The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress

Chapter Thirty-Six





CLUB ABBEY, THURSDAY, AUGUST 6, 1931



STELLA stood across the street from Club Abbey on the first anniversary of Joe’s disappearance. She’d dressed for the occasion in black satin, pearls, and two-inch heels—enough to be dressy but not celebratory—and carried a simple black clutch. Her hands were bare except for her wedding ring. It was almost ten o’clock. The girls of the evening sauntered from the shadows and into the bars of New York City near midnight, but the respectable women did their drinking before then. Especially when swilling for two.

She made her way down the steps and through the double doors without hesitation. The band played a subdued tune, and half the tables were occupied, despite the early hour. Stella found a seat at the bar and made eye contact with Stan.

Stella, he mouthed, and she nodded, oddly pleased at being remembered. He threw the bar towel over his shoulder and made his way toward her.

“What are you doing here?” He flashed his boyish grin.

It was an easy question. Nothing invasive. But when Stella went to answer it, she couldn’t find the right sequence of words. She swallowed her first attempt. She shrugged and said, “A year ago. Today.”


Stan needed no further explanation. “You’ll be drinking, then?”

“Who’s to say I haven’t started already?”

He shook his head. “You’re not the type. I’d wager you’ve saved up a year’s worth of liquor for tonight.”

“I hate being predictable.”

“I believe they call that classy.”

“Is that the term now? I thought it was stodgy.” Of all the people in the world, an underage bartender in a seedy Greenwich Village speakeasy seemed to be the only person who could put her at ease.

“What’ll you have tonight?”

“Same as last time. Whiskey on the rocks. But make it two.”

“Where do you want to drink?” He spread his arm out across the bar.

“I’ll clear any table in the place.”

“Don’t bother. Here is fine.”

“No way. You came to drown your sorrows, and you’ll do it in style.” He pointed to Owney’s booth in the corner. “Over there?”

“Looks like it’s taken.”

“Not for long.” Stan stuck his thumb and middle finger beneath his tongue and let out a sharp, high whistle. A few seconds later, Shorty Petak stepped behind the bar.

“Who’s that in Owney’s booth?” Stan asked.

“Some prick.”

“Does the prick have a name?”

“Harris, I think.”

“Well, you tell Harris to take his sorry ass to another booth.”

“Why?”

“This lady here needs a seat.”

“Looks like she’s sitting. And that guy”—he pointed at Harris, who was busy whispering in a young woman’s ear—“is a paying customer.”

Stella suspected that the woman, not the alcohol itself, was the commodity Shorty referenced.

“This here is Stella Crater.” Stan grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “I believe you are familiar with her departed husband?”

Shorty’s eyes filled with knowledge. He nodded.

“A little respect for the dead, then.”

“Shorty Petak.” He stuck out his hand. “I knew your husband. Good customer.”

Stella tried to smile, but her mouth drew tight at the corners. “You saw him often?”

He backpedaled. “A few times.”

“Often enough to think highly of him as a customer? Like Harris, perhaps?”

Shorty played with the brim of his bowler hat. “Your husband was a good man.”

“So they say.” Stella hadn’t been in the place five minutes and had already grown weary. “Stan, can I get my drinks? Then I’ll be out of your way, and you gentlemen can continue with your business.”

Abashed, he turned to Shorty. “You clear that table for Stella. Send Harris and his … lady friend … to me.”

Stella watched Shorty approach the booth. He said nothing to the middle-aged man, merely cocked his head back toward the bar, and Harris slipped out, tugging on the woman’s arm.

“Don’t you think it’s a bad idea? Me sitting in Owney’s booth?”

“He won’t be in tonight. You’ve earned the spot, I think.” Stan picked up the glasses. “Follow me.”

They skirted the edge of the dance floor, and she followed close behind, eyes away from the growing crowd. She could feel them watching. Recognizing. The bartender leaving his station and escorting a woman through the room was a flare for attention, and the crowd responded. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed.

Stan set his palm on her elbow as he guided her onto the riser that held Owney’s booth. “Mrs. Crater,” he said. “Your drinks.”

Those nearest her booth began to whisper.

“Thank you.” Her words came out stiffer than she intended. Colder.

Stan stepped away with a wink. Somehow the little charade had become a spectacle. The band played on, oblivious, but half the room stared at her. Stella met as many glances as she dared, unafraid. She would make certain they remembered this.

On the other side of the room, at a small round table, sat Detective Simon. She wasn’t sure if he’d been there when she came in or if he was a new arrival, but he seemed intent on her every movement. Stella matched him blink for blink, then turned her attention to the two glasses on the table. She took a deep breath and lifted the first glass. Sniffed the pungent whiskey. Took a long, slow sip and let it roll around her tongue before she swallowed.

“Good luck, Joe.” Stella said it loudly. Clear. Then she lifted the glass a little higher so that the amber liquid was eye level. She could almost imagine him, amused, on the other side of the booth. That arrogant, lopsided grin on his face. “Wherever you are.”

She drank the rest of the glass in three slow, measured gulps. Stella felt the whiskey rush through her system. She blinked hard at the ice cubes in the bottom of her glass. Her usually thin frame had shrunk considerably over the last year, and she could feel the tingle in her veins.

Stella pushed the other glass to the middle of the table and stood, steadying herself with one hand as the edges of her vision blurred. Stan watched her from the bar. He wiped up a spill and grinned. She gave him the hint of a smile and then wove her way across the dance floor with uncertain footsteps, toward the doors of Club Abbey.

When she reached it, Detective Simon stepped in front of her.

“Stella.” He pulled the doors open. “May I have a word with you?”

She looked to the street above. Eighteen steps. It may as well have been eighteen stories for the way her head swam. “If you hail me a cab.”

Jude followed her up the narrow concrete stairwell. “What are you doing here?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Putting on a show.”

Stella flicked a stray curl out of her eyes. “I am honoring the memory of my husband.”

“Interesting choice of venue.”

“Joe was fond of the place.”

“Was he fond of the owner?”

Stella looked over Jude’s shoulder as two city cabs drove by. She watched them idle down the street and turn the corner. “Is this an interrogation?”

“As I recall, you don’t care for those. Just trying to get at the truth while I can.”

“You think I’m going somewhere?”

“You’ve been known to wander away for long stretches of time.”

Stella unclasped her purse and lifted out the now-standard pack of unfiltered Camels. She held the cigarette out to Jude, and he fished around in his pocket for his lighter. “What does it matter to you? I hear you resigned from the case.”

“It’ll always be my case. Officially or not.”

Stella Crater smiled at the young detective. She considered laying her secrets into the silence between them like playing cards. She’d turn them over, one by one, and expose the full house she’d carried all this time. It would be a her, but only momentarily. Instead of telling Jude the truth, she raised the cigarette to her lips and let the nicotine flood her lungs. She held it. Savored it. And decided that she would keep what she knew to herself. Stella could never let anyone know that she helped Joe buy his seat on the New York Supreme Court. Or that she was partly responsible for his death. That wasn’t the sort of guilt she could shake off with a simple confession.

“Are you going to hail that cab, Detective? Or are we going to stand around all night and stare at each other?”

Jude slipped the lighter back in his pants pocket. He looked as though there were many things he’d like to tell her. But he too kept his silence. Jude stepped into the street and waved down the first cab he saw. When it eased to the curb, he opened the back door for her.


“Will I see you back here next year?” Stella asked.

“Is there any reason why you should?”

“Feels as though I started a tradition tonight.” Even as she said the words, Stella knew she’d found her penance.

“Go on and torture yourself. I don’t care to be a witness.”

She gave him a wry smile and slipped into the cab. “I think you get a lot of satisfaction out of watching me suffer.”

“Good night, Stella.” He shut the door.

“Next year.” He shook his head as the cab rolled into traffic, but Stella felt certain he’d be back. If not next year, then the one after that. She would not be alone in this misery. Even if it meant baiting him to keep her company.

FIFTH AVENUE, MONDAY, APRIL 7, 1930

Joe popped the cork on a bottle of champagne, and a cheer went up around the apartment. Stella had assumed that he would hire a band and send out embossed invitations, that he would make a big deal out of his appointment to the court. But Joe said there were people he needed to thank quietly and that a private cocktail party was more appropriate.

“To my friends.” Joe raised a crystal goblet. “Whom I owe.”

“And don’t you forget it!” Senator Wagner shouted.

Laughter filled the room, and Stella watched her husband bask in the glow of success.

The only thing that upstaged the hors d’oeuvres and flower arrangements was the women. Wives mostly, but also the occasional showgirl or indiscreet mistress. As Stella glanced around the room, she couldn’t help doing a quick comparison. She cleaned up well—tonight in particular, having spent the afternoon at the salon—and there were only two women in the room who made her feel uneasy. The first was to be expected: Sally Lou Ritz, the voluptuous showgirl seated next to William Klein. Ritzi’s hazel eyes and seductive pout were envy inducing. It felt a bit odd to have her sitting a few feet away, quiet and demure and hardly the shimmering woman seen onstage. Her presence was unnerving. It was the closest Joe had come to admitting the affair, and the fact that he included her tonight was the height of hubris.

The other woman who stirred Stella’s jealousy was the maid. She’d always considered Maria pretty. But tonight she realized that Maria, wearing the high heels and black cocktail dress that Stella had given her, was a great deal more than pretty. She was stunning. Glances followed Maria around the room as she served appetizers and champagne. Eyes appraised her curves, her full lips, and her warm skin—Joe’s included. He seemed distracted every time Maria was near him. This unsettled Stella in ways she couldn’t articulate—especially after three glasses of champagne.

Joe stood and draped his arm over Stella’s shoulder. She stiffened beneath his touch, but he flashed the same confident smile he had the day they met. He planted a kiss on her forehead for the benefit of their guests.

“To the judge!” The chorus rose around the room. A few men whooped. The ladies clapped. And Stella grew angrier by the moment.

“I owe each of you in a different way,” Joe said, nodding first at one man and then at another. “Robert, I thank you for hiring me as your law secretary ten years ago.”

“Worst mistake I ever made. Lazy bum. Look where it got you.”

More laughter.

“Indeed, it got me a seat on the New York State Supreme Court. And for that appointment, I thank you, Governor.”

Governor Roosevelt had been silent most of the evening, listening to the chatter, sitting a few seats away from Joe. He’d come alone. Trouble with the wife again, most likely. At least he hadn’t shown up with his mistress this time. No one could dampen a dinner party like the pious Lucy Mercer. “Had to fill the hole, my boy,” he said, “and you looked like a decent plug.”

Joe looked at Martin Healy and Owney Madden. They were seated together near the fireplace. “Marty, Owney, I’m grateful for your investment in my career. I wouldn’t be here apart from you.”

“To Joe!” shouted Martin after a swig of champagne, and the cheer was repeated around the room.

Owney met Joe’s glance and gave him a single quick nod.

Once Joe made his public acknowledgments, their guests began to collect jackets and purses. Stella couldn’t remember the names of half the people she walked to the door. Fifteen minutes later, the apartment was almost empty. Joe made his way toward the office with William Klein, Owney Madden, and Martin Healy. Stella was about to follow when Ritzi set a hand on her elbow. She stopped short, glanced at her hand and then at her face. Back and forth.

Ritzi didn’t let go. “You don’t want to go in there.”

“Excuse me?” Stella looked around the room for support, but there was only Maria, and she was busy gathering champagne glasses and ashtrays. “This is my home.”

Ritzi gave her arm an amiable tug. “But it’s their party.”

“I—”

“Trust me.” Her smile was genuine, and Stella struggled to dislike her. “They don’t let the women in on business.”

Stella could see the back of Joe’s head through a crack in the door. He’d taken off his dinner jacket and draped it over a chair. His black suspenders were stripes against his shirt. Cigar ends glowed like taillights in the dim room. The others, still clad in suit coats, were shadows against the mahogany bookshelves. Someone pushed the door shut.

“Business?”

Ritzi laughed. It was a charming sound, and Stella realized how much the young woman must have banked on it, among other things, to work her way up the social ladder.

“With those boys, everything is business,” Ritzi said.

The heat rose in Stella’s cheeks. She wanted to hurl accusations at Ritzi, to punish her. But she picked at the truth instead. “So you’re with William Klein?”

Ritzi looked at the office door with an expression that Stella couldn’t decipher. “I’m his date tonight, but I’m not with him.” She lowered her voice and walked back toward the living room. “Truth be told, Billy is an ass.”

Stella followed. “Then why come with him?”

“He works for the most powerful theater association in the city. Girls like me have to get a leg up wherever we can.”

“Sounds like a sorry life.”

“You have no idea.” Ritzi pulled a cigarette holder out of her purse.

“Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

Stella settled into a chair next to Ritzi as the office door popped open. Joe caught her eye and nodded toward the bedroom.

Ritzi snorted.

“Be right back,” Stella said, and followed Joe to the bedroom. She gave him a frozen glare when he shut the door behind them.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“That girl. Ritzi. She’s not exactly the kind of company you normally keep.”

“You don’t seem to mind keeping her company.” She stuck a finger in his face. “Or bringing her into our home.”

Joe squared his shoulders. Stiffened his mouth. “What have you two been talking about?”

“I didn’t tell her I know, if that’s what you’re worried about. What good would it do? Humiliating the girl like that?” Stella knew Joe well enough not to hold Ritzi at fault for the affair. This was his doing.

The worried grimace on Joe’s face smoothed out. He leaned against the door and grinned. “I’d call this a success,” he said.


“If your goal was to end up in prison, sure.”

“That won’t happen.”

“Twenty thousand dollars, Joe. It’s our life savings. You drained every bit of it. What happens to me when this comes back to incriminate you? When we lose everything?”

“I’ll make ten times that on the court. The salary is great. So are the incentives.”

“Bribes, you mean.”

“That’s what it means to play at this level. It’s a calculated risk.”

“It’s foolish. And criminal. And—”

Joe clapped a hand over her mouth. “We’ve been over this. It’s done. If you don’t like it, you can leave. Then you’ll be a twice-divorced, penniless ex-socialite. See how you enjoy life then. Living in Queens. Working retail. That what you want?”

Stella knocked his hand away and took a deep breath. “I know how to keep up appearances. You taught me that.”

Satisfied with her cooperation, Joe opened the door and started out of the room. He stopped to stare at Maria. In fact, bent over the coffee table, wiping up a puddle of Cuvée Brut from the dark wood finish.

“Who knew?” Joe said, eyes traveling down the dress that used to belong to his wife.

Stella cupped Joe’s cheek in her palm and turned his face toward hers. “They are waiting for you in the office.”

Joe shrugged away from her touch and returned to the meeting while she stood, hands balled into angry fists. Maria’s face was flushed red; clearly she was not as oblivious to the attention as she’d appeared. Ritzi shifted uncomfortably at one of the tables overlooking the church garden, smoking her cigarette in silence as they waited for Joe to finish his business.

Ritzi and Maria jumped when Stella’s seething voice broke the silence. Her eyes bored a hole into the office door. “I wish he were dead.”

“So do I,” the others answered in unison, their voices little more than a whisper. They startled. Looked at one another.

“Why do we let him get away with it?” Stella asked, giving each of them a pointed look.

“It’s just the way things are,” Ritzi answered.

There was fire in Stella’s eyes. “It doesn’t have to be.”

Maria could not hide the fear in her words. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve heard Joe talk about your husband. I know what he’s threatened you with. He wasn’t bluffing.”

Maria dropped to the couch.

Stella turned to Ritzi. “Joe is a lousy lover. And he’s using you. How long are you willing to fake it for him?”

“You know?” Horror flashed across her face.

“Do you really want to know the conversations he has with his friends about you? The things I’ve overheard?”

“No.” Ritzi gulped. “I don’t.”

“We could end this misery,” Stella said. “We could do it together.”

The air stilled as the three women regarded one another, drew closer.

“It’s wrong.” Maria rubbed her neck, searching for her rosary. She glanced between them, conflicted. Guilty.

Ritzi smiled, calculating. “We would never get away with it.”

“Perhaps,” Stella said, “the reason we would get away with it is because no one expects women to do such a thing.”

While Joseph Crater plotted his political takeover with a handful of the most corrupt men in New York City, the three women in his life began to whisper fifteen feet away.