Front Page Affair (2 page)

Chapter Two

“Don't make a scene, Aimee. They're all watching us,” Mr. Cole said.

“What do I care about them?” she retorted, her pale complexion blotched with anger. “I hate it here. Let's go back to Manhattan.”

Mr. Cole held his wife by the wrist. “We're not going anywhere. Clean up your clothes, and let's pretend that none of this happened.” He dropped her arm.

Kitty stepped forward. Mrs. Cole's dress had been soiled by a greasy spill that ran down the front of her bodice. “I beg your pardon. I couldn't help overhearing—”

“And who are you to be listening in to our conversation?” Mr. Cole demanded.

“I'm Capability Weeks, from the Ladies' Page of the
New York Sentinel
.”

Husband and wife stared at her, aghast.

“I could help,” Kitty offered. “I'm good with stains.”

“You make them, or you clean them?” Mr. Cole said.

“Well, both, I suppose.” Kitty couldn't tell if he meant to be funny. In any case, his tone wasn't very nice.

“That's very kind of you, Miss Weeks.” Mrs. Cole smiled brightly. “I could use a hand.” She couldn't have been much older than Kitty, twenty-one or twenty-two at most.

“I have no time for this nonsense,” her husband muttered. “Do what you want, and come find me when you're done.” He strode back toward the crowd on the lawns.

“Don't mind Hunter.” Aimee Cole turned to Kitty. “His bark is worse than his bite. And he thinks he can get away with anything because the Coles go almost all the way back to the
Mayflower
… Shall we?”

Kitty followed her into the clubhouse.

“Have you heard of them?” Mrs. Cole opened the door to the powder room.

“The Coles? I'm afraid I haven't.”

“Don't worry.” Aimee Cole giggled. “Before I married Hunter, neither had I. My family goes back a whole two generations. All the way to Brooklyn!” She stared at her reflection in a gilt-framed mirror above a porcelain sink and said wistfully, “You wouldn't believe that I was rather pretty once.”

Kitty felt sorry for the young woman. “Let's clean up this mess.”

“You don't look like a reporter.” Aimee Cole turned around.

Kitty smiled and asked the attendant for talcum powder and a towel.

“You seem pretty competent for someone your age.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.” In addition to a basic education, Kitty's boarding-school teachers, the Misses Dancey, had taught their charges how to speak, read, and write in French, German, and Italian; memorize poetry; sketch from life; play an instrument; and run a household. They hadn't taught the girls politics, algebra, or any of the sciences.

Mrs. Cole wiped the greasy residue from her dress, and Kitty dusted powder on the stain.

“That Lizzie Chilton bumped my arm and made me spill my canapé.” Mrs. Cole frowned, then added, “Don't put that into your report.”

“I won't be writing about any of this.” Kitty waited for the powder to soak up the grease and then brushed off the remains. “Better?”

Mrs. Cole stood back and looked in the mirror. “Much better, thanks.”

“I'm so clumsy, I rarely eat at parties,” Kitty confessed to her.

“If I didn't eat at these things, I wouldn't have anything to do.” Mrs. Cole laughed. She seemed in a more cheerful mood.

Kitty checked the time on her watch. It was almost four o'clock. “I think we should get back.”

There was no sign of Mr. Cole when they came out on the terrace.

“Where could he be?” Mrs. Cole looked around. She said she would wait for her husband at the children's tables and thanked Kitty again for her help. “It means a lot to me.”

“It was no trouble at all.” Kitty returned to her position by the pillar.

From a stage on the lawns, Mrs. Basshor rang a bell. The crowd went quiet.

“Your attention please.” The hostess addressed her guests. “Please join me in welcoming our visitors who've traveled here all the way from Yokohama to delight us with the daylight fireworks that are the specialty of Japan!”

Mrs. Basshor brought her hands together, and everyone joined her in an enthusiastic round of applause. Two kimonoed men in wooden sandals emerged from behind the trees and took a quick bow in military unison. They were joined by a third with a bandana wrapped around his head, who slowly and deliberately beat a round brass gong.

The sound faded into silence.

All Mrs. Basshor's guests waited under the blazing summer sun. A toddler in a sailor suit cried out and was hushed by his nursemaid. The air was still, and the waiters seemed frozen, trays suspended in midair. Groundskeepers looked on from behind the bushes, and even the stable lads had come up to watch the proceedings from a safe distance. When nothing happened, some of the ladies exchanged glances, smiling to hide their embarrassment.

Then a bomb blast went off, startling everyone, and jets of pink and blue smoke shot into the heavens. A collective gasp ran through the crowd as tiny packages of paper and wire unfurled below the clouds, and orange goldfish, golden carp, and green serpents floated downward. Another explosion rang out, and this time dwarfish goblins and gorgeous butterflies came to life. Bursts of smoke in different hues filled the atmosphere. The show went on and on, like a rainbow continuously changing its colors, shape, and form. One explosion followed another, and the patterns bloomed and dissipated as if by magic. Finally, the pièce de résistance: an ephemeral vision of red, white, and blue stripes pierced by a quick succession of exploding stars.

A shower of tiny tissue-paper figures rained on the guests. The children shrieked and scrambled to catch silhouettes of turkeys, George Washington, trumpets, and flags. Many of the adults couldn't resist either and held out their hands for a souvenir.

Kitty had never seen anything quite like it. The display ended almost an hour after it had begun, and she decided that she ought to head back home. The drive to Manhattan might take some time, and Miss Busby had told her she could leave once the fireworks were done.

She went to look for Mrs. Basshor but spotted Hotchkiss instead. The secretary stood at the edge of the lawns, his hands behind his back, surveying the delighted crowd with pride.

Kitty walked over and held out her hand. “Congratulations, Mr. Hotchkiss.”

“Thank you, Miss Weeks. Are you leaving us already?”

“I think I have the best part for my story.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Those daylight fireworks are quite a sight.”

“Someone seems to need to speak to you,” she said, looking over his shoulder at the groundskeeper running toward him.

“Mr. Hotchkiss!” the groundskeeper panted, out of breath, holding his cap in his hands.

Hotchkiss turned. “What's the matter, man? Don't you know better than to interrupt in the middle of a conversation?”

“I'm sorry, sir”—the fellow shot a glance at Kitty—“but it's one of the guests.”

“Yes?”

“The lads found him in the stables.”

“Go on.” Hotchkiss sounded impatient.

The groundskeeper seemed to be struggling to find the right words. Then he came out and said it: “He's dead, sir. He's been shot.”

Chapter Three

Kitty didn't ask for permission to follow. She picked up her skirts and hurried after the men, thankful not to be wearing a gown or Louis heels that would sink into the soft grass.

Her thoughts were jumbled.
Someone murdered? In the stables? Who could it be? How did it happen?

A crowd of lads had gathered by the entrance to the attractive brick building that Kitty had admired just a few hours before. Sunlight bathed the copper-domed monitors atop the tiled roof, and Kitty caught her breath. It didn't seem possible that there could be a dead body inside.

The men parted to make way for the secretary and his escort.

“I wouldn't go in there, if I were you, miss,” a stable hand said, but Kitty didn't listen. One moment, she was out in the bright sunshine, surrounded by voices; the next, she was enveloped in darkness and silence broken only by the clatter of hooves and the occasional whinnying of a horse.

It took Kitty's eyes a second to adjust. Then she caught sight of a figure, stretched out like a beached whale along the wooden aisle between two rows of stalls. Her reluctant gaze traveled from the soles of polished shoes, up a pair of sharply creased black trousers, over the mound of a belly, to a slack jaw and glassy stare. A single bullet hole pierced the forehead.

Kitty felt her legs give way. She had never been to a funeral, let alone seen a corpse. She held on to the door of a stall and forced herself to look again.

The body was that of Hunter Cole, someone to whom she had spoken not more than an hour before.

She turned to Hotchkiss. The secretary's face was ashen.

So forceful in life, Mr. Cole was nothing now. “I should go.” Kitty tottered from the barn. She sat on a nearby bench, lowered her head in her arms, and waited for the dizziness to pass.

Around her, the stable hands chattered. The man must have been killed while they were out watching the fireworks. They had been gone for forty minutes. Not one of them had stayed back. No one saw any stranger come or go. They had discovered the body only when they returned to check on the horses.

Kitty looked up to see one of the club's employees arrive on the scene and announce that the police had been called and that everyone must remain on the premises and nothing should be touched.

Hotchkiss said something to him about breaking the news to Mrs. Basshor.

Kitty made her way back to the party in a daze. She couldn't, and didn't want to, leave now.

The news had evidently filtered through the guests. They huddled together, whispering in uneasy clusters, as children were packed off with their nursemaids and chauffeurs. The band had fallen silent.

“How could this happen?” someone said.

“Where's the killer now?”

“I hope they don't think one of us is involved.”

“Must we stay to talk to the police?” A lady's sharp voice signaled her disdain for lawmen.

“If horses could speak, then everything would be resolved,” another remarked.

Kitty looked for Aimee Cole and found her sitting at one of the children's tables beside the pantalooned playwright, Mrs. Clements.

“Now, now, my dear,” Poppy Clements said, patting the widow's shoulders gently. “Now, now.” She snapped her fingers at a waiter, who jumped to attention, and ordered him to bring a cup of tea with rum.

Aimee Cole stared blankly into space. She appeared to be in shock.

“What in damnation was Hunter doing at the stables?” a man beside Kitty said.

Another replied, “Just like him to be lurking off.”

A uniformed policeman approached Mrs. Cole a short while later. “I'm sorry to disturb you at a time like this, madam, but I'm afraid that I will have to ask you some questions.” He flipped open his notepad.

Aimee Cole responded dully to his questions. “I don't know why my husband went to the stables.”

“Did he have any enemies, Mrs. Cole? Anyone who might want to do him harm?”

“No one that I know of.”

Kitty was amazed by the speed of it—a flesh-and-blood person had just been killed, and now it was straight down to the facts.

“When did you see him last?” the policeman inquired.

“Shortly before the fireworks began.” She noticed Kitty and pointed. “This young lady was with me at the time.”

“Wait for me, miss,” the policeman said to Kitty just as one of his colleagues handed him a small bundle wrapped in a handkerchief. He placed the bundle on the table and then opened it.

Aimee Cole's hand flew to her mouth. “It's Hunter's,” she said, staring at a small gray revolver. “Where did you find it?”

“On the floor of the stables, madam. Was Mr. Cole in the habit of carrying guns to garden parties?”

“No, he wasn't. And I begged him not to bring it here, but he wouldn't listen. He told me he had to be prepared.” Her voice cracked. “He said—because of the Morgan shooting—that there were too many crazies running about.”

The waiter brought over a cup of tea.

“Drink this,” Mrs. Clements ordered.

Aimee Cole took a sip. “Did Hunter fire it?” Her eyes never left the pistol. “Was he able to defend himself?”

The policeman lowered his gaze. “We're not certain, but we believe that this is the weapon that killed him, madam.”

Horror flooded the widow's face.

“Enough!” Mrs. Clements put an end to the conversation. “The poor girl has had plenty of suffering for one day.” She held her hand out to Mrs. Cole. “Clement and I will drive you home. Officer, you can speak to her tomorrow.”

The policeman raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. “A moment of your time, miss.” He beckoned to Kitty after Mrs. Clements led Mrs. Cole away. “Have a seat.” He nodded toward the chairs that the women had vacated and took down Kitty's name and occupation. “So, are you and Mrs. Cole friends?”

“We just met.” Kitty explained how she'd bumped into the Coles on the terrace and helped Aimee Cole with the stain on her gown.

“And that was when exactly?”

“About a quarter to four.”

“You're certain?”

“I didn't want to miss the fireworks so I checked my watch.”

“And that's the last you saw of Mr. Cole?”

“Yes.”

“There was no sign of him after you returned from the ladies' room?”

“No.”

“Anything else you can tell us?”

“I don't believe so.”

“Well, if anything comes to mind, please give us a call.” He handed her a card.

Kitty rose from her seat as Hotchkiss hurried by, clipboard under his arm.

“Can I be of any use?” she asked.

“The police want names of all the guests. It's too ridiculous.” He brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. “They were here watching the fireworks. What can they possibly have to say about what happened?”

It occurred to Kitty that she should put a call in to the
Sentinel
. There ought to be a telephone in the clubhouse. When she arrived at the reception area, a long line had formed outside a single booth. Kitty waited her turn, filled her name in the ledger, and under “Guest of” wrote “Mrs. Basshor.”

She made her call as quick as possible—long distance rates could be astronomical—and since it was nearly seven o'clock and Miss Busby wasn't in, she told the operator at the paper to let the City Desk know what had happened.

She returned to the lawns, where the evening had taken on the character of a wake. Waiters brought out trays laden with food, and everyone ate and drank while the police made their rounds. By the end of it, Kitty noticed plates of pastries and meat being ferried out to the chauffeurs and staff. It was past nine o'clock when the guests were finally allowed to depart.

On the drive home, Kitty asked her chauffeur, Rao, whether he had seen or heard anything strange.

“No, Miss Kitty,” he replied. “We were all watching the fireworks. We only found out what happened afterward.”

As the car raced through the darkness, it occurred to Kitty that, save for his wife, no one seemed to have mourned Hunter Cole. Sure, she had heard a few whispered murmurs of sympathy here and there, but those had been what any stranger might have said upon hearing about the murder. For the most part, there seemed to have been a sense among the guests that Mr. Cole's fate was of his own making. It was almost as though someone who had wandered off to the deserted stables in the midst of the party was thumbing his nose at his hostess, and deserved whatever happened to him.

Since her own impression of the man hadn't exactly been favorable, Kitty could hardly find fault with the others who had known him longer and evidently never cared much for Mr. Cole while he'd been alive.

Still, she thought, pulling her jacket tightly around her. They should have pretended to be sorry, if not out of common decency, then at least for the sake of his wife.