Death Was the Other Woman (7 page)

DEX LEFT FOR THE DAY
as soon as our impromptu meeting was over, saying he had to get over to Mustard's to get a car for the night.

“And don't forget, I'll pick you up at your place at nine.”

It was ironic that a day that had dragged by so slowly had ended in the kind of mad rush we only ever saw at rare busy times. People coming and going, the phone ringing. Thinking of it made me smile. It was one of the things I liked about working for Dex: you never knew what to expect.

I was making my final tidy of the office in preparation for packing things up and heading out for the evening, when I heard the outer door open again.

“What did you forget, Dex. ...” The words died on my tongue. It wasn't Dex at all, but a girl—a young woman really—with tightly cropped dark hair. It hung around her eyes and down to her collar line so sleekly, it reminded me of the fur of a seal. She had big brown eyes rimmed with long dark lashes that made them look sooty.

“Miss Pangborn?” she said, with a confidence that belied her waifish appearance.

I looked at her curiously before I remembered. “Brucie Jergens,” I exclaimed. “Mustard's friend! I'm sorry. What a day it's been. Forgive me. I'd forgotten all about you.”

Her smile was wide and open and revealed even white teeth. “Nothing to forgive. I wasn't here to be hurt by your forgetting,” she pointed out reasonably. “Now if I'd gotten here and you'd left without me, that would be a different story.”

I gauged Brucie Jergens to be somewhere right around

thirty. I could tell she was somewhat older than me, but she was possessed of a merriness that made her seem a good deal younger.

“Let me just finish tidying up the office and then we'll go. Make yourself at home,” I told her, indicating the waiting room chairs. “I won't be long.”

“Thanks,” she said, putting her handbag on my desk and taking a seat.

“How do you know Mustard?” I asked politely while I straightened up, making conversation but not quite knowing where to begin.

“He was friends with my husband, Ned.”

“Your husband,” I repeated, oddly surprised that she was married.

I saw a shadow pass over her face, and I almost knew what she'd say before she said it. “He died a few weeks ago. I'm a widow now.” She said this last with such resolution that I knew it was something she was still trying on, like at Bullock's when you've found a sweater that's just the price and that you know will keep you warm, but you can't bring yourself to like it well enough to actually want it. This was like that.

“I'm sorry,” I said mechanically. It was the right thing to say, but it's never enough. Still I wondered. Is saying something always better than saying nothing at all?

“It's OK,” she said. Then she shrugged. “Well, as OK as can be. It was bound to happen though. We always knew there was danger. I just didn't... I just didn't... I just hoped the danger would miss him, is all.”

I looked at her uncomprehendingly.

“Mustard didn't tell you?”

I shook my head.

“Well, then,” she said thoughtfully, “maybe I've said too much.”

“No,” I said, “he probably would have said more, but we were on the phone. He just said you needed a place to stay, and he figured I might know of something.”

Brucie sighed, then smiled. “That'll do for now, if that's all right.”

“Sure,” I told her. “Sure, that's fine.” I was curious, but I didn't ask. Brucie's life was none of my business. Hell, I didn't know her from Eve.

I grabbed my handbag and the coat I'd worn into the office that morning, and Brucie picked up her own handbag.

“Is that all you've got?” I asked her.

“With me, yeah. Mustard is going to bring my things by your place tonight.”

We pushed out of the building onto the street into full and glorious sun. After spending most of the day indoors, I had to shield my eyes and blink while my body reevaluated its situation.

Brucie laughed when she saw the action. “You look like a mole coming out of her hole,” she said brightly, as we walked north on Spring Street toward Angels Flight. “No offense though,” she assured me quickly.
“A pretty
mole.” Then she watched me closely to see if she'd hurt my feelings. She hadn't and I smiled to reassure her.

“Some days coming out, I
feel
like a mole,” I told her. “You saw my desk; my boss has the only window in the place. When he's in there and the door is closed, I don't have any way of telling if it's light or dark out.”

Brucie shuddered delicately. “That sounds horrible,” she said. “I don't know if I could do that. . . work in an office. Especially one where I couldn't see outside whenever I liked.”

I shrugged. “Actually, aside from the window thing, working in an office is more fun than you'd think. I never would have thought so before. But it's exciting sometimes. Being in the middle of so many things, but none of it really affects your own life.” I stopped for a moment, considering. “I can't really explain it better than that. I guess you have to experience it.”

“I can't imagine I ever would.”

“I'm guessing you don't work in an office,” I said. It was nice, this walking and chatting. Pleasant. I hadn't really had any girlfriends since I'd left school and started working. It made me realize how much my life had changed.

“Honestly, I've never worked at all. I met Ned when I was still in high school. We were so crazy in love; we didn't even wait for me to graduate.”

“You went to high school together?”

Brucie laughed, as though that were the funniest question she could imagine. “Oh, no,” she said. “He worked for Chummy McGee.”

She said the name as though it were important, but it didn't mean anything to me.

“What did he do?” I asked.

“Ned? He was Chummy's right hand.”

This too was said as though it had meaning, as though I should know what she was talking about. I didn't pursue it.

At the Angels Flight station house I hesitated. Normally, to save money, I scampered up the stairs adjacent to the funicular railway's tracks. On my way in to work in the morning, I'd ride the cars; down was always free. But I only ever paid for the ride home when I was feeling especially flush or especially tired. It may only have been the cost of a cup of coffee, but a whole week's worth of that added up to a loaf of bread. Plus I reasoned that none of it was going to be bad for my behind— especially after a day of sitting on it. I was in the embarrassing position of having to watch my nickels, but I couldn't very well ask Brucie to hike up the 150 to 200 steps to the top.

Brucie saw my hesitation and mistook its meaning. “Are you sure this is it?” she said. “I've ridden this thing before, but I would have sworn it looked quite different.”

That made sense to me. “That's Court Flight,” I said, pointing north. “It's a few blocks that way. That's farther from the office. That's the one people use when they drive into town because there's easy parking on the Bunker Hill side. This is Angels Flight.” I pointed to the sign. “And my house is just a block from the station house at the top.”

Brucie smiled. I thought she looked like a child anticipating a Sunday outting. “This is fun,” she said. And I decided I could no more deny her a trip on Angels Flight than you would taking that child to the zoo.

At the ticket window, I prepared to pay for two adult tickets, but Brucie stopped me. “Here, let me,” she said. I was going to insist, but she reached over me and handed the coins to the ticket taker.

“Thanks,” I said, as we moved away from the window.

“It's my pleasure,” she said candidly. “And please don't feel like you should have paid. I'm Ned Jergens's widow.” There seemed to be sadness mixed into the mock bravado in her voice. “Money's nothin' to me.”

I looked at her closely, but didn't say anything. There was more there that needed saying, I guessed, but it seemed as though Brucie didn't think it was quite time. I held my tongue while we waited for the train.

The ride up the steep hill in the tiny railcar seemed to restore Brucie's spirits. “This is wonderful,” she said, as we chugged almost straight up, the downtown core getting smaller behind us.

I nodded my agreement. I did this trek—by foot or by train, the view was the same—every day, and I never tired of the experience. I knew that the reason was tied into memories of my childhood. Trips I'd taken downtown when I was a little girl, my tiny hand lost in my father's much larger one, but clinging on for all I was worth in the fear of becoming separated from him and lost forever. Or the occasional shopping day when my father would assign Marjorie to take me to Blackstone's department store to outfit me for another school year. Then home again, our arms laden with packages filled with new things for me. Sometimes Marjorie would have purchased a small package of fudge during the day, and she'd bring it to light as we sat on the train, letting the sweetness revive our tired limbs.

I didn't share any of this with Brucie, who chirped away happily about the view, the observation deck we passed under, and the other people in the tram. As much as I loved the short trip, it was pleasant viewing the familiar landscape through her fresh and enthusiastic eyes. When it was over and we were back on solid ground, Brucie went to the guardrail and looked wistfully back toward downtown. “That was a wonderful trip, Kitty,” she said. “I forgot for a moment.”

I didn't ask her what it was she had forgotten. I even had the feeling I wasn't quite ready to know.

WE TRUDGED
up Olive to my house, which is a trek that has changed a lot in my recollection. Throughout my lifetime the neighborhood has been in constant flux. When I was very young, the beautiful Victorian mansions were already being torn down, and a more modern era has been encroaching ever since. My childhood home was flanked by nearly identical apartment buildings, the sunny garden I'd played in was now constantly in the shadow of the building next door. It didn't matter. No child had played in that garden for a long time.

When I brought Brucie into the foyer, I noticed she paused and admired her surroundings. The old house is an aging beauty certainly, but a beauty nonetheless. To me, it smelled like home, the scent of beeswax mingling with the flowers Marjorie coaxed from her shady garden, wafting together through the house to the large oak-paneled hall.

In many ways the big house hadn't changed since my father was alive. Marjorie and Marcus kept things just as spotless as they had when the house hadn't belonged to them. They hadn't even moved from the servants' quarters in the converted carriage house, preferring to rent the master suite and large guest bedrooms in the main house to the more affluent of their clientele. For all that, I couldn't help but think that the house was warmer now than it had been, and certainly brighter. The constant comings and goings of a large handful of paying guests keeping the Olegs busy, and the heart of the house quickened with life. My father's presence had been a dour one in many ways, but I hadn't realized until he was gone that his presence had been like deep shade; no matter how bright the sun, there'd been a cold there that nothing could ever really touch.

“Let's go find Marjorie,” I said to Brucie, as I led her to the kitchen. At this time of the day, that's where she'd be, preparing the evening meal for her boarders.

When I introduced them, I could see Marjorie gently sizing Brucie up. “You're all alone, Mrs. Jergens?” Marjorie asked politely, though she didn't miss a beat in rolling out the biscuits for the evening meal.

“Yes, ma'am, I am,” Brucie replied.

“And your husband . . . ?” Marjorie let her question trail off, but I could see she wanted an answer. There were certain types of people she'd not let stay in the house. There was, she insisted, a very thin line between a boarding house that could expect the very best people and one where those same people would not stay. She said it was all a matter of reputation. Many of our boarders were gentlemen of business, some of whom had fallen on difficult times. Paying a little bit extra to live in our house was worthwhile to them. They could stay there and imagine—or pretend, if that was their wont—that their circumstances had not been reduced, just altered slightly. Marjorie felt that letting the wrong people stay could alter this perception. So she screened carefully.

“I'm a widow, Mrs. Oleg,” Brucie said, her eyes downcast, as though carefully examining the tile floor. “My husband died a few weeks ago.”

“A widow, Mrs. Jergens? How sad to see that, a woman of your age. And you're all alone in the world?”

“Not in the world, no. I have no family in the city. But friends. I do have friends.”

“She's one of Mustard's friends, Marjorie. That's how I came to know her.”

Marjorie's face stayed neutral at the mention of Mustard's name. I knew that didn't necessarily mean that Marjorie disapproved of him; it was more like the jury was still out.

Brucie wouldn't have seen Marjorie wrestling with her decision, but I, who knew the woman well, could see it as plain as anything. After all, for my entire life Marjorie had been like a mother to me. I saw her moving toward her decision, and I felt a little guilty. I didn't know much about Brucie, but I realized that if Marjorie knew even the little I knew, her decision would have been much easier. Then I chided myself for the thought. I really didn't know anything. I suspected that Brucie's Ned had been some sort of mob type who had come to an unpleasant end, but no one had actually told me as much. It was possible I had it all wrong. It was possible that Chummy McGee was actually an accountant or a lawyer and Ned had been his assistant. But I didn't think so.

I knew Marjorie had come to some kind of decision when, with the biscuits ready for the oven, she washed her hands, then smoothed them against her housedress. When she spoke again, I knew I was right. “We'll give her the big room across from yours, Miss Katherine.” And then to Brucie: “It's got a nice view of downtown. Miss Elizabeth—Miss Katherine's mother—liked to sit there with her books and read when she was expecting.” And so on, indoctrinating Brucie into the workings of the house almost without the girl's knowing.

“It's fifty dollars a month,” Marjorie said quietly. “Can you manage that all right, dear?”

Brucie nodded. “I can, thank you. That will be fine.”

“That's all settled then. Miss Katherine, I'm busy in the kitchen for the next little while. Will you show Mrs. Jergens to her room, please? Then both you girls come down for dinner in half an hour.”

“She keeps calling you Miss Katherine,” Brucie said, as we climbed the stairs. “It's like you still own the joint.” I'd told her a little about the history of the house on our walk from Angels Flight.

“Hard habit to break, I guess. We get along all right though. Everything's changed,” I said thoughtfully. “But in some ways it's like nothing's changed at all.”

“Is that hard though? You know, Ned and I had a little house in Highland Park. I... well, I can't be there now. But even if I could, I couldn't, if you know what I mean.”

I didn't, but by then we'd come to her room. I unlocked the door and threw it open with a flourish, letting her enter before me.

“Wow,” she said, spinning around in the center of the room, the wood floor slippery against the smooth soles of her shoes. “This pile may be old-fashioned, but the room is pretty swank.”

I looked around, trying to see things through her eyes. And, yes, viewed in that light, the room
was
old-fashioned. As was, as she'd said, the whole pile. The cove ceilings, the clerestory windows, and the bare wood floors. But the house had a sort of genteel elegance, even with its aging bones. It had breeding in a way. And blood, as my father used to say, will tell.

“Bathroom?” she asked.

I shook my head. “Down the hall on the left. But there's one in my room. You can use that sometimes, if you like.”

“What now?”

“Well, you're all set. Once Mustard gets here with your trunk, you can settle in. And Marjorie said dinner is in a while. Are you hungry?”

“I could eat,” Brucie said.

“Well, that's fine then. By the time we're done with dinner, Mustard will be here. Once you have your own things around you, you'll feel more at home.” Brucie's little face looked suddenly unguarded and terribly sad.

“It'll be all right,” I said softly. “It doesn't seem like it now, I know. But it all gets easier. I promise.”