The War Against Miss Winter (3 page)

N
EW
Y
EAR
’
S
E
VE WAS A
bust. By the time we hit the streets, so many people were out that we had no choice but to ride the wave and go where they were going. We ended up at Times Square with four hundred thousand of our closest friends. New York’s biggest party may have been packed full of people, but the war had muted it as though we’d all come to the silent conclusion that any joy was disrespectful. Instead of the ball dropping at midnight, plane spotter stations filled the night sky with beams of light. The crowd watched in silent awe until the singer Lucy Monroe pierced the quiet with “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Everywhere we looked were soldiers with their girls, fiercely embracing, kissing, and dancing as though they had a lifetime of those activities to cram into one evening. As 1942 became 1943 my grief at not being able to kiss Jack at midnight was replaced by the awful fear that I might never kiss him—or anyone else—again.

Everything should’ve looked brighter the next day, but my hangover and the
P.M.
papers conspired to ensure otherwise. The first German radio broadcast of 1943 had predicted that the war would last for at least twenty years. If that wasn’t enough to wipe the sun from the sky, the year’s casualty totals were out, hidden in articles that attempted to downplay their enormity by reminding us that ten times that number of people die every year in accidents.

Jim’s obituary was also there, buried between a war bond ad and a public auction notice. The man’s life had been reduced to a trio of titles: private investigator, loving husband, former cop. On January 4, the day of the funeral, Jayne had a radio gig, so I called Agnes to see if she was
going to pay her respects. After six attempts and fifty-two rings, I decided to go stag.

Jim’s festivities were at Lexington and Seventy-fourth Street at Brookside Funeral Home, a joint trapped in turn-of-the-century froufrou that was as appropriate for Jim as trench knives were for children. Heavy brocade furniture, faded by time, lined garishly papered walls turned dingy by decades of cigarette smoke. Knickknacks dotted every surface while floral arrangements exuding so much scent you would’ve thought there were midgets with atomizers in them towered above ornate marble-topped tables and delicate stands.

The place was filled with people, none of whom I recognized. One side of the room held a group of uncomfortable-looking tough guys who were probably long acquainted with Jim’s fire escape. These men in their chalk-striped suits and pinkie rings hugged one another in greeting and then stood with their folded hands resting in front of their nether regions. On the other side of the room lingered refugees from the
Times
society column. The heavily made up women of this caste greeted one another with kisses that never quite made contact with each other’s cheeks. Tailored men exchanged equally sincere handshakes, their voices filled with the sort of exaggerated emotion you’d expect from bad summer stock.

I couldn’t decide where I fit in, so I eavesdropped on conversations while feigning interest in a brochure. The tiny pamphlet advised me that as a soldier or the relative of a soldier “you never know when to expect bad news so be prepared and buy a plot.”

The thugs didn’t talk much, and when they did, it was in low, hushed voices that forced whoever was listening to bend in close to them. Every once in a while they came up for air and remarked on the nice flowers, or good turnout, or some equally innocuous observation they hoped would make their presence seem as natural as the body’s. I’d given up trying to determine what their real topics of conversation were when a gentleman whose excessive jewelry branded him the ringleader took a lower-level thug by the arm and moved alarmingly close to me to have a private conversation.

“Have we made arrangements to clean the office?” the boss asked. His voice plucked a nerve. I knew this mug—he was the Lisper!

“Shouldn’t be necessary. I was assured no names were used.”

The Lisper wrapped his arm around the goon’s shoulders. “He was a good man—we drank out of the same bottle–but nobody’s perfect. Let’s make sure there were no mistakes.”

The thug pulled at his cuffs and nodded.

The Lisper looked as if he were about to say more when a bruno with tiny, close-set eyes caught his attention. Wordlessly, the bruno glanced my way. In response the Lisper straightened his tie and gave me a knowing smile.

“How you doing?” he asked me.

I tried to look surprised that I was being addressed; I’m sure it would’ve read true if I hadn’t been staring at him. “I’m hitting all eight,” I said through a tight smile.

The Lisper nodded and escorted his companion back to the rest of his group.

While the buttonmen aimed for discretion, the social registry buzzed about FDR’s foreign policy and the effect the war was having on both the economy and their vacation plans. The more nervy of the group glanced at the other side of the room and sourly fretted about the inclusion of “those people” in the festivities. When Jim’s name came up—and it rarely did—it was only to confirm the deceased’s name.

If they didn’t know who Jim was, they certainly knew his wife. While my conversation with Mrs. McCain may have yielded a dozen colorful adjectives, the word most frequently used by her friends was
eligible
. Jim’s better half was lousy with dough and had so many potential suitors she could’ve started her own branch of the armed forces.

The question was why a woman like that had married a man like Jim.

I took my place in line before the casket and decided to make use of my time. In front of me stood a man in a gabardine suit. He was sixtyish and balding, with a prominent wine-stain birthmark obscuring the realm between his forehead and nonexistent hairline. This blemish set
him apart from the rest of the crowd and I had a feeling that despite his privileged standing, he was constantly battling to be accepted by a world that was rightfully his. This meant he was desperate for conversation with someone who treated him as an equal.

“Good afternoon,” I said to him in my best Katharine Hepburn. “Such a tragic loss, isn’t it?”

He surveyed me long enough to determine that even if I wasn’t someone he knew, I might still be someone. “Good afternoon.” He offered me his hand. “How do you know Eloise?”

“From the guild,” I said. “And you?”

“The club.”

I nodded as though I were familiar with that great institution. “It’s lovely that so many people have turned out to support her.”

“Yes, yes,” said the man.

I leaned into him and lowered my voice. “I was surprised to learn that her husband was a private investigator.”

My companion matched my lean and willingly gave up what he knew. “I think we all were. She never mentioned him to anyone.”

“Why do you suppose that was?”

“Embarrassment, of course. A Fitzgerald shouldn’t mingle with riffraff.”

I covered my surprise with a cough. Cromwell Fitzgerald was one of the largest steel manufacturers on the East Coast. The industrial revolution had showered his family with the kind of dough associated with the Rockefellers and the Vanderbilts.

Or at least that’s what I’d been told at PS 48.

I kept my eyes on my companion. “Even so, Eloise married
riffraff
. Why go through that embarrassment only to hide your husband away until his death?”

He moved so close to me I could see the hairs lining the inside of his nose. “That, my dear, is the million-dollar question. Perhaps she couldn’t bear another scandal.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Another one?”

He traced me from top to tail. “My, but you’re young. I suppose
all of that happened before you were born.” He tried on his next words as if they were a set of new dentures. “This isn’t the first…loss Eloise has suffered. It was so very tragic, especially when the accusations arose. Naturally, Eloise was exonerated of any misdoing, but I’m afraid the memory of all that still lingers.”

The body was ready for the next demonstration of grief. “If you’ll excuse me.”

He took his turn at the casket, slyly glancing at his watch fob to determine if the appropriate amount of time had passed before moving on. I replaced him on the kneeler and stared at the corpse. Dead Jim didn’t look anything like Live Jim. His suit was missing its tell-tale wrinkles, his mouth its cigar, and his hand bore a shiny gold ring I’d assumed he’d long ago lost to his weekly poker game. Most distressing was his head. Seeing Jim out of a fedora was like seeing him without a limb.

I closed my eyes and prayed that his end came quick and that his life, despite appearances, had been happy. After that I crossed myself, crossed the room, and searched my pocketbook for something to tip the coat-check girl with.

“You must be Rosie. I’m Eloise McCain.” A china doll in a high-end black suit and a hat that looked like a bird in flight blocked my path and offered me her hand. “It was so kind of you to come and pay your respects.”

“It was the least I could do.” She was unnaturally light, like dollhouse furniture made of balsa wood.

Her large blue eyes studied me through the black netting of her hat’s veil. “It was so kind of you to call me like you did.” There was an artificial sweetness to her voice that made me question her sincerity. Every word she spoke had a duplicitous quality to it.

“It’s what I would’ve wanted someone to do for me.” I gawked at her—I couldn’t help it. Under her hat was air-spun red hair that twisted, tornado-like, into a pompadour. She barely came up to my chin, but she possessed a magnetism that made me believe I was looking up at her.

She released my hand and her arm gracefully traveled behind
her. “This is my son, Edgar.” A man in naval dress uniform with a gaze that made it clear he viewed everything as prey emerged and cast a shadow over his mother. He offered me a mitt that resembled the steel claw one operated in hopes of obtaining a prize at a carnival.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said. “Jim said a lot of nice things about you. About both of you.” I punctuated my lie with a cough and mentally counted the steps to the exit.

Edgar released my hand and gave me the up and down. “How well did you know him?”

I couldn’t tell if it was a casual question or tainted with accusation. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “I’d been working for him for only a couple of months. He seemed like a swell guy though.”

The interrogation continued. “Are you married?”

I shifted my weight and tried to determine the most polite way to excuse myself. “No.”

Edgar raised an eyebrow. “Were you shacking up with him?”

“Edgar!” Eloise’s eyes darted about the room, monitoring if anyone else had heard him.

“It’s a fair enough question, Mother. We know Jim had his dalliances and she certainly seems the type.” From the way he said it, I knew
type
was another word for
cheap
. That may have accurately described my shoes, but I wasn’t about to let it describe my person.

I grabbed hold of his wrist and pulled him toward me. “Seems you’ve forgotten your manners, sailor. Apologize to me and I’ll be on my way.”

His surprise turned to amusement. Apparently I didn’t cut a very threatening figure. “I have nothing to apologize for,” he said.

“Then you must be deaf, ’cause I heard a mouthful of rude. Shall we let Mother’s guild know or should we keep it between us?”

He fought to hide his smile. “I’m sorry if I was wrong about you.”

I swallowed the
if
and released him. I was about to walk away when he snagged the elbow of my dress. He moved in close, until his voice was barely a tickle in my ear.

“You know, Rosie—it could have been to your betterment. What would
a girl like you rather be: a whore or an old maid?” The four gold bars that signified his rank winked at me from the wrist of his blue jacket.

I wrenched my arm free and grabbed a fistful of his uniform. Once again I pulled him toward me until he was close enough to kiss. “Look, Edgar, I’m not a day over twenty-two and the only thing I’m about to clean is your clock. Your pop was my boss and my friend so if you’re looking for dalliances look somewhere else. I came here to pay my respects, not be insulted.”

I let go of his shirt with such force that he wobbled off balance. Before he had another chance to touch me, I pushed through the crowd and made my way to the coatroom counter.

“You must forgive Edgar. He’s not himself.” Eloise McCain appeared beside me and polluted the air with Chanel No. 5.

I tossed the clerk my number and a little bit of silver. “I have a feeling he’s never himself. I don’t have time to acquaint myself with his various personalities.”

Eloise put her hand on my elbow and gently pulled me away from the coatroom. Her expression changed until it better reflected what I would expect of a grieving widow. It was too careful and studied, though, as if she’d learned grief by watching others go through it. “He’s angry at Jim. His death was so sudden, so unexpected.” She released my arm and gently took my hand in hers. She glittered with the kind of ice Jim couldn’t have afforded and I wondered if she wore it to show the world her status or to remind Jim that her life before him had been much more rewarding. Did she wonder about his death or did she accept suicide as the explanation because she believed it meant he felt responsible for her unhappiness?

Her second hand joined her first, making a sandwich of mine. “He led a double life with us. I think I always knew, but for Edgar it’s hard. He idolized Jim and to learn about the mob connections and the other women…well, it’s a bit like losing him twice, I’m afraid.”

I tried to pull my hand free, but she held it fast.
This is a woman who may have killed before,
I reminded myself.
If she wants to touch you, let her
. “I’ll forgive him this one time. Grief does bring out the worst in
people.”

She nodded and forced a smile on her face. “I have a favor to ask you.” Polish replaced sorrow. This was the tone she used with her household staff. “We need to close up Jim’s office as soon as possible. I’d do it myself, but…I don’t think I’m ready for that.” She tossed a glance over her shoulder. “Obviously Edgar’s not a good candidate for the job.”