Willow Pond (11 page)

She blushed again when Erich arrived. He was an uncommonly handsome man, a tad over six feet, with eyes so blue she was afraid it might hurt her eyes to look into them for too long. He stopped at the table and gave her a long look, then settled into the chair across from her, never glancing anywhere but at her.

“You look incredible. The most beautiful woman here.”

“You sure? Have you checked out the hostesses?”

He snorted. “Could their chemises be any shorter?” He obediently watched one of the hostesses walk by. “Your legs are much nicer.”

She cocked one eyebrow. “You should see them do the shimmy.”

“W.C. Fields was up on stage with them a few weeks ago.”

“Hate to see him in gold chemise.”

He chuckled and spread blue cheese on a piece of French bread, then signaled to the hostess, whose sole job was to sell roses at two dollars each. Laura shook her head when Erich asked what color rose she’d like, but he stopped the hostess before she could walk away.

“I have some new information I want to tell you,” Laura said.

Erich held up one hand, asking Laura to wait. “Hey, I know the rules. No man is considered a gentleman unless he buys his lady a rose. Yellow? Pink?”

She blushed. “Yellow’s my favorite. Don’t you think it’s more unique than pink or red?”

He placed the rose in front of her and set it in the crystal vase. “To keep it fresh while we’re here,” he said.

“Thank you. You are now officially a gentleman.”

He nodded. “Now. What’s your news?”

She leaned forward, her expression intent on his. “The police interviewed that family in Greenwich, Connecticut yesterday and found out some odd things about Madigan’s wife. Like the fact that she liked to hide their little girl.”

“You have the most beautiful green eyes I’ve ever seen. Like emeralds.”

She frowned. “Thank you. But I want to tell you about this.”

“I’m interested. Go ahead.”

“Okay. Well, apparently she’d hide the little girl in the closet, the garage, or in the woods in back of the house. Once she was missing for six hours before they found her.”

“Sounds like there’s something wrong with Madigan’s wife,” said Erich. “Do the police consider her a suspect?”

“They haven’t said anything about that to me, but they did some digging and discovered she’d worked for three other families and done the same thing with their children.”

“It sounds like she has problems. But I doubt she’s a kidnapper.”

“How can you be certain? She may have a psychological problem with children. One little boy she hid almost died because he was outside in below freezing temperatures for almost twelve hours.”

He leaned toward her. “Laura, I asked you out so I could help take your mind off things. You deserve some enjoyment.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Now. The last time we saw each other you mentioned you were writing a novel. I’d love to know what it’s about.”

She picked at the yellow rose. “I don’t want to be one of those writers who thinks other people are interested in listening to them drone on about what they write.”

“That could never happen to you. Besides, you’re allowed. I asked.”

She gave him a grudging half smile, unaccountably pleased that he’d asked. “Well, all right. It’s about a nun who has to choose between the church and the man she loves. Doing so almost destroys her.”

“A priest in my home town in Germany had a wife and two children,” said Erich, refilling their glasses with champagne. “Even after his parishioners found out they wanted him to stay. Of course that was impossible.”

“I’m hoping agents and editors won’t find it too controversial,” said Laura, “but I can’t write about anything I don’t feel passionate about.”

“Of course not. Then it wouldn’t be too interesting to read.”

She smiled at him, feeling like she’d made a friend.

“How would you like to go sailing next weekend?”

She grinned. “It sounds like it could be fun.”

“Let’s dance,” he said, and led her onto the floor.

In his arms Laura felt safe. She closed her eyes. He smelled fresh, as though he’d just taken a bath. The band was playing one of her favorite songs, “The Man I Love,” and she found herself yielding to the skill and tenderness with which he led her. They were on the dance floor for two more dances before she realized the song had ended.

When they got back to the table, she took a pack of Pall Malls out of her purse and he lit her cigarette for her. She half turned in her chair so she was facing a couple who had been staring at them. As a result, they busied themselves looking anywhere but at Laura.

“Maybe they’ve seen my picture in the newspaper and wonder what I’m doing here with you.”

“Maybe they think we drink gin out of flasks and dance the Charleston all night.”

“I’ve done those things.”

“I wish I’d been there with you. I wish - what’s the matter, Laura?”

She’d been smiling and happy one minute, but a sprinkling of dust floating in the sunlight triggered an almost unbearable sense of guilt.

“I shouldn’t be here. I can’t go sailing either.”

He put his hand on her arm. “Please, Laura, don’t do this to yourself. I want to be there for you if you’ll let me.”

He suggested they have dinner someplace else. Somewhere they could hear each other without shouting. After a brief discussion, they agreed to go to Marta’s, where they served some of the best Italian food in the city.

She smiled and picked her purse up off the chair. “Being with you does make me feel better.”

“I’m glad. I plan to be there whenever you need me.”

Chapter Twenty

A few days after her encounter with the dirty undershirt, Virginia drove to the Hell’s Kitchen address of Rudy’s other friend, Kevin Butler. The Butlers lived in the grimmest section of the city, on Thirty-eighth Street, just off Eleventh Avenue. The streets were lined with tenements, factories and rundown churches. Garbage cans overflowed.

Virginia checked the mailboxes in the hall for his apartment number, then knocked on the appropriate door. It creaked open a crack.

“Mr. Butler? I need to talk to you.”

“I’m real puzzled about what you’re doing here.”

“I found your name among a friend’s things and I need to find him. I’m hoping you know where he is.”

A young girl came up from behind her and barged through the door. Virginia followed in her wake and stood in the entryway.

“I thought you were with your mother and the other kids,” Kevin said to the little girl. “Why don’t you go to the playground and see when they’re coming home?”

“I want a snack first.”

Virginia smiled at her. Something about the girl reminded her of Laura at the same age.

“This won’t take long,” Virginia assured Kevin. “I’m looking for Rudy Strauss.” She tried to gauge Kevin Butler’s reaction but saw none. “It’s urgent that I find him.”

He bent over the kitchen counter, spread peanut butter on a slice of Wonderbread and offered it to his daughter. Frowning a bit, he turned his gaze back to Virginia.

“Haven’t heard Strauss’s name in a long time. What’s he got to do with you?”

“Has he been in touch with you?”

“Not since I decided to go straight and settle down.”

“You’re sure?”

“My wife would have my head if I had anything to do with the likes of him.”

Virginia shook Kevin Butler’s hand and left him eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with his daughter. Her instincts screamed that he was lying. But she had no way to prove it.

***

“A couple of hours ago a woman came home and found her husband and twelve-year-old daughter murdered,” Daniel said.

Erich glanced up at his editor and shook his head. “The poor woman.”

“I know, I know. It’s terrible. See what you can find out. Go easy on her. The cops say she’s in bad shape.”

Erich’s eyebrows rose with offense. “I’m a heartless reporter when it comes to criminals and politicians, not innocent victims.”

After two hours with the woman, Erich returned to the newsroom and wrote the story for the evening edition. The numbing desperation of the poor woman and her children had gotten to him, and he could feel tension in his neck and shoulders as he turned the corner for home.

He was halfway up the cement steps when he heard a car door slam behind him, followed by the sound of someone breathing hard behind him. He turned around and looked into the face of an overweight man of about fifty-five, then past him to the Packard parked across the street. One of Virginia Kingsley’s men? That was just fine. He’d be glad to talk to her. He’d love to tell her what he thought of her.

The man tried to grab his arm, but Erich yanked it away and strode over to the car without any prompting. He was about to knock on the back window when the door opened.

“Get in the car, Mr. Muller,” Virginia said, then watched him slide in beside her. She smiled.

He met her gaze. “So?”

“I can see why my niece is interested in you.”

“I’m glad to hear she is. Sometimes I’m not so sure. Is that why you hauled me in here? To check me out?”

She looked down her nose at him, as if she were bored. “Stop writing lies about me. I told you the other day I’d sue the newspaper if you continued, yet this morning another story ran, filled with inaccuracies.”

“What article are you talking about?”

She frowned. “The one on the front page.”

“Never write anything not based on fact.”

She crossed her long legs and continued to stare at him. “That may have been true in the past, but now you’ve sunk to the level of yellow journalism.”

“What was in that article that you think I made up?”

“Seeing me at the kidnapper’s hideout and deciding I know something about Todd’s kidnapping.” She took out a cigarette. “You’re wrong about that.”

“Prove it.”

“I can’t.”

“Then my story stands as is.”

“Don’t make this more difficult than need be. I can’t lie to you and say I wasn’t there. But I wasn’t there for the reason you think.”

“Laura knows you were there.”

Virginia punched the back of the driver’s seat. “You talked to her about it?” Virginia asked.

“What difference does that make?” Erich said. “She deserves to know the truth.”

“I’ve always been there to take care of Laura,” Virginia objected.

Erich opened the car door. “She’s stronger than you think,” he said, climbing out and looking back over his shoulder at her. “In time she’ll find out you know something about her son’s kidnapping, and she’ll realize you’ve been keeping it from her.”

“You’ve made a big mistake, Mr. Muller. I want you to leave her alone, or I swear I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.”

“I hope for Laura’s sake I’m wrong. What I really hope it you haven’t made a much bigger mistake.”

Chapter Twenty-One

The following Saturday evening, Erich and Laura went to see All Quiet on the Western Front at the Rialto Theatre. Afterwards they strolled down the moonlit Manhattan streets to Erich’s car.

He was quiet, but it was a comfortable quiet. She gazed up at him. “What are you thinking about?”

Erich put his arm around her and she thought it felt like the most natural thing in the world. “Well, I was thinking about how well the movie portrayed the worst time of my life, and here I am with you on one of the best nights of my life.”

“You … went through all that?”

“I was sixteen when I wound up in the trenches of Verdun.” He took a deep breath. “When I came home things were even worse. My brother had been killed … and … oh well, we survive all kinds of things.”

She stopped walking and took his hand in hers, and he watched her, looking puzzled. His hands were long and slender, with fingers her mother would have called piano fingers. They didn’t look like the hands of a man who had seen the horrors of war. But she knew he was telling the truth. He’d never lied to her, unlike Phillip. Phillip lied all the time.

“I’m so sorry, Erich, so very sorry.”

He ran his fingertips down the length of her face. “You don’t have anything to be sorry about, liebchen.”

“No, but, I just felt someone needed to say it.”

He drew her face close to his and kissed her lightly on the lips. When he drew away they gazed into each other’s eyes, savoring the moment, and something electric passed between them. Neither of them had to say a word. After a moment they turned and resumed their walk, this time hand in hand.

Laura didn’t want the evening to end. “I have a vague memory of hearing my parents talk about the son of a friend of theirs who’d been killed in the war,” she said.

The news had come Thanksgiving morning, 1915. Laura and her sister had been rehearsing a play about the first Thanksgiving, and their mother was watching. The phone rang and moments later their father came into the dining room with tears streaming down his cheeks. Their mother was on her feet immediately, taking him into her arms and comforting him the best she could.

When she’d gotten got older Laura had understood it was fitting her parents had died together. They were much too close to have spent any time apart.

“I tried to write about my experiences,” he said, “but Remarque did a much better job than I ever could.”

They continued down the street, her high heels clicking on the sidewalk. After a few steps Laura stopped and glanced around.

“What is it?”

“I think someone’s following us.”

He squeezed her hand. “Don’t worry. It’s just your imagination,” Erich said.

“No, listen. Don’t you hear that?”

He tried to distract her, telling her a rather risqué joke Peter had told him the day before, when they heard the screech of a car’s tires and were caught in the glare of the car’s headlights.

Erich grabbed for her hand, but it was too late. Three men jumped out of the car. One thug grabbed both his arms and even as he flailed at the other two with his legs and feet they were wrestling him to the ground. Laura tried to jerk one of them off Erich, but she was shoved onto the sidewalk. Before Erich could react, the same guy took hold of his ankles and the third pummeled him in the chest and face. He managed to get one arm free and swing at the man who’d gone after Laura, but he missed.