You worked for the guy. Did you ever see anything?”

What hadn’t she seen? And overheard? And been privy to? “No.” She repented for the lie right there, even as she told another. “Mr. Crater is never around during the day. Mostly, I see his wife, and she’s very private.”

“If you remember anything, let me know. It’s all important.”

Jude shifted on the couch, preparing to stand, but she gripped him tighter. “Please stay.”

“It’s only for one day. You’ll be fine.”

Maria listened to the rise and fall of Jude’s breath as he held her for a while longer. After several minutes, he stood and tipped her onto her feet.

His voice was muffled against her hair as he said, “I’ll be back tomorrow night. I promise.”

Maria watched her husband slip out the door, and then she turned all three locks after him.


RITZI sat before the mirror in her blue satin robe and stared at her face beneath the lights. Another show done. Only a million more looming before her.

The dressing room was empty apart from her. Cigarette butts and gum wrappers littered the floor. A metallic hum came from the lightbulbs around the mirror. An argument in the hallway outside—most likely Shorty Petak and a stagehand. The smells of sweat and perfume.

Ritzi arched her back and stretched her feet out in front of her. Her thighs ached and her ankles were swollen. A knock at the door made her jump. She pinched her cheeks and adjusted her dressing gown before approaching the door. “Yes?”

“Shorty. Let me in.”

“No.”

“Open up. Owney sent me.”

Ritzi struggled to keep her voice steady. “Why?”

His voice lowered to a softer pitch, a warning. “This ain’t a conversation we need to have through the door.”

She unlocked the door and Shorty pushed in. He looked like a nervous animal, twitching, touching things, opening drawers. “Owney wants you at Club Abbey tonight.”

She stiffened. “I’m going home.”

“Ain’t optional, sweetheart. He pays the rent, he calls the shots.”

Ritzi tugged at her robe, pulling it tighter across her breasts. She resisted the urge to run a hand over her belly.

Shorty circled her, eyes roving, and she felt the heat of anger rise up the back of her neck. “So you enjoy taking orders? Doing what Owney tells you?”

He sniffed. “I’m my own man.”

“Owney’s the dog and you’re the tail. Everyone knows that.”

His dark eyes narrowed into wicked little slits. “I suppose that makes you the bitch? Get dressed.” He flung the door open.

The door shook on its hinges when he slammed it, and Ritzi sat before the mirror for several minutes, preparing herself for what was to come.


RITZI hadn’t been to Club Abbey since the night Crater disappeared, and as Shorty led her down the steps, she realized that she hadn’t missed it. Something about the frenetic energy inside made her anxious. He held open the door and followed her through.

The place was packed. In recent weeks, Owney had broadened his vision to include a full band and a singer. Smoke hung low in the air, and smooth jazz rhythms vibrated through the dance floor, up her feet and thighs, and into her rib cage. It lured her with a serpentine motion, and she leaned into the music. For one brief second, Ritzi forgot her troubles in the seductive embrace of the singer’s voice. Tall and waiflike and clearly not out of her teens, the black woman had a voice so full of emotion that Ritzi gaped.

She knew someone watched her as well. It was a feeling she’d grown accustomed to over the years. More often than not, it was harmless, some guy with more testosterone than courage eyeing her up from the other side of the room. The farther away they were, the more confident. Close that gap, though, and she could separate the men from the boys. Sometimes it was flattering. Usually, it was annoying. But tonight she had to choke the fear down and keep her back turned. Ritzi knew the feel of that dark stare. Owney Madden sat in his booth and watched her walk through the room. She slipped away from Shorty and headed toward the bar.

Stan greeted her with a shy smile as she eased onto a barstool. “The usual?” he asked.

“Not tonight. Just a glass of city juice.”

He poured her water and dropped in a handful of ice cubes.

Ritzi nodded toward the stage. “Who’s the canary? She’s amazing.”

“She goes by the name Billie Holiday. Rumor has it Owney found her in Harlem turning tricks for five bucks a pop.”

Ritzi sipped her water and took a closer look at the singer. “How old is she?”

Stan seemed a little sad when he answered. “Not old enough.”

“You’re a good egg, you know that, Stan?”


“Nonsense. I’m a scamp like everyone else in here.”

She reached across the bar and patted his cheek. “A regular cad.”

“Don’t you forget it.”

“And what of your employer? What’s his mood tonight?”

“Murderous.”

“Figures.” Ritzi winced and swallowed the last of her water.

She slid down the bar and looped her hand through the arm of a stranger. He was well dressed in a self-conscious sort of way, but he’d do. Ritzi’s smile invited him to dance, and he stumbled from the barstool and onto the dance floor. Her partner—Harvey was the name—tripped over his words when he found out what she did for a living. A fan of Broadway. Always wanted to meet a real live showgirl. Damn good luck she found him at the bar. He tapped out the words like a jackhammer. Harvey had an arm around her waist, and though he moved her around the floor, Ritzi was the one who led. Such a dead hoofer, the poor guy didn’t even know when he’d lost control. She maneuvered her way to the other side of the room, and he fumbled in her wake.

“You’re a great dancer,” he shouted above the band.

They were at the farthest point from Owney’s booth when she braved her first glance in that direction. He was hidden behind a swarm of people, and she breathed deep, letting the tension slip from her body. Her back and calves relaxed, and she settled into Harvey’s arms enough to respond to his attempted leading. He prattled on, obnoxious but harmless. Ritzi nodded and smiled occasionally, but mostly ignored him.

Right when she imagined herself safe, she felt the firm grip of a hand on her elbow.

“This one’s not available,” Shorty Petak said. He wrenched her away from Harvey and shifted his grip so that her arm was pinned against his side, faux gentleman. “Enough of that.”

“Hey, the lady was dancing with me.”

Ritzi warmed at the term lady. She usually heard it in a derogatory way. Before Shorty pulled her into the crowd, she laid a palm on Harvey’s arm, gentle. “Do yourself a favor and walk away, okay?”

He sensed both her warning and her fear and hesitated long enough for Ritzi and Shorty to fold into the dance floor, swept away by the crowd. Had she even hinted, poor Harvey would have come to her aid. And it would have been the last, worst decision he ever made.

“It’s time for business.”

“I was just having a little fun.”

“Don’t be a fool, Ritz. Stop avoiding him.”

Shorty’s arm was a vise, and she knew better than to fight him. Ritzi let him guide her toward Owney’s corner booth. If it weren’t for the black eye, Owney would look dapper. But he hid it well, hat tipped low over his face. Jacket off. Tan suspenders over a white shirt. Crisp. In control.

Ritzi sucked her stomach in and relaxed her shoulders. Shorty’s grip on her arm loosened. “He lost a poker game this afternoon. Didn’t take it kindly,” he said out of the side of his mouth as they navigated through a pack of middle-aged men on the edge of the dance floor. “Beat the poor bastard bloody, but not before he took a solid left hook. Don’t stare.”

She nodded, and they stepped up to the booth. Shorty released her into Owney’s care, and she slid into the seat across from him.

“You’ve been keeping your distance.” It wasn’t a question, merely a fact he stated with displeasure.

“You’ve got me busy with two shows.” She met his gaze, smiled. Damn Scouser.

That wasn’t good enough for Owney, though. Not intimidating enough. He walked around to her side of the booth and sat next to her, a barrier between her and everyone else. To those watching, it probably looked intimate. His thigh rested against hers, and she felt the heat through the satin of her dress. She was small. Vulnerable.

Without looking around the club, she could sense that the axis of attention had shifted toward them. Whom Owney spent his evening with was always of interest here, much to the chagrin of the politicians and mobsters who beggared themselves at the altar of Club Abbey. She could feel the glances of those in the room, their awareness.

“Drawing a lot of attention to yourself lately,” Owney said.

She faked another smile. “Isn’t that my job?”

Owney moved quick, like a viper. His hand was at her face, and she flinched, anticipating the bite of his slap. But he ran a finger along her chin, deceptively sensual. “You know what I mean.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“How, exactly, do you mean?”

“I was at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“What place?” His breath was hot on her ear. That hand moved from her jaw and slid down her neck, thumb caressing her pulse. “All that mess with Crater and Klein.”

“A detective paid you a visit today. What did you tell him?” His palm cupped her throat.

“Nothing he can use. That I had dinner with Crater and Klein that night. And that I haven’t seen Crater since.”

“You mention the club?”

“Of course not.”

He briefly considered this then changed the subject. “You didn’t thank me for the new gig yet.”

“I haven’t had two minutes to myself. It’s a lot to manage.”

“What’s stopping you now? Maybe you think I’m not generous?”

“No.” She swallowed. Softened her look from fear to gratitude. “You are. Very generous. Thank you.”

Owney laid an arm across the bench behind her, casual-like, and pinched the soft spot at the back of her arm. “You need to lose some weight, dollface.” He squeezed until her eyes glassed over in pain. “You’re getting fat.”