Murder at Ebbets Field (16 page)

M
argie phoned me early the next morning. She offered to call in sick so that the two of us could visit Esther Kelly at home while Tom was at the studio. I wasn’t crazy about her getting into more hot water with Elmer Garvin, but I agreed.

Two hours later, we were strolling east along Lafayette Avenue toward Clinton Hill, Brooklyn’s most fashionable residential area, near Fort Greene.

Although Margie said nothing about my early departure the night before, she spoke with an urgent cheerfulness as if trying to effect a reconciliation. I didn’t know how to tell her that there really was no rift. I hadn’t been angry at her, merely confused. So I tried to show her, taking her hand and interlocking her fingers with mine. She immediately got the message and relaxed.

We walked on, absorbing the gentle sunshine of a waning summer. August was nearly over, and the weather would soon be getting cooler.

The Kelly house was a vintage three-story brownstone on Clinton Avenue between Willoughby and Myrtle. Its spacious, carefully tended front lawn was bordered by perky daffodils and delicate white lilies. On any other street, the home would have been the jewel of the block, but here it was dwarfed by the newer, palatial mansions of its neighbors.

I rapped the brass knocker on the front door. It was promptly pulled open by a stout thirtyish young lady in an ill-fitting black and white maid’s uniform. She had frizzy red hair, and bold brown freckles mottled her fair face.

“Is Esther Kelly in?” Margie asked.

“And who might you be?” the maid demanded in a voice that had more of Ireland than Brooklyn in it. From her tone, she wasn’t asking for the information to convey it to Esther but to decide whether she herself approved of us.

“My name is Marguerite Turner,” Margie answered politely. “And this is Mickey Rawlings.”

I tipped my boater.

“Mickey Rawlings the baseball player?” the maid gushed with sudden warmth.

With all due modesty—none—I admitted I was.

“I’m a Giants fan!” she bellowed. In a loud voice, as if challenging the neighbors, she added, “I know I’m in Brooklyn now, and maybe I shouldn’t say so, but with Mr. Kelly having been a Giant, I root for John McGraw’s boys.”

Good as it was to find a Giant fan on this side of the East River, I’d have rather she just let us in.

But she went on, like Casey Stengel in a talkative mood, “You know, I was at that game where you broke up Sloppy Sutherland’s shutout. Tuesday being my day off, I always go to a ballgame, even if it’s only the Yankees playing. Too bad you boys couldn’t win that game against Sutherland. You did wonderful, laying down that bunt like you did. You know, most people like the big sluggers; me, I like you little infielders—you have to play so much harder.”

“Well . . . uh, thank you,” I said. Not that it was much of a compliment, but it gave me a chance to interrupt. “Actually, do you think you could tell Mrs. Kelly we’re here? I have to get back for a game this afternoon.”

“And here I am talking your ear off,” she said with a friendly slap on my shoulder. It fell as heavily as a blow from John McGraw. “Come on in and I’ll tell her you’re here.”

She led us into a foyer that was as big as a dining hall, then went to get Esther.

“I think you have an admirer,” Margie said in a teasing voice. She sounded more amused than jealous.

“Nice house,” I said, ignoring the comment. And it was. It also felt as if I’d been here before, though I knew I hadn’t.

While Margie’s place didn’t fit the “Homes of the Stars” pictorials that appeared in the movie magazines, the Kelly house looked like a prime candidate for such a photo spread.

Off the west side of the foyer was a parlor with white wicker furniture, a matching white grand piano, deep green carpeting, gold chintz curtains.... That was it! I
had
seen the room before, in a
Photoplay
pictorial on Mary Pickford’s home. Opposite the parlor was a formal dining room; its maple furniture and colorful tapestries were arranged in the same way as Clara Kimball Young’s. The Kellys must have used the fan magazines as decorating guides. I was sure that somewhere in the house Tom Kelly had a den and wondered if it was modeled after William Farnum’s or Francis X. Bushman’s.

The maid brought Esther in, leading her by the hand like a child. Next to the chunky maid, Esther looked like a little girl, tiny and frail. Her clothes reinforced the impression of youth: a frilly pink dress that came just below her knees, scarlet ribbons tied into her blond hair, and white satin shoes laced on her dainty feet. Her skin was as pale and smooth as porcelain. Except for large blue eyes, her facial features were on the same diminutive scale as her overall size—a button nose, ears with no lobes, and small pouty red lips.

Margie gave her an affectionate hug. “Esther, dear,” she said. “I hope we didn’t come at a bad time. We should have called first.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Esther answered. “This is a very good time.” I couldn’t imagine how her high weak voice could have ever been heard in a theater. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said. And she did look happy at having company, though there seemed to be a touch of fear in her wide eyes. “Tom isn’t here though. He’s at the studio. Shouldn’t you be there, too?”

“No, not today,” Margie said.

“Why don’t you folks come into the parlor, and I’ll fetch some lemonade,” the maid offered.

“Yes, Bridget,” Esther Kelly said. “Thank you.” She obediently followed the maid into the Mary Pickford parlor, and we followed behind. Bridget helped Esther climb into an oversized rocking chair, then left the room. Margie and I chose a settee with pastel green cushions so thin that I could feel the weave of the wicker through them. The Kellys apparently considered style a higher priority than comfort.

After we settled into the squeaking couch, Margie and I looked at each other, silently asking which one of us was going to start the questioning. We probably should have planned ahead.

Esther showed no sign of starting a conversation. She was absorbed in getting the rocking chair to rock. Since her feet didn’t reach the floor, she had to do it by clutching the arms of the chair and shifting her weight back and forth.

“This is a lovely home,” Margie began. She had the same approach to interrogation that I did—start innocuously, then hit them with the tough questions.

“Thank you,” Esther said. “We’re very happy here. This house has been in my family since I was a girl. Tom had things redone after we got married, but I still like it. Sometimes I almost get lost though. It’s not like it used to be ...” Pointing to a painting above the white marble fireplace, she said, “That is my father.” The portrait was of a man with severe eyes and black chin whiskers; he wore a naval uniform so old-fashioned that he might have sailed with John Paul Jones. “He built this house,” she added. “Tom let me keep the painting when he redecorated.”

Margie rolled her eyes at Tom Kelly’s generosity.

“How long have you and Tom been married?” I asked.

“We were married on May second, nineteen hundred and eleven.” She recited the sentence as if she had carefully memorized it.

Bridget brought in the lemonade on a tray. She handed glasses of the yellow drink to each of us, giving me a wink as she handed me mine. I heard Margie try to stifle a giggle.

After the maid left, Margie asked Esther, “How did you like working in the picture the other day?” We were taking forever to get to the questions about Florence Hampton.

With a blank look, Esther answered after a pause, “It was very nice.”

“That was your first picture, wasn’t it?” I said.

Esther hesitated. Then she said slowly, “The first show I was in was
Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
At the Century Theatre on West Forty-seventh Street. I was six years old. I played Little Eva. The footlights burned very hot and they scared me, but I liked being in front of an audience. The show was a big hit. It ran for three and a half years.”

Margie and I exchanged bewildered glances. I didn’t know what to think. I had enough trouble determining if somebody was telling the truth or lying. With Esther Kelly, I wasn’t sure if she was telling us anything at all. She seemed so lost.

Margie gave it another try. “Florence Hampton used to be on the stage, too. Were you in any plays together?”

Esther answered flatly, “Florence Hampton was very nice. She wasn’t in
Uncle Tom’s Cabin.
Maude Adams was. She was my understudy. And there was a very nice girl who played Topsy . . .” She went on to give us a full cast list, as well as descriptions of the sets and costumes.

Bridget came in again. “I have some lovely little cucumber sandwiches,” she announced.

Cucumber? Yech!
A vegetable sandwich was about as appetizing to me as a chaw of tobacco.

As the maid stood in front of me holding out a tray of sandwiches, an idea popped into my head. I said to Esther, “I’ve heard Tom has a remarkable den. Do you think I could see it?”

“Yes,” she answered, and she started to pull herself off her chair.

“No, you two stay here and chat. Maybe Bridget could show me to the den.”

“I’d be happy to,” said Bridget.

Margie gave me a quizzical look.

“Well, okay,” Esther said, as she settled back in her seat.

After serving sandwiches to the ladies, Bridget said, “Come along now.” She then led me to a room on the second floor.

Tom Kelly’s den was worse than I expected. It went beyond masculine all the way into the realm of the barbaric. Weapons and dead animals were the motif. A pair of crossed sabers was above the mantel of the flagstone fireplace; above them was the head of a grizzly bear with its mouth agape. There were flintlock rifles, dueling pistols, a blunderbuss, daggers, and halberds around the walls. Tacked alongside the weapons were the hides of zebras, leopards, and tigers. On the floor in front of the fireplace was a lion skin with a massive maned head. A leather armchair and a foot stool were the room’s only furniture.

Bridget turned to leave. Trying to keep her, I asked, “Did Tom Kelly shoot all these?”

She laughed. “No, sir. Mr. Kelly bought everything in here. I don’t think he knows how to hunt.”

“Well, he looks like an outdoorsman. I’ll bet he’s still in good enough shape to play baseball if he wanted to.”

“Yes sir, he certainly is. He did play baseball this winter. On that world tour, you know.”

“I heard about that. I didn’t know he played.”

“It was a
wonderful
trip,” Bridget said. “I’d never been on a ship before. Well, when I was a little girl, my family and I came over from Ireland. But not since then.”

“You were on the tour?”

“Of course! The missus wouldn’t go without me. I take care of her.”

I said confidentially, “Well, I’m glad to hear that. Just between you and me, I don’t think Tom Kelly takes care of her quite the way he should.” I tried to be subtle in my criticism of him.

“Hah! He treats her
awful,
he does.”

I guess there was no need for subtlety. “You know,” I said, “I suppose you’re right. In fact, the first time I saw him was at a Vitagraph party on Coney Island. The whole time he was trying to dance with Florence Hampton. Left poor Esther in tears. I heard she was so upset, she spent the night in the hotel.”

Bridget furrowed her brow. “That was the night Miss Hampton died?”

“Yes.”

“No, she didn’t stay in any hotel. It was
Mister
Kelly who didn’t come home. The missus came in. I remember because—” Then her face flushed and she clamped her mouth shut.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

She kept her lips sealed tight and shook her head.

“It’s just between us,” I promised gently. “What do you remember?”

Bridget gave in. “The old fellah brought her home that night . . . almost morning, it was.”

“What old fellow?”

“Oh, I don’t know his name. He’s an old gentleman, with a bit of a limp.” Bridget then warned me, “Now don’t you go to thinking anything improper about the missus. That fellah left her at the door. I expect the way her husband treats her, she just needs somebody nice to talk to sometimes. That’s all there is to it.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “Have you seen her gentleman friend before?”

“Well.... There’s been a few other times he’s brought her home.”

“Huh. And you say Tom Kelly didn’t come home at all that night?”

“No, not until morning.” Bridget didn’t sound like she wanted to say any more.

“I like Esther,” I said. “I’m glad it’s you who takes care of her. She’s in good hands.”

Bridget smiled.

“You said Tuesday’s your day off?”

She nodded.

“The next time the Giants are at the Polo Grounds on a Tuesday, you give me a call, and I’ll make sure there’s a couple of passes for you.”

With effusive thanks, she promised to take me up on the offer, and we went back downstairs.

From Margie’s dazed expression, I could tell she wasn’t getting very far with Esther. So after an excuse about having to get ready for the ballgame, we said goodbye and left.

We walked west on Myrtle Avenue. In the distance ahead of us were the church spires and treetops of Brooklyn Heights.

Soon I’d have to hop a trolley for Manhattan. “How about coming to the game?” I suggested.

“No, I should go back to my apartment. Mr. Garvin will phone to see if I’m really sick—not that he’s worried about my health but to check that I’m not at a ballgame. I’d better be home when he calls.”

“Oh, okay. Uh ... about me leaving you alone with Esther. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand what she was talking about. So I figured it might be better to let you talk to her by yourself and see if you could get anywhere.”