Heiress (39 page)

“No. Never. He—he didn’t know Jack was his until today.”

Esme glanced at her, her lips drawing to a thin line.

“I couldn’t tell him. It would only make my staying with Foster more horrible. But the murderer had to be someone Foster knew, someone he trusted, because whoever it was, shot him in the back of the head at close range. There was so much blood, Esme. So much.”

“Shh…we’ll find out who did this.” Esme reached out for her, but the door opened.

Jinx turned. The matron stood before her.

“You’re free to go, Mrs. Worth. They’ve caught the murderer.”

Oh, yes, thank you—

“Bennett Worth has just confessed.”

* * * * *

Esme had never been allowed to see vaudeville. She’d read about it, of course, in the occasional copy of the
Chronicle,
but as she stared at the playbill outside the theater, advertising the upcoming performances of the
Follies
and the late night, rooftop
Midnight Frolic,
she considered she just might be in over her head.

Jinx looked so wrung out, it undid Esme just a little, her confidence deflating as she escorted Jinx home, wrangling them through the throng of reporters. She looked for Oliver, but didn’t see him.

A chill seeped under her coat in the mausoleum of a home Jinx had built, despite the French paintings, the tapestries, the renaissance stature. While Lilly roamed the house on a tour with her cousin, Rosie, Esme drew a hot bath for Jinx, tucked her into her bed afterwards, instructed Amelia to light a fire, and inspected Jinx’s closet for something that might make herself appear younger.

Rosie might have a better chance at posing as a Ziegfeld girl than Esme did, but she managed to find a V-necked dress that swept age from her appearance. She added a peacock-blue cape with a gold brocade trim. If only she had shorter hair like Jinx’s and Rosie’s. Apparently the New York fashion meant she had to chop off her long hair.

She tucked her mane instead inside a turban embellished with a dahlia flower, from Rosie’s wardrobe. She simply needed to get inside the dressing room at the theater, get close to Flora.

She counted on the prestige of netting a millionaire to get Flora bragging…and to the truth.

Now, Esme stood outside the theater, reading the playbill of the upcoming show opening in June. Bert Williams, Fanny Brice, Eddie Cantor, Will Rogers, and The Fairbanks Twins. Rosie’s words as she helped her with her makeup returned to her. “Last year, Ziegfeld’s girls danced on an electric mat that shot sparks from their shoes, wearing rose costumes. I heard that William Randolph Hearst sat in the same orchestra seat every night for eight weeks. Apparently he had a thing for Miss Davies, one of the girls.”

Lilly, of course, watched Rosie with wide, hungry eyes.

“W.C Fields was there, and this absolutely dashing cowboy—Will Rogers—who did tricks with his rope.”

“A lariat,” Lilly said quietly.

Rose looked at her, raised an eyebrow.

“The rope—it’s called a lariat. I have one at home.”

“Are you a cowgirl like Annie Oakley?” The way Rosie said it, it made Esme want to protect Lilly, but apparently her daughter needed no protecting.

“No. I’m a better shot than Annie Oakley.”

Esme smiled even now, as she made her way down the alleyway to the side entrance. Indeed, Lilly was a much better shot.

Esme could hear the music as she opened the door.

A man sat at a table, arms folded.

“I’m sorry, I’m late for rehearsal.” She smiled at him, hoping the shadows were kind to her masquerade.

She began breathing again as she made her way down the corridor, backstage. The music floated from the stage, and costumes hung in racks outside rooms marked with the names of headliners. Their dressing rooms remained dark.

Technically, the
Follies
wouldn’t open for six weeks.

She found the massive dressing room for the chorus girls and entered.

Apparently, they were on stage, because the room marked the disarray of pre-performance chaos. Makeup pots, burning lights, shoes, hosiery…a den of femininity.

She remembered the days when her life had been filled with the accoutrements of being a lady, of creating the mysterious allure seductive to men. She’d been a Ziegfeld girl of a different era.

Yet, for the same purpose.

She couldn’t blame Flora too much for wanting a life of security, of prosperity.

She roamed the dressing tables for Flora’s station then found a publicity photo framed near an office door. She searched the faces for Jinx’s description. Tall, lanky, blond…

She found a face that stopped her cold. Nearly a younger version of herself, perhaps more shapely, but enough to convince her of Jinx’s words.
I think he was angry that—that I wasn’t you.

Poor Jinx.

Esme trolled down the dressing tables, picking up mementoes and cards. She found cards addressed to Marion, Paulette, Irene, and Claire, but no Flora.

She sank down into a chair, studied herself. Picked up a pot of rouge, dabbed her pinky into it. Rubbed it on her cheek.

In the mirror, she saw a vase of flowers, wilted. She got up, moved over to the roses. American Beauty, the kind the boys would send her before a ball.

A vellum card lay tucked below the vase.

To my Flora, for the rest of our lifes.

She picked up the card, studied it. The handwriting was coarse, block letters, as if the author had no formal training.

And, he’d spelled “lives” incorrectly.

“Who are you? What are you doing in here?”

She turned, and a costumed woman stood at the door, entering fast. She wore a bathing hat of sorts, with a plume of red peacock feathers, a skintight V-neck dress, the arms fanned out in a flourish of lace around her elbows, with a tulle ballet skirt, white hosiery, and ballet shoes. Red lipstick and bright blue eyes made her look more garish than grand. She came close and yanked the card from Esme’s hand.

“Who are you?”

Debate ate Esme’s words. Hopeful dancer? Lost actress? She’d arrived with verve, but standing before discovery, it vanished. So much for her Nellie Bly moment. “Are you Flora St. John?”

“Who wants to know?”

She smiled then, honesty coming to her lips. “I’m a reporter with the
New York Chronicle,
and I want to make her famous.”

For a moment, the lie sparkled in the girl’s eyes. She seemed to glow, reaching up to pull off her hat. Long blond hair spilled down her back. “Yeah, okay. I’m Flora.” She held out her hand. “Nice ta meetchya.”

Esme placed her as a Bronx girl. “Esme. Price. I’m doing a piece on dancers who find true love on the stage, and someone gave me your name.”

Flora glanced at the flowers, sadness in her eyes. “Who?”

“Does the name Foster Worth mean anything to you?”

She glanced at the card, tucked it back into the flowers. “Nope. I dunno what you’re talkin’ about. I think you’d better leave.”

“My source said you attended the theater with Mr. Worth on the day of his murder.”

Other chorus girls had begun to filter in, some sitting at their stations, others listening to their conversation.

“I don’t wanna talk about Foster.” Her eyes glossed.

Esme’s voice gentled. “Do you have an idea of who might have killed him, Miss St. John?”

Flora looked up, blinking, then pressed her fingers under her eyes. “Nope. And I want you to leave, right now.”

“Flora, listen to me. This is just between us, but if you want, I can turn your name over to the police. Talk to me. Were you in love with Foster Worth?”

She flinched, and a memory seemed to scan through her eyes. Then, “I want you to leave. Right now.”

“Flora, don’t you want to tell your side of the story? It’s going to come out—people might even think you had something to do with his murder.”

“Stay away from me!”

Esme made the mistake of reaching out her arm, catching her. “Please—Flora. An innocent man might go to jail if you don’t tell the truth.”

Flora shook it off, rounded on her. “How do I know you’re a reporter? You don’t look like a reporter.” She gestured to Esme’s outfit. “You look more like one of those society ladies, like Foster’s snooty wife.”

Esme drew in a breath.

“Prove to me that you’re with the
Chronicle,
and then, maybe, I’ll tell you a story about Foster and who really wanted him dead.”

Her sins found her most often in the dead of the night, when Jinx heard nothing but the thrumming of her heart in her ears. Sometimes, in the soft padding of her room, upon her throne bed, with the tufted gold drapes at the headboard, the moonlight waxing through the windows onto the Parisian carpets, she remembered Bennett. Too easily she heard his murmurs, smelled his skin, her heart softening at the way he’d turned toward her that night seventeen years ago, the way he’d taken her into his arms as if she belonged to him. That, perhaps, is what mocked her as she lay alone in her bed the months afterward, Jack growing inside her—the feeling that she’d belonged most to what she couldn’t have, and in the years hence, the loneliness drove her from her bed to roam the house.

She had already stopped by Rosie’s room, standing at the door, the moon caressing her daughter’s form as she curled in her bed.

Jack, perhaps, had saved her from despising her life, but Rosie had given her back her contempt for Foster. Her daughter reminded Jinx that she owed Foster nothing.

Despite her penance, however, she never truly felt redeemed. Her sins lay like a brick inside her chest, dusty and old, clinging to her memories.

Perhaps because she never truly desired forgiveness.

It seemed God’s reckoning had finally come.

She stopped in Jack’s room, but found his bed empty. Wrapping her hand around his doorframe, she took a step inside. She’d decorated his bedroom in the sports memorabilia he loved—yachts and tennis, croquet and cricket. The room smelled like Jack, his sports clothes hanging over a pillow chair, his leather coat draped over his desk chair. A pile of books towered upon his bureau—Beadle’s dime novels and Nick Carter detective stories. She’d seen him often as a child playing in the garden, conjuring up some sort of dime-novel scenario. Now, he and his friends listened to the radio accounts of the battles in Europe, replaying the battles in thick conversation.

Perhaps West Point hadn’t been all Foster’s idea.

Jack had collected shells from Newport and piled them into a glass jar on his desk. She opened the jar, took a clam shell. She ran her thumb over the edges, smoothed by the ocean salt, the grit of the sand. She saw him at Newport, on the rocky Bailey’s Beach, laughing as the surf teased his toes, his legs, the sun in his blue eyes.

No, she’d never wanted forgiveness for something that taught her how to love, to be loved.

She stared out his window to the lights on Fifth Avenue. This late, only a few motorcars passed. Certainly Jack wasn’t still at the police station.

Not when Bennett had confessed. The thought became a fist in her chest. Bennett couldn’t have killed Foster. He didn’t have time, did he? He’d been retrieving his coat—Amelia walked in right after him. And Jinx had been only a few steps behind him.

Someone could have used the garden door to escape.

They believe Jack was standing outside, he heard Bennett and me arguing.

What if Jack had heard Foster’s accusation? That Jack wasn’t his child? She dropped the shell into the container.

Bennett had confessed to protect Jack.

The truth reached up, wrapped hands around her neck, stole her breath. Bennett had sacrificed himself for their son. She reached out for the bed, but it did little to catch her before her knees buckled. She saw Bennett hanging from the bridge of sighs at the Tombs, his body at the end of the rope, swaying in the wind. Because of her adultery.

She’d done this, created this lie, sentenced the man she loved to this fate.

Oh, she should have gone with Bennett. She let the possibilities seep through her. She would have sacrificed her life in New York, on the list of the 400, yes. But she would have lived without secrets. With peace, instead of sin, stalking her in the middle of the night.

She could nearly taste it—the sweet sense of redemption, the breath of peace filling her lungs. But as quickly as it came, it vanished, leaving only the dust of her sins behind, turning her to ash.

She drew up her legs, her breath shuddering out of her. How she hated living with secrets.

She couldn’t lose Bennett. Not again.

“Mother?” Jack stood in the doorway, the moonlight on his face. He wore fatigue in his face, his derby in his hands. “Are you well?” He came into the room, extended his hand to help her off the floor.

She took his hands. In this light, he so resembled his father with his blond, unruly hair, those regal cheekbones, the wide shoulders. Oh, Jack. “Where have you been?’

He considered her a moment as she rose then set his Bible on the desk. “I was at the church.”

The answer seemed to light an inferno inside her. “The church? Why?”

He looked at her, nonplussed. “Because I thought the priest could pray for us. For Father’s soul, and for you in your time of grief.”

She bit back what would have been a harsh, cruel laugh. Grieve for Foster?

“God won’t help this family, Jack.” She pushed past him to stand at the window. “We’re beyond God’s help.”

“No one is beyond God’s help. Did you not hear the priest on Sunday?”

Yes, indeed, she had. The face of the Lord is against them that do evil, to cut off the remembrance of them from the earth.

But Jack touched her arm. “The righteous cry, and the Lord heareth, and delivereth them out of all their troubles.”

She looked up at him, his face, the eyes that seemed so terribly believing, and feared for his lost innocence.

“I am anything but righteous, son.” She wasn’t sure where the words came from, or how she managed to allow them out, but they spilled free and she turned, pressed her hand on the cold window.

“Mother, you are one of the most righteous women I know. You attend church regularly, give of your time and money to charity work, you never make a social faux pas. Everyone loves you—you are invited to all the social events of the season, men beg to dance with you, women want to emulate you. You are blessed with power, and wealth and fame. How could God not hear your petitions for justice for Father’s murder?”