The Gilded Hour (75 page)

She wanted to go talk to him, but the girls would be terrified to be left alone even for a few moments in this strange landscape of fields and pastures and orchards with so much at stake just a few minutes away. For years she had trained to be able to make fast decisions in difficult situations. With a scalpel in her hand some part of her mind took over, made decisions and acted. But this was foreign to her, this kind of need, and she was at a loss.

Jack climbed back up onto the seat and took up the reins. He hesitated for a long moment and then he turned to the girls.

He said, “I have a feeling that the family we’re going to see isn’t going to be there. That they’ve gone away. I want you to be prepared for that possibility, both of you. Once we know whether I’m right, we can talk about what to do next.”

It took considerable effort, but Anna held her questions back. When they turned onto the narrow lane that would take them to the little house near the beach, her stomach gave a lurch and climbed into her throat. The girls looked stunned, like children who have passed beyond fear to a protective numbness.

In the first few seconds it seemed that Jack had been wrong. The house wasn’t deserted; the front door stood ajar, and the sound of someone chopping wood came from somewhere behind it.

Jack looked at Rosa and then at Lia, his expression not exactly grave, but solemn. He said, “Wait here. Mind me now, you need to wait here.” Then he squeezed Anna’s hand and was gone.

•   •   •

W
HEN
J
ACK
JOINED
the police department one of the first and hardest lessons, one that he still struggled with, was something obvious. In his case,
at least, anger was far harder to manage than a gun. As he walked toward the front door of the cottage, he reminded himself that he was not here as a police officer. He had no right to ask questions, much less demand answers. That thought was still in his mind when a woman came to the door.

Two facts presented themselves immediately. This small, dark-haired woman was close to giving birth—her hands were folded across the great expanse of her belly—and she was not Mrs. Mullen.

Jack took off his hat and inclined his head politely. “Ma’am,” he said. “We’re looking for the Mullen family. Have I got the right house?”

It was the right house, without question, but the Mullen family had moved away. In her uncertain English the lady of the house explained to him that her husband had bought the house and the business from Mr. Mullen, who had moved away a week ago with his family.

“I don’t know where they went,” she said, and seemed to be searching for words. “Would you like to come in, you and your family?” She stepped back and opened the door in a welcoming gesture. Behind him Jack heard a scuffle and Rosa’s voice, raised in protest.

He did not want to bother these people, but he could see no other way to convince Rosa of the truth.

As she arrived at his side, breathless, trembling, he said, “Rosa, this lady has invited us in to talk for a few minutes.” In Italian he added, “If you can’t mind your manners, you’ll have to wait outside.”

The truculent look on her face did not escape him.

•   •   •

M
AGDA
AND
I
STVAN
Szabó were Hungarian immigrants who had come to the States five years earlier and finally saved enough money to buy a place of their own.

With Lia on her lap Anna spoke to Mr. Szabó, who had come in to talk with them because his English was very good. His gaze kept shifting to Rosa, who stood stiffly by the door with Jack.

It was obvious that nothing but the truth would do in this situation. She said, “Mr. Szabó, I realize this is very odd, but if I could just explain—”

Drawing on all the skills honed in years of recounting patient histories during rounds, she told the story of the four Russo children, how they had come to Manhattan, and the loss of the boys. He held up a hand only when he wanted her to pause long enough so he could translate for his wife.

Anna fixed her gaze on Mrs. Szabó. She had a kind face and an open expression, where her husband was more reserved.

“We believe that the Mullens adopted Vittorio,” Anna finished. “And his sisters want so much to see him, we couldn’t keep the truth from them any longer.”

The Szabós were talking, a hushed conversation that was impossible to interpret. Anna was paying such close attention that Lia had slipped from her lap before she realized what was happening. She walked toward Mrs. Szabó, her eyes as big as silver dollars.

“May I see my brother? He’s so little”—a small sharp hiccup escaped her—“
deve avere molto paura
.”

Rosa spoke up, her voice strained. “She says he must be very afraid.”

The room was suddenly so still that Anna could hear the far-off crash of waves on the beach. In the quiet Rosa came forward and put an arm around her sister. They looked so much alike, and were so different in the way they saw the world. She wondered if Rosa might have been a child more like her sister if circumstance hadn’t demanded the impossible of her.

Mrs. Szabó was clearly moved by the two girls. She looked very near to tears.

“I am very sorry, but I don’t know your brother. I saw him once, a very beautiful boy. A happy boy. But he moved away with his—”

She looked to her husband.
“Az új családja?”

“His new family,” he supplied.

“Yes, his new family. We don’t know where they went. I’m very sorry that we can’t help you. But maybe—”

Rosa’s head came up sharply.

“Maybe if you talk to the priest—”

“Father McKinnawae?” Jack asked.

“Yes. Father McKinnawae,” she said. “At Mount Loretto. Maybe he can help you.”

•   •   •

A
S
THEY
CAME
over the hillside to see the mission spread out before them, it seemed to Anna that quite a lot of progress had been made since their last visit. On the day they got married, she reminded herself. Only one of the buildings looked to be finished, its chimney putting out a long dark streak of smoke. The two largest buildings were far from finished, but
today there was no sign of monks or workmen of any kind. She wondered if they had run out of supplies or volunteers or both. It would be many months before any boys could be made at home here. And she really could not work up any interest. She would always associate this place with Vittorio’s loss. Because he was lost. They went to see the priest because Rosa must see this through, but in Anna’s mind there was no doubt: Vittorio would live his life as Timothy Mullen. She wished him happy and well.

Anna met Jack’s eye over the girls’ heads and understood that he had most probably reached the same conclusions she had come to. There would be time enough to talk about it, once they were back home again. What she had to do now was prepare herself for Father McKinnawae.

She had to keep her thoughts to herself, but the girls put question after question to Jack. He answered each question honestly: no, he didn’t know when the orphans would be coming to live here; he thought that most of them must be at the mission in the city and that they would all be boys. Whether there would be room for girls as well at some point was another question he couldn’t answer. He was sure there would be classrooms, and lessons, and chores. And mass, most probably every day.

If Vittorio might be here, with the priest?

Jack answered without hesitation. Vittorio was gone away with the Mullen family, who loved him and would care for him.

Anna wondered what the girls were imagining about the interview to come, if there had ever been opportunity for them to talk to a priest outside of religious services. Because she had spoken to this particular priest. She had told him about these girls who had survived so much, and in turn he had gone to the Mullens.

The letter Anna had written and rewritten had never been mailed. Or more to the point, it had found a different target. Anna had not been able to explain the whole series of events to herself until Margaret brought out Rosa’s exercise book, every page filled to the margins with careful lettering.

Rosa had been eager to learn to read, and Margaret had worked with her every day. She was just far enough along that she could work out short, simple sentences. Mornings she would glare at the newspaper as if it were holding back secrets she was determined to discover. She would point out words she knew, and ask about others. And she did the work Margaret
assigned her, and more, every day. One of her favorite things to do was to write out her own name, along with the names of all her family, father and mother and sister and both brothers.

“She’s very diligent,” Margaret said. “You see she filled this notebook in a week. I said she could use scrap paper from the bins until I had time to get her another one. I should have been more careful, but it never occurred to me—”

“You’re not at fault,” Anna said. “And neither is she. It’s not the best way to resolve the situation, but it’s done now. We’ll have to make the best of it.”

“I’m afraid I indulge her,” Margaret went on anyway.

Jack shook his head at her. “She’s curious, she wants to learn. It’s not a matter of giving her more sweets than are good for her. I think the girls are fortunate that you have so much time to spend with them.”

It was one of the kindest things Anna had ever heard him say, and it made her ashamed to have been so dismissive of Margaret.

•   •   •

A
ND
NOW
HERE
they were, about to confront Father McKinnawae. When Anna thought of him she saw the unapologetic dislike and disdain he felt for her. He had warned her not to test him, and that had not been an empty threat.

He came out to greet them before Jack had brought the rig to a stop. Anna’s expression was grim, but the priest smiled broadly at her, his cheeks puffing up like pink pillows.

“Dr. Savard,” he said, all polite good spirits. “How very good to see you again. I thought you might stop by.”

For a split second Jack had the idea that Anna was going to punch the priest in the face, as hard as she possibly could. The image was so strong in his mind that he put a hand on her upper arm—and felt the flexing of her muscles.

He held out his other hand to the priest. “I’m Jack Mezzanotte, Dr. Savard’s husband. And these are our wards, Rosa and Lia Russo.”

McKinnawae had a firm handshake. He barely glanced at the girls before his gaze shifted back to Jack.

“And you are a doctor too?”

“He’s a police detective.” Rosa spoke up clearly, without hesitation, and
with none of the deference Jack would have expected. Anna seemed to have lost her voice entirely but he could feel her tension, every nerve twanging.

McKinnawae said, “An Italian detective.”

“Detective sergeant,” Jack said.

One eyebrow shot up as if this news surprised him.

Jack had nothing against priests, in general. In his experience some of them were harmless, some meant to do good things but did just the opposite, a few managed to help, and even fewer took joy in raising hell out of bloody-mindedness, contempt for the world, and ego.

He would have guessed McKinnawae to be one of the better sort, given the amount of work that was going into putting together the refuge for orphans, but he saw now he had been mistaken. McKinnawae worked for the most vulnerable children, selflessly, endlessly, but at the same time he was closefisted, resentful, and protective of what he considered his own. Most of all, he didn’t like women and wanted nothing to do with them. Anna’s coming to his office had not won his cooperation; just the opposite. He wanted her to know that she had been foolish to try to outwit him. The Russo boys were not the point, as far as he was concerned.

Anna was saying, “You told me that you would be glad to talk to Vittorio Russo’s sisters, and here they are.”

There was a jerking at the corner of his mouth. “Dr. Savard, did I not tell you that I have no knowledge of the Vittorio Russo you’re looking for? I’m sorry I can’t be of any help at all. Girls, the best you can do is to pray for your brother’s soul. He was baptized, I’m sure, and so you can think of him in heaven with your parents.”

Lia’s mouth hung open, but Jack doubted she would have been able to produce a single word. Rosa stepped a little in front of her sister and said, “Yes, he was baptized. But he’s not in heaven. He went away with a family—” She looked over her shoulder as if she could see the house where the Mullens had lived. “And you know where he is, don’t you.”

The complacent smile froze for the briefest moment, and then McKinnawae’s gaze focused not on Anna, but Jack.

“In my experience, Italian children are polite and respectful to their priests. I would have expected better.”

“All right,” Jack said, working hard to keep his tone neutral. “That’s enough. Anna, please take the girls for a walk. I need a half hour here, and then we’ll be on our way.”

Rosa looked at him with a calm acceptance that he found harder to bear than tears would have been. In Italian she said, “He doesn’t care. He won’t help.”

She walked away beside Anna without looking back.

E
LISE
FELL
ASLEEP
waiting for Anna and Jack to get back from Staten Island, and woke Sunday to a drizzling rain. The girls were in the hall talking to Margaret and Mrs. Lee.

Rosa’s tone was matter-of-fact. “I’m not going to church. Not until my brothers are found and maybe not then. Tonino keeps asking me in my dreams why we are staying away, and I tell him about that priest who stole Vittorio.”

Elise drew in a surprised breath, and held it so as to hear what came next.

“But Lia can go if she likes,” Rosa said.

“No.” Lia said. “I won’t go too.”

“You won’t go either,” Margaret corrected.

“That too. Either,” said Lia.

“Well, then,” Mrs. Lee said, all business. “That’s not a little thing, but we’ll talk about it later today. We’ll be off, Mr. Lee and me. You girls get the table set for Sunday dinner before we get back. And no peeking at the roast, we don’t need any more burnt fingers.”

Lia said, “Can I go over to Weeds to play with Skidder?”

“Not until you’ve had your breakfast,” Margaret said. “Let’s go do that now.”

With that Elise realized the time; she was running very late and would have to skip breakfast and hearing about Staten Island, too. Whatever had happened yesterday had not paralyzed the girls with anger or sorrow, and that would have to be enough for the moment.

As she half trotted, half walked to the hospital juggling an open umbrella, her satchel, and the banana Mrs. Quinlan had pressed into her hand in lieu of a proper breakfast, she thought back to herself at Rosa’s age,
and what would have happened if she had announced she was leaving the Church.

Her mother and aunts would have laughed at such an announcement. If she had persisted, there would have been more serious repercussions that had to do with the paddle that hung on the pantry wall. And after that?

The confessional, to start. She would have to explain herself to Father Lamontagne. The idea was odd enough to make her smile. Father Lamontagne had been a sweet old man who had lived a long and difficult life. He would have listened patiently, and then changed her mind for her in the gentlest but most persistent way.

Not that leaving the Church would have ever occurred to her to start with. She had liked going to mass; the Church itself felt like an extension of home.

Now Rosa had announced—what? A rejection of the Church, or God, or both? Somehow she couldn’t imagine Mrs. Quinlan or anyone else in the household of freethinkers taking exception. They would ask questions, certainly, but disapproval seemed as unlikely as a whipping.

On the short walk to the hospital Elise passed four different churches: Presbyterian, Baptist, Dutch Reformed, Episcopal, and right next to the New Amsterdam, St. Mark’s. She knew where to find a Friends’ Meeting House, and not far from there, Scotch Presbyterian, Lutheran, and a Jewish synagogue. There were at least fifteen different Catholic parishes in the city, each with church and chapel, rectory, convent, and often a school, as well. New York was crowded with places to worship, but in the house on Waverly Place only the Lees and Margaret went to church with any regularity, and not to the same church, either.

The biggest surprise thus far—and she must believe there were more to come—was that Bambina and Celestina went to temple once a month or so. Every other Italian Elise had ever known or heard about was Catholic—as Catholic as the pope—but half the Mezzanottes were Jewish, while others seemed to be nothing at all.

She should have been shocked and worried about her own immortal soul in this hotbed of cheerful heretics; a year ago she likely would have had just that reaction. Now nothing seemed so simple. She had no basis on which to make judgments about the Mezzanottes. She hoped they would do as much for her.

•   •   •

A
T
HALF
PAST
five Jack slipped out of bed, grabbed his clothes, and dressed in the hall, determined to let Anna sleep on. Despite a long day of traveling in damp clothes while dealing with distraught children, she had had a restless night. It was after three when she finally slipped into a deep sleep. He knew, because he hadn’t slept well himself, aware of every chime of the mantel clock from the parlor.

John McKinnawae had robbed them both of a peaceful night’s sleep, and Jack was sure there would be more such nights. Then at six in the morning a runner from Mulberry Street had knocked on the door with a message. The chief was calling a meeting at seven about the Campbell and associated cases. Associated cases. They were in for it now.

•   •   •

F
OUR
DETECTIVES
AND
two patrolmen were gathered in Chief Baker’s office, including Oscar and himself. Jack counted four case files spread out on the table and knew the names on the labels without looking: Janine Campbell, Abigail Liljeström, Eula Schmitt, and Irina Svetlova. More folders sat in a pile front of Oscar, the looks of which filled Jack with dread.

“I’ve got three more likelies and one possible,” Oscar was saying.

One by one he went over the cases that fit the profile, all of them ferreted out of death certificates going back six months. Mariella Luna, Esther Fromm, Jenny House, and the one uncertain case, a Jane Doe. All of them had died of peritonitis following an illegal abortion, and all of them had died hard.

The three who had been identified were married to successful men with substantial incomes; they had well-appointed homes, servants, abundant and expensive wardrobes, and somewhere between two and six healthy, well cared-for children. They were all between twenty-five and thirty-five years old. Jenny House had died at her home on Gramercy Park; Esther Fromm and Mariella Luna, both from out of town, had died in rooms at the Astor and Grand Union hotels. Jane Doe had been dead on arrival at Women’s Hospital.

Baker said, “We’ll need new postmortems on all of them. Sainsbury, get going on the exhumations. I want shovels in the ground no later than noon. Maroney, do you have a forensic specialist in mind?”

“Nicholas Lambert at Bellevue, if he’s willing. That will save some time,
as he did the Liljeström autopsy and we won’t have to bring the remains back from Buffalo. And he’s good.”

“Go talk to him today. We have to get moving on this before the newspapers pick it up. Larkin, what about the letter?”

Michael Larkin was the youngest detective in the room, but he was not looking his age. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his skin mottled and doughy. The thing was, he might be fighting a hangover complete with sour stomach and a headache, but his voice and hands were steady. It was nearly impossible to knock a Larkin down; even harder to keep him there.

“I’ve got a draft.” He slid a piece of paper down the table toward Baker, who took it up and held it at arm’s length to read. In ten seconds flat he was scowling at the man who had written it.

“Christ on the bloody cross, Larkin, do you know any lady who talks like this?” He cleared his throat and read. “‘I write to you in utter despair, a foolish girl taken in by the promises of a rake.’ Reading penny dreadfuls in your time off, Larkin?”

Oscar handed Baker another piece of paper. “Maybe this will work.”

This time the captain read aloud from the start. “. . . regard to your advertisement . . . if your medical practice . . . hygienic, modern . . . prepared to pay a premium . . . respond with particulars.”

He grunted. “That’s more like it. Larkin, get it postmarked first thing tomorrow and into the right post office box. Then set up a rotation to stake out the lobby. I want to hear from you every couple hours.”

•   •   •

T
URNING
THE
RIG
north on Second Avenue toward Bellevue, Jack said, “I could have used you yesterday, talking to that priest.”

Oscar had been brought up Catholic and still went to mass when he was sober enough on a Sunday morning. He had no illusions about priests and was generally hard to shock, but he frowned when Jack told him about the Mullens and McKinnawae.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” Jack said. “But it didn’t occur to me that he could make the whole family disappear, like a magician’s rabbit into a hat.”

The muscles in Oscar’s jaw began to tick and roll, but his tone was even. “A trickster of the first order, and him not even a Jesuit. I’m sorry for the
girls, but it’s a miracle you got as close as you did. I don’t suppose Rosa sees it that way.”

They rode along in silence for a while. Jack glanced at his partner and said, “Lia is calling me uncle and Anna auntie.”

“And Rosa?”

“Don’t know if she is even talking to us,” Jack said. “Remains to be seen.”

•   •   •

A
NNA
WOKE
IN
stages, like a swimmer drifting toward land until the water itself pushed her out into the waking world.

Three things came to her all at once: she was alone in bed in a quiet house, which meant that Jack had left for Mulberry Street without waking her, the rotter; the winds that had battered them all Saturday had subsided, but left behind a hypnotic rain as soft and warm as new milk; and she had a cold.

She barely got the handkerchief out from beneath her pillow before she produced a triplet of wet sneezes.

After a day of travel in damp clothes the head cold was no surprise, but it was something of a catastrophe in purely practical terms. Until her symptoms had gone, she could not see patients or even step foot in the hospital. A head cold was not a real threat to an otherwise healthy, well-nourished person, but it could be the end of someone whose health was already compromised. And she hated colds, the fuzziness of mind and head, the impertinence of a body that would not obey simple commands. The oddest thoughts came to her when she had a cold.

She hoped the girls had escaped this, and somehow knew that she needn’t worry about Jack. Lying in the bed they shared, half-asleep, sniffling, she willed him healthy and untouched while he did whatever detective sergeants did on a Sunday morning.

Now she had to get up and talk to the girls. To pretend yesterday was just a bad dream would only make things worse. But it would not be easy.

Dressed and armed with three fresh handkerchiefs, she made her way through the quiet house toward the kitchen and heard the distinct rhythm of Mrs. Cabot’s Down East accent: clipped in some places,
r
-sounds swallowed whole, while in others words were stretched to the breaking point
and tacked back together. There was some debate going on about Skidder’s breakfast.

“Lia, my dear, no honey for Skidder.”

“Why?” Lia, sincerely curious, as ever.

“Because he’s already sweet enough.”

Anna smiled, imagining the look on Lia’s face as she puzzled this through. Then she got right to the crux of the matter.

“Am I sweet enough?”

“You are mighty sweet but maybe you could do with a little more honey. Wipe your nose, dear—but on your hankie.”

The girls sneezed, one after the other. Anna supposed it was inevitable.

Mrs. Cabot was saying, “Now, what were you telling me about that priest fella on the island?”

Rosa said, “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“I do,” said Lia, sniffing. “He has a red face, and white hair, and he smiles a lot but he’s mean. He didn’t like us. He wouldn’t tell us where he hid our little brother.”

Anna opened the door and all three of them turned toward her. Lia’s thoughtful expression gave away to something else, comfort or relief or some combination of the two. Anna’s throat constricted, but she forced herself to breathe and then to smile.

Rosa’s expression was far more solemn, but yesterday’s open hostility was gone.

“Welcome to my infirmary,” Mrs. Cabot said. “Dr. Savard, your nose is as red as a lobster.”

“Lob-stah!” Lia echoed, and sneezed.

“Sit down, I’ve got dry toast and my special fever tea with honey and lemon.”

It took some time to negotiate breakfast—Anna gave up on the idea of coffee in the face of Mrs. Cabot’s stern disapproval—but in the end she sat across from the girls with a cup of tea in her hands and a plate of dry toast between them. She had wanted Jack here for this conversation, but now it seemed that this was the better way. It was something she needed to do on her own, without worry about what he was hearing or what he thought about it.

“We should talk about Vittorio,” she said. “And about Tonino, too, and
your parents. We have to tell stories about the people we love who go away. It’s the best way to hold on to them. Don’t you think, Mrs. Cabot?”

“A-yuh,” Mrs. Cabot said with a quiet smile. “No better way.”

“You don’t talk about your people,” Rosa said. “Auntie Margaret says you never do.”

“I didn’t, that’s true. But I think it was a mistake not to. We should tell the stories and then write them down.”

“I don’t know where to start,” Lia said.

“We can take turns,” Anna said. “I’ll tell you first about the summer I was three years old, when my parents died.”

“Three is too little to remember,” Rosa said, with a certain disdain.