Front Page Affair (7 page)

“I don't know what to say. I'm overwhelmed. And honored.”

“As you should be.”

Kitty panicked. “And I'm not very American. I wasn't raised here.”

“Really?” Miss Busby paused, but just for a moment. “Well, no one can tell.”

“Do you think I'm up to it, Miss Busby?”

“Well, you better be up to it, Miss Weeks, because I'm not about to refuse Miss Morgan, and I hardly qualify as a girl myself.”

“Yes, I see.”

“Take a deep breath, Miss Weeks.”

Kitty did as she was told.

“There's just one rub.”

“Yes, Miss Busby?”

“Miss Morgan maintains a busy schedule. The only time she has available to speak to you is Monday morning.”

“This Monday?” The words came out in a squeak.

“That is correct.”

“But that's four days away.”

“I am aware, so you will not come in to work tomorrow. As soon as we're finished, you are to go home and start preparing. Don't think of doing anything else. You must study the book from cover to cover and formulate a list of questions. I'll do the same, and we will discuss it first thing on Monday morning. The interview is scheduled for ten thirty, and I'll expect you here at eight o'clock sharp. That should give us enough time. Or if you prefer, I can come in on Sunday to help you.”

Kitty flipped through the book. It was short, just about sixty-five pages. She could read it in an afternoon. “That won't be necessary, Miss Busby. I can manage.”

“Music to my ears. And you never know—you might find some advice in it that could be of value to you personally. Lord knows, if I were your age, I'd jump at the opportunity.” She twirled a strand of gray hair around her finger. “Sadly,
my
best years are almost over.”

“I hope I can be worthy of your confidence, Miss Busby.”

The editor's eyes moistened. She blinked. “Go on. You better finish up.”

Kitty returned to the hen coop in a daze, the volume clutched to her chest.
Responsibility… Education… Future.
These were momentous topics. And she would have the chance to discuss them with no less a personage than Miss Anne Morgan.

“There's someone here to see you.” Jeannie Williams looked up from her work when Kitty came in. She stared at the book in Kitty's hands. “Is that
The American Girl
? Is it for the Ladies' Page?”

Kitty nodded. “I'll be doing the interview.” The words didn't seem real.

“Oh my!” Jeannie's hand flew to her mouth. “I admire Miss Morgan so much. She's such a fine lady.”

Kitty put down the book. “Did you say that someone wants to see me?”

“Silly me.” Jeannie glanced at a chit beside her typewriter. “A Mr. Lucian Hotchkiss. He said to tell you it's urgent.”

Chapter Ten

I
t never rains but it pours
. Kitty ran down the stairs. She had been stuck behind a desk and bored for months, and now it seemed as though everyone clamored to speak to her. What could Hotchkiss possibly want? She pictured the handsome, fretful secretary before she saw him adjusting his tie beside the three-faced clock in the
Sentinel
's lobby. He looked nervous. A young man, likely a reporter, sauntered over and murmured something to him.

In response, Hotchkiss reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a lighter. The young man put a cigarette in his mouth and bent over the secretary's cupped hands.

“Mr. Hotchkiss.” Kitty approached them.

Mrs. Basshor's secretary fumbled and dropped his lighter.

“Thanks.” The young man strolled off, puffing away.

Hotchkiss picked up his lighter and put it back into his pocket. “Good morning, Miss Weeks.” He sounded more than a little flustered.

“What brings you here, Mr. Hotchkiss?” Kitty said. “May I help you with something?”

The secretary wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “Can we speak in private?”

“This way.” Kitty led him to a marble bench in a quiet corner of the atrium.

“Mrs. Basshor doesn't know I'm here.” The secretary remained on his feet. “She'll worry if I'm not back soon. You might think it odd of me to be so concerned, but I owe her everything. I'd be nowhere and nothing without my employer.”

“I understand, Mr. Hotchkiss.”

“Yes, well.” He coughed into his hand. “Let me start by saying that I came to you, Miss Weeks, instead of anyone else because I thought I might be able to count on your discretion. You seem to me like a young lady of tact and understanding.”

“I appreciate the compliment, Mr. Hotchkiss, but I haven't got all day.”

“Of course.” His smile was apologetic. “I believe you are aware that when Mrs. Cole was questioned by the police detectives, she said that she'd been waiting for her husband at the children's tables for the duration of the fireworks?”

“Yes.” As far as Kitty was aware, no one had been able to confirm Mrs. Cole's claim. On the other hand, no one had disputed it either.

“I have reason to believe that that may not be entirely accurate.”

“Go on,” Kitty urged.

“When I was at the club yesterday, wrapping up some housekeeping matters, one of the waiters approached me and said that he had something troubling to report. Apparently, one of the ladies had lost her bracelet and asked him to search for it. He hunted around the children's tables for at least five or six minutes while the fireworks were in progress. During that time, the tables were empty. He said there was no one sitting there at all.”

“Why didn't he tell the police?” Kitty's mind raced through the implications of this new information.

“He didn't think it mattered at the time.”

“I see. Well, perhaps you should report it now.”

The secretary smiled nervously. “Mrs. Basshor would fire me on the spot if she knew that I was talking to you out of turn, let alone bringing one of her guest's movements to the authorities' attention. The waiter won't say anything for the same reason—the club frowns on it. I could have kept quiet,” he added, “but instead, I decided to come to
you
.”

“What can I do about it, Mr. Hotchkiss?”

“You could speak to Mrs. Cole and find out what happened. She won't mind if it comes from another young lady. And in the end, it might be nothing. She may have needed to powder her nose, or something like that. Something she wouldn't have wanted to tell the detectives.”

“And suppose she doesn't have a convincing answer?”

“Then perhaps you could inform the authorities?”

“Really, Mr. Hotchkiss.” He wanted her to do his dirty work. He wanted her to question Mrs. Cole and then point fingers if necessary.

“I leave it in your hands,” the secretary replied. “But I would appreciate it if you didn't mention to anyone that you heard this information through me.”

Kitty sighed. He looked so anxious, and Mrs. Basshor probably would be furious if she found out. “I won't tell anyone about our conversation, but what I do with what I learn is my decision.”

“That's all I can ask.” He seemed relieved to have transferred the burden and shook Kitty's hand. “Thank you, Miss Weeks.”

Kitty watched him leave. So devoted to Mrs. Basshor, and yet he wasn't without his own scruples and, perhaps, grudges.

She waited for the elevator to the sixth floor. If Hotchkiss was correct and Mrs. Cole had indeed been absent for some time during the fireworks, Mr. Flanagan ought to be informed. The tidbit might offset her news that the Dr. Albert lead hadn't amounted to much.

She tapped on the glass partition and mouthed Flanagan's name, but a tall, scholarly man emerged in response to her summons.

“Miss Weeks?” He looked down at her from his rimless, President-Wilson-style pince-nez. “I'm Rathbone, Mr. Flanagan's colleague. He's asked me to give you a message.”

“Is he out?”

“He's up in Connecticut with the police. It seems that the Cole case is about wrapped up. He says to tell you that they're hot on the killer's trail and should have him in custody by this evening.”

Chapter Eleven

“I beg your pardon?” The revelation transported Kitty to a moment in the misty past, when her native
ayah
had taken her to prayer hall in the mountains. Kitty had been absorbed in the rich orange of the monks' robes, their strange droning chants, the golden statues draped with silky white scarves. She hadn't noticed her father barge in until he'd grabbed her wrist.

“You have to remember who you are,” he'd said through gritted teeth. Seven-year-old Kitty had been terrified; she'd never seen him look so grim. It wasn't long after that that he packed her off to Switzerland, and Kitty never saw the
ayah
again. She had promised herself that she would never make the same mistake: she would never believe that she was part of something, or that she belonged somewhere, when she didn't.

The problem was, her hopes got the best of her sometimes, and judging from the stab of pain she felt in response to Mr. Rathbone's abrupt announcement, she realized that she had forgotten her childhood vow and had imagined herself to be more central than she really was to Mr. Flanagan's investigations.

“One of the stable hands did it.” Rathbone twirled a pencil between his fingers.

“A stable hand? Why? Why would a stable hand want to shoot Mr. Cole?”

Mr. Flanagan's associate shrugged his shoulders. “Calm down, Miss Weeks. I'm not conversant with the details, but I believe it has something to do with the fellow being Cole's acquaintance from the racetrack. He was dismissed from his job there because of some wrongdoing and only found employment at the country club by providing a false name. Mr. Cole recognized him… Really, it's best you wait until tomorrow. There will be a full account in the papers, and you can read all about it.”

Kitty shook with anger.
How dare he?
How dare he treat her like another member of the news-hungry public?

“It's all I can tell you.” His tone was dry as he returned to the newsroom.

But she wasn't a little girl anymore, Kitty thought as she made her way downstairs. And she no longer had to accept others' valuation of her place in the world and what she should or shouldn't do as a result of it.

• • •

Kitty collected her things and hailed a cab to take her home. She had gone less than half a block before she changed her mind and redirected the driver to Aimee Cole's address.

She had a role in this story too. She had met the dead man. She had met his wife. No one had been charged with the crime yet. She still had opportunities to have her questions answered.

A striking woman with sparkling eyes and red hair arranged in ringlets opened the door to the apartment. “Can I help you?”

Kitty tried to contain her disappointment. Mrs. Cole probably wasn't in.

“It's me—Aimee!” the woman squealed once it became clear that Kitty hadn't recognized her. She pulled off the wig and transformed back into her unremarkable self. “I know you must think I'm awful, playing around so soon after what's happened, but I'm all alone, and I've nothing to do except look through my old things.”

She flung the door wide open, and Kitty followed her inside. Open boxes and cartons littered the living room. Flouncy garments spilled out of one; another overflowed with shimmery bits. Aimee tossed her wig into a box of hairpieces.

“It started with my not being able to find my black gown,” she explained. “The funeral is tomorrow, and I need something decent to wear. Mama's gone to the shops to buy me proper mourning.”

She cleared a pile of scarves from the couch. “Souvenirs from my former life. Will you have some tea?”

“I don't want to trouble you.”

“It's no trouble at all. Here, take a look at this while I put on the kettle.” She handed Kitty a linen-bound album.

Kitty opened it, expecting to find photographs from Aimee and Hunter Cole's marriage. Instead, the album was filled with page after page of clippings, photographs, and postcards of Mary Pickford, the motion-picture actress famed for her long, red curls—no doubt the inspiration for Aimee's wig.

Kitty leafed through the pages: here was thoughtful Mary in an advertisement for
Mender of Nets
; there she was looking saucy in
Female of the Species
. She was on alert in
Tess of the Storm Country
, forlorn in
Cinderella
, and ready for romance in
Hearts Adrift
. Reviews from
Photoplay
and
Motion Picture Weekly
had been interspersed with the pictures. Some had been starred with a thick red pencil, while portions of the others had been circled or underlined for extra emphasis.

“
The Eagles Mate
is a lively feature without a real kick,” Kitty read a marked review to herself, “but it has Mary Pickford, the best kick or punch that could be put in.”

“Isn't she wonderful?” Mrs. Cole returned to the parlor. “She looks like she's not much more than a child, but she's America's highest-paid motion-picture heroine.”

“I'm partial to Pearl White myself.” Kitty put the album on the coffee table. She loved Pearl's films, but she hadn't created a shrine to her like Aimee Cole had for Miss Pickford.

“Pearl doesn't hold a candle to Mary,” Aimee replied. “We're the same age, you know. Both twenty-three this April. But Mary's been working forever. She started onstage when she was five years old. Her mother brought her down from Toronto, and little Gladys Smith, as she was called then, has been supporting her family ever since.”

“Have you seen all her pictures?”

“All her features. The one- and two-reelers are too numerous to count. But take a guess—tell me how much you think Mary makes.”

“How much she earns, you mean?”

“That's right.” Mrs. Cole's eyes blazed.

“I have no idea.” Kitty hadn't encountered such devotion to an actress even among her school friends. And for a married lady of twenty-three, the passion certainly seemed, well, unexpected.

“Give it a try,” Aimee cajoled.

“A hundred dollars a week?” It was a wild guess. Kitty knew that society reporters made fifty, and they were the highest paid in the business, so she took that number and doubled it.

“Try two thousand.” Aimee sounded giddy, as though she'd just been handed that sum in cash.

“That's astounding,” Kitty replied. “Every week?”

“Yes.”

“But that's more than a hundred thousand dollars a year!” Kitty couldn't believe any woman could command such a salary. It was a heady figure.

“And the best part is that Mary started just like everyone else,” Aimee said. “Five dollars a day, which doubled to ten, and then, when the public began to recognize her, she signed with IMP for $175 a week. She switched to Majestic for $225, then signed with Zukor for $500”—she rattled off the numbers—“and last year, Mr. Zukor raised her to a thousand a week, and this year, she got him to raise it again. In addition to her salary, she earns a percentage of all her pictures' profits, and he even pays her mother a stipend.”

“That's quite something.” Kitty was fascinated.

“I don't bring this up lightly,” Aimee said as the kettle in the kitchen began to whistle. “I would have liked to try for a career in pictures. Even a quarter of what Mary earns would have been enough to support us, but Hunter wouldn't allow it.”

The whistle grew louder and more insistent. “I know I look plain in person, but that changes in front of the camera.” Aimee Cole stood. “I've been photographed plenty of times. But the Coles would rather have us be poor than for me to act in the ‘movies.'” She hurried off to the kitchen.

Kitty wasn't surprised that a man from a family like Mr. Cole's would stand in his wife's way. Like the Vanderwell family, honor was probably all that was left to them. But poor Aimee Cole. Marriage and work didn't sit well together. Kitty had been to a symposium at Barnard College some months ago where, barring the motion-picture producer Madame Alice Guy-Blaché, all the career women who spoke had been unmarried. Dr. Katharine Bement Davis, the city's commissioner of corrections; Dean Virginia Gildersleeve of Barnard; the journalist, Miss Ida Tarbell. All spinsters.

Mrs. Cole returned with tea on a tray, and Kitty took advantage of the break to change the subject. “Mrs. Cole?” she began.

“Aimee.”

“Aimee,” Kitty said, relenting. “Would you mind if I asked you a delicate question about the evening Mr. Cole died?”

“So that's why you're here.” Aimee gave a small laugh as she stirred a spoonful of sugar into Kitty's cup. “Of course. Ask away.”

“There is one small matter.” Kitty picked up her cup and took a sip. “It seems that a member of the staff noticed you were missing from the children's tables for a short while.”

Aimee stiffened. “Was I?”

“That's what he said.”

“You spoke to him yourself?”

“No, I didn't. But a reliable source”—she was about to say “Hotchkiss” but checked herself in time—“told me.”

“Thank you for your concern, Miss Weeks.” Aimee Cole stared at her Dresden figurines. “It was, as you say, just a trivial matter.” She paused, and then said, “I'm a vain thing, and despite your kind efforts, the stain on my dress continued to trouble me. I slipped away for a few moments to give it another rinse. You can check with the attendant, if you like.” She smiled. “I'm sure she'll vouch for me.”

“I'm glad to hear that.” As if in sympathy for what had happened to Mrs. Cole that day, Kitty's hand shook, and tea spilled on her blouse. “Silly me.” Her laugh sounded unsteady.

She looked down to see the splash spread like ink in water on the white fabric.

“Don't worry.” Aimee led her to the bathroom.

Kitty locked the door behind her. She held on to the sides of the porcelain sink and lowered her head. What was happening to her? Was it guilt over questioning the widow, or the strong tea on an empty stomach? Whatever the case, she felt wretched.

Kitty stared into the mirror. A hollow-eyed stranger stared back.

She opened the door to the medicine cabinet. Her reflection gave way to rows of bottles and jars, tooth powder, body powder, and various hair and body lotions. Nothing to soothe her nausea.

Hunter Cole's things lined the shelf above: shaving soap, a razor, witch hazel, a jar of hair pomade, and a black toiletries case.

“Are you all right, Miss Weeks?” Aimee called through the closed door. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I'll just be a minute.” Kitty stood on tiptoe and pulled down the case of toiletries. She undid the clasps and peered inside: gauze, cotton balls, and a bottle of bitters. She reached for it and felt a hard bundle wrapped in chamois beneath her fingers.

Kitty pulled out the bundle and found herself staring at six glass vials filled with clear liquid, and a hypodermic syringe. There was no needle.

“Miss Weeks?” It was Aimee again.

Kitty's heart beat wildly. She had a moment in which to decide her next step. She dropped one of the vials into her skirt pocket, wrapped the rest away, took a swig of the bitters, and replaced the case in the cabinet. She rinsed the stain from her shirt, then dried her face and hands and joined Mrs. Cole outside, her heart still pounding.

“I'm sorry to keep calling,” Aimee apologized, “but you looked pale, and I was worried.”

Kitty couldn't bear her own duplicity any longer and took leave of the widow.

“So soon?” Aimee seemed disappointed. She walked Kitty to the elevator.

“May I ask whether Mr. Cole had been ill recently?” Kitty broached the question while they waited for the machine.

“No. Did you hear that somewhere?”

“I probably misunderstood.” Kitty's hand rested against the tube in her skirt pocket. Could this be why Dr. Albert wasn't listed in the telephone book?