The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress

Chapter Thirty-Two





SURROGATE’S COURT, WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 4, 1931



STELLA followed Simon Rifkind into the Surrogate’s Court. Their meeting was on the first floor, down a long hallway off the main atrium. Rifkind led her not into a courtroom, as she’d expected, but into a small conference room off the main corridor.

“Thank you for doing this,” she whispered as he pulled out a dark wooden chair. She settled into the green velvet seat and scooted closer to the table.

“It’s the least I could do,” he said.

“I wish I could pay you.”

“There’s no need. Joe was a friend. I’m just sorry it’s come to this.”

The room was formal but not intimidating. A long table and no windows. Wood paneling. Burgundy carpet. Two bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes of archaic legal texts. An oversize portrait of John Adams, attorney and founding father. The air tasted stale, and she shifted away from the heavy musk of Rifkind’s cologne. She looked at her watch. “How long will this take?”

“Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes. The letters of administration will only give you access to the money in your bank accounts. Joe’s life insurance policies will have to wait.” His voice settled into a legal monotone, but he did give her one apologetic glance. “To cash those in, his body would need to be found. Otherwise, he will have to remain missing for seven years before he can be declared legally dead.”

She hadn’t accounted for that. “So long? Isn’t that what a life insurance policy is for?”

“It’s the law, I’m afraid. In theory, the wait stops insurance fraud and other criminal activity. But it’s hell on widows, if you ask me.”

“I’ve grown accustomed to hell.”

Rifkind set his briefcase on the oblong table and began sorting his notes. As they waited, an attorney entered and heaved a stenograph machine onto the table across from Stella.

“Ralph Gutchen,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m the law assistant to Surrogate James A. Foley. I will conduct the proceedings.”

Ralph looked weary and restless, as though he were used to phone calls in the middle of the night and depositions that lasted days. He would have been a handsome man apart from the dark, puffy eyes and the limp set of his mouth.

Stella watched as he slid paper into the stenograph machine and tested the ink ribbon with a few random strokes.

“Are you ready to begin?” Ralph formally asked.

“We are,” Simon Rifkind answered.

Ralph took a deep breath, his hands hovering above the keys. “What is your purpose here today, Mrs. Crater?”

“To obtain temporary letters of administration,” she said, “so I can execute my husband’s estate.”

“Anything else?”

Stella looked at her hands. Cleared her throat. She tried to speak but could not. After a strained silence, she reached into her purse and chose a cigarette from the pack of Camels. She lit it with a trembling hand.

“Please excuse my client. I’m sure you can imagine how difficult this is for her.” Simon Rifkind shot her an uncertain glance and reached across the table for an ashtray. He slid it in front of Stella. “In addition to the letters of administration, Mrs. Crater would like to file a death certificate for her husband.”

Ralph lifted his head from the notes beside him. “You realize the complications with that request?”

“We do. But it is my client’s wish that legal proceedings toward that end begin immediately.”

“Very well, then,” Ralph said. “We will attend to the letters first. Can you list, in detail, the assets Mrs. Crater is requesting?”

Simon Rifkind slid two pieces of paper across the table. He read from one of them: “ ‘Twelve thousand dollars on deposit in the Empire Trust Company; a balance of fifteen hundred dollars in Judge Crater’s brokerage firm; the lease on their cooperative apartment; six thousand dollars in cash recently found in their apartment; and assorted fees and commissions owed to Mr. Crater, a list of which he left in his own handwriting, along with the will. And, of course, the life insurance policies, which have premiums due.’ ”

Ralph took the papers, glanced them over, and handed the second to Stella. “Mrs. Crater, are you agreeable to the verbiage in this affidavit?”

She took it from him and read:

Petitioner knows of no reason why her husband should have left her or abandoned his career. Petitioner does not believe he would have done so if he were of normal mind, nor believe that he would remain away, if still alive, save by reason of mental infirmity or constraint. Petitioner concludes that he may be dead, or has become a lunatic or has been secreted, confined, or otherwise unlawfully made away with.

Stella wrapped her lips around the cigarette and inhaled until her body went cool. She closed her eyes, relishing the control it gave her. Joe was dead. That was true enough. The details in that affidavit were wrong, but irrelevant. “I am,” she said.


“The court grants Mrs. Crater the letters of administration. You are free to deal with your husband’s affairs as you see fit. However, before attending to the request for a death certificate, I must ask you a few questions. Is that agreeable?”

“Of course.”

Ralph looked at his notes and then at Stella. He typed without a glance at the stenograph machine. “Since the third of August last year, have you had any contact—physical, verbal, or written—with your husband?”

“No. I have not.”

“Have any monies from his accounts or debtors been delivered to you, either directly or indirectly?”

Stella felt Simon stiffen beside her. The checks he’d deposited on her behalf had long since stopped coming. She tapped her cigarette on the ashtray and brought it to her mouth. Breathed in. Her answer was firm and convincing. “No.”

“As a matter of procedure, I am required to ask if there is any reason you would not want your husband found? Fiduciary? Relational? Legal?”

The question caught her off guard, and Stella felt short of breath. There were plenty of reasons. “That’s a rather absurd question, don’t you think, Mr. Gutchen?”

He ducked his head.

“My life was ruined when Joe disappeared. I can think of no reason why I would have ever brought that on myself. And I am appalled at the suggestion that I might.”

“No one is suggesting anything, Mrs. Crater. This is simply a legal matter that we must get through.”

“Then, by all means, let’s get through it.”

Ralph paused. He flexed his hands. “Have you exhausted every effort to try and find Mr. Crater?”

“Yes.”

He struck the keys a few more times. They waited for him to continue, but he yanked the paper from the stenograph machine and blew on the wet ink. “That will be all, Mrs. Crater. I will file your request for a death certificate this afternoon. I wish you luck but do not expect you to have any.”