Death of a New American--A Novel Page 8

  That she seemed to understand because she came back. “I would like to have something of hers. Do you think they’d let me? Just a keepsake.”

  “Maybe when the investigation is over and her family have been contacted.”

  “She didn’t have family.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I asked her once. I was showing her my scrapbook and I asked if she had any pictures of her mother or father and could I look at them? She said they were dead. She didn’t have brothers or sisters either. All she had was us.”

  There was no doubt in my mind that Mabel was telling the truth, yet it sounded strange to me. It was rare, in my experience, to find an Italian who would say they had no family. My friend Anna had no parents, but she had aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers—family.

  Mabel said, “That’s why I want something to remember her by. Otherwise we’ll all forget. And anyway, Aldo went in there.”

  “When?”

  “Last night.” She looked slightly guilty. “After they took us to Mother and Father’s room, I came back. Please don’t tell. I’d left my scrapbook in my room and I was worried the Black Hand might steal it. So, I snuck back and that’s when I saw him coming out of Sofia’s room.”

  How had the chauffeur gotten inside? I wondered. Then I remembered: the staff had been gathered in the house to be informed of Sofia’s death. Aldo must have slipped upstairs, unnoticed by people in shock and distress. And by Mrs. Briggs—which was surprising. I wouldn’t have thought that sharp-eyed woman missed anything.

  “Mabel, did you notice his clothes at all?”

  “He wasn’t wearing any. I mean, he was wearing a robe. They must have got him out of bed. Why?”

  A robe. Outer clothes hastily torn off, shoved someplace safe, robe pulled on to cover any remaining bloodstains. It wasn’t inconceivable.

  “May I ask you a strange question, Miss Mabel?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you like Aldo Grimaldi?”

  It was an odd and improper question. But the child immediately said, “No.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because Sofia didn’t.”

  “I see. Thank you, Miss Mabel. I’ll talk to Mrs. Briggs.”

  * * *

  As it happened, I ran into that very efficient lady as I was going down the servants’ stairs to the kitchen. She carried several burlap sacks and a duster. Seeing me, she slowed her step, as if aware an argument was coming. The stairs were not wide enough to pass someone unless they stood to one side.

  I did not stand to one side.

  “Miss Prescott.”

  “Am I right that those bags are for Sofia’s things?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes.”

  “What will you do with them?”

  “What do you suggest I do, Miss Prescott?”

  “Keep them. For a little while at least.” She made to go around me, and I blocked her. “She was alive yesterday. You can’t just throw away her things.”

  “I can if Mrs. Tyler says to and she does. She said, ‘Clean it up.’ That’s what I’m doing.”

  It was on her list, I realized, and would stay there until she was able to wipe it away as done. “But not now, surely. When the police have finished…”

  “The police have finished, Miss Prescott,” said Mrs. Briggs wearily. I was committing that gravest of domestic sins: stopping someone from getting their work done.

  “I’m only asking because Mabel said she wanted something.”

  At the mention of Mabel, her face softened. “Oh, dear.”

  “It’s not surprising, is it? She was very fond of Sofia.”

  “Yes, well, she’s a child.”

  “What does that have to do with it?”

  There was clearly something Mrs. Briggs expected me to understand—and I was failing. Exasperation pinched her face as she said, “Look, she wasn’t what you think.”

  It was a bizarre statement; how did Mrs. Briggs know what I thought? “I thought she was a nice young woman who loved the children.”

  She kneaded her forehead with the heel of her hand. “People are different, Miss Prescott, their ways are different. And their ways may be fine for where they come from, but I don’t want them here. Let them kill each other in their own country.”

  Struggling to stay civil, I said, “I can’t agree with you. I didn’t know Sofia Bernardi very well, but—”

  “You didn’t know her at all. If you did, you wouldn’t be the least surprised at how she ended up. I’m only sorry it had to happen here instead of the gutter where she belonged.”

  * * *

  There was only one person who might prevent Mrs. Briggs from completing her task, and that was the lady who had given it to her. Going to the front of the house, I hoped to find Alva Tyler. I found her on the front porch, gazing into the distance where Mabel swung halfheartedly from a swing suspended from the branches of a large beech tree.

  Hearing me approach, she looked up. “Yes, Jane? Did you need something for Miss Louise?”

  “No, but thank you. It was something for Miss Mabel.”

  “Mabel.” She looked at her daughter.

  “Something of Sofia’s…” A shadow of irritation passed over Mrs. Tyler’s face. “Mrs. Briggs is cleaning out her room, and I just wondered if perhaps it was too soon.”

  “Too soon? Not soon enough.”

  I must have shown my surprise, because she added, “I’m sorry, that sounds dreadful, but I can’t have that poor girl’s things in my home. I want it all—gone.”

  “Mabel would like something of hers.”

  Mrs. Tyler’s lips tightened for a moment. Then she managed, “Yes, at some point, I’ll … never mind, Jane, I’ll take care of it.”

  “I would be happy to help her, if it feels too much for you.”

  She was silent a long time, her eyes dark with exhaustion. “Forgive me, I haven’t been sleeping and all I can think is, they’ll be back. At some point, they’ll come back, just as they did last night, and I won’t be able to stop it, and the children…”

  Her mouth began to tremble and she worked her jaw until it was still, then hurriedly wiped her eyes.

  “I’m sure they’ll be safe with your mother,” I offered weakly.

  “No, they will be, of course. Please don’t think me heartless. The only way I can manage is to see last night as something that’s happened, that can’t be changed, and now we must take action, we must do what we can. And … cleaning is one of the things I can do.”

  Then she smiled crookedly. “Truth be told, I was never that fond of Sofia. She was more Charles’s concern…”

  It was an odd choice of words, but she did not explain, instead patting my arm and saying, “But yes, of course, I’ll help Mabel find something. Thank you for coming to me, Jane.”

  Dismissed, I left her. As I walked around the house to the servants’ entrance, I realized all I had accomplished was the saving of one item for the sake of her child. The rest of Sofia’s belongings would be consigned to the garbage.

  At the back, I caught sight of Aldo outside the garage. He was rubbing down the hood of the car. Leaning over, arms extended, washing with wide, angry sweeps of the arm. The sight of him cleaning put me in mind of what Mabel had said. Why had he gone to the nursery floor last night? And was it once or twice?

  As if aware he was being watched, he looked up. Caught, I nodded briefly and went inside.

  Going upstairs, I wondered if William had followed my advice. But when I found Louise sitting on the window seat gazing out at the lawn, she did not look like a woman who had been recently praised.

  “Are the police gone?” she asked.

  “They are.”

  “I spoke with them, but I don’t think I was much help. And I spoke with Mother. I wasn’t much help there either.”

  “Spoke with her about what?”

  She wobbled one shoulder. “Well … this poor girl has been killed and
it seems like the only thing people are worried about is whether the news will get out and ruin the wedding. It’s awful.”

  There were times I was reminded how fortunate I was to work for Louise Benchley, and this was one of them. Of everyone in the house, she was the only person to speak of Sofia with kindness.

  Still, I said, “I can see Mr. Tyler’s point. If the Black Hand is trying to intimidate him, it wouldn’t do to change plans.”

  “I’ll feel as if I’m walking over her blood,” said Louise, shuddering. “The only good thing to come out of it is William’s mother has decided Beatrice and Emily aren’t to come this weekend and she and Mother have stopped fighting about the music. But I’m sure they’ll start up again tomorrow. And Beatrice will come eventually and say snide things and the newspapers will start up again and—honestly, sometimes I wish it were someone else getting married.”

  “I’m sure Miss Charlotte would be happy to change places. Other than that, I can’t think of a candidate.”

  She smiled, then hugging her knees, asked, “Do you ever hear from your cousin Henry?”

  I was puzzled: I had no cousins, much less one named Henry. Then I remembered. I had once told Louise that Michael Behan was my cousin Henry.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Do you know what’s funny? I thought you were going to marry him.”

  No, darling, I’ll be home soon. That fragment of overheard conversation that told me the reporter was married. Crossing to the bed in order to straighten the pillows, I said, “I am very sure that I will not be marrying Cousin Henry.”

  Just then we heard the crunch of tires on the gravel path. Louise pulled back the curtain. “Oh, dear.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s Father,” she said unhappily. “I knew Mother would tell him to come.”

  A car door slammed. Then another. And a third. Memory informed me this was odd. There should only be two slams. One for O’Hara and one for Mr. Benchley …

  Louise drew back, startled.

  “Isn’t that your cousin Henry?”

  I joined her at the window. And saw Michael Behan standing on the Tylers’ lawn.

  * * *

  “I won’t have it! No, sir! No grubby, ink-slinging hack on my property! I have my own press hounds, thank you. Ones that heel when you tell them to.”

  Michael Behan and I were standing outside on the lawn, listening to Mr. Tyler’s tirade as it resounded through the open library window.

  He had a new hat. When I last saw Michael Behan, his derby had seen better days. The felt was nubby and worn, the band frayed, and the ribbon around the brim had sprung loose in several spots. This one was sleek and crisply finished around the edge, the felt still handsome. He still wore it tilted back on his head, however. And the smile was the same.

  There was a pause in the diatribe during which I guessed Mr. Benchley was making a point. This we could not hear. Mr. Benchley was not a man to shout; often he preferred not to speak at all. If you saw him on the street, you might guess he was a man of wealth from the cut and quality of his dress. But you might not have known that the quiet, tasteful shoes came from Alden, the coat was imported from Henry Poole, and his suit from Gieves and Hawkes. You might judge him well groomed without knowing that his appearance demanded a level of care few could afford. His nails had been tended to that morning, the clean lines of his thin and graying hair were trimmed neatly above his ears at precisely the same length every week, and he kept to a strict diet that allowed no sweets, minimal starch, and—for a man of his era and profession—remarkably little alcohol. In short, anyone seeing the family home or the Daimler would have understood that Mr. Benchley was a prosperous man. But they would not have guessed that he was one of the richest men in the country. And I think he preferred it that way.

  “What are you doing here, Mr. Behan?”

  “I was asked to come, Miss Prescott.”

  “By Mr. Benchley?” He nodded. Without discussion, we had reverted to the formality of surnames. I had never called him anything other than Mr. Behan. But I had at one time said he could call me Jane, and I was relieved that he had either forgotten it or decided it was unwise.

  At that point, the front door opened and Mrs. Briggs presented herself. “Mr. Benchley would like to see Miss Prescott upstairs.”

  To Michael Behan, she said, “You wait here.”

  “Outside with the dogs and fleas, yes, ma’am.”

  When I entered the study, Mr. Tyler was looking mutinous and Mr. Benchley was winding his watch. As I came in, he put the watch back in his pocket and said, “Mr. Tyler and I have agreed that it is inevitable that the newspapers will take an interest in the recent tragic event.”

  I could see from the expression on Mr. Tyler’s face that “inevitable” was not a word he cared for.

  “Therefore, it would be wise to trust the story to a reporter we know. Someone familiar with the Black Hand. And as you discovered the body and you knew the girl—”

  “Not well.”

  “—Mr. Behan has asked for your assistance. And I feel it is better if he gets his facts from someone who is both sensible and sensitive to the families’ interests.”

  “I see.”

  Mr. Benchley peered at me as if to make sure I did see. Then he indicated the door and followed me out. As we left, I looked back at Mr. Tyler, but he stood over his desk, head down, hands clenched. He had been beaten, and he did not like it.

  Hurrying down the stairs after Mr. Benchley, I said, “I think Mr. Tyler would be happier with one of his own reporters.”

  Without turning, Mr. Benchley said, “It is Mr. Tyler’s theory that given his line of work and his role in the Moretti trial that the criminal underworld has decided to target his family. He thinks that is why this poor young woman is dead.”

  He stopped. “One way or another, that is something I would like to know before my daughter marries his nephew.”

  “I understand.” And I did. But I had one more concern. “I don’t see why Mr. Behan feels he needs…”

  “But he does. Or says he does. And says he will not do it without you. So.”

  He continued down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he adjusted his cuff, and said, “Did you know Mr. William’s father, Jane?”

  “No.”

  “I did. Many years ago, I made his acquaintance through a business matter. His end came as no surprise whatsoever.”

  His cuff adjusted, he went into the parlor to greet his wife and daughter.

  8

  Once, in circumstances too complicated to relate here, Michael Behan had lent me his coat and I had been glad to have it. As we walked down the hill that led from the house to the bay, all I could think of was that coat, the rough wool at my chin, the smell of tobacco, the round black button, tightly sewn—by his wife as it turned out, but I hadn’t known that at the time.

  Still, I felt I should apologize for never responding to his last letter. I waited for him to reproach me or tease me, so I could offer up a dignified “Yes, I’m very sorry. But I think you understand why I could not.” But annoyingly he never gave me the chance. Instead we walked in silence, making our way farther and farther from the house, until I said, “Mr. Behan, you said you needed to talk to me. I think you can start.”

  He turned, hands in his pockets. “Who’s designing the dress?”

  “Dress?”

  “The wedding dress. I say it’s Worth, but a friend at the Tribune says Paquin. Loser pays the winner fifty dollars.”

  “How much would I get?”

  “… Ten?”

  “Ten? I think I’ll call your friend at the Tribune.”

  Close to the water, someone had placed a bench so one could gaze at the horizon; it was long enough for us both to sit and I took care that there was distance between us. Here, it was marshland, the water thick with reeds. Ducks glided along the surface, some flapping in agitation as a wide-winged heron leapt from sea to air. I could imagine Sofia bringi
ng the children here. Shoes kicked off, skirts held high as they tossed bread to the ducks.

  To Behan, I said, “So you’re here to write about the latest Black Hand slaying.”

  Stretching his legs, Behan said, “I’m not sure what I’m here to write about. When your boss said he had a story on Charles Tyler that might interest me, I told him no, thank you. Only then Benchley calls my editor, who tells me I better get interested.”

  “Why?”

  “My editor likes Tyler, he’s good copy, especially since the Forti kidnapping. A lot of my friends like Tyler; he makes their job easy. Hands them big stories, all wrapped up with a sparkly headline that usually includes his name. You write down what he says, take a picture, you’re in the saloon by lunchtime. I guess that’s all right, but this time, there’s a dead woman involved, so I’d like to get within spitting distance of the truth.” He looked at me. “The Benchleys still pay your salary, not the Tylers—or has that changed?”

  I knew what Mr. Benchley wanted me to do, and I knew it did not include investigating any member of the Tyler staff. Mr. Tyler’s opinion on that issue had been made abundantly clear. But if anyone were going to look beyond the Black Hand, it would be Michael Behan, who lived and breathed for the story—and sometimes the truth.

  I must have been quiet too long, because he said, “You don’t have to say yes. I know you’re busy with the wedding of the year. Or is it decade?”

  “Oh, century at least.” And I had always liked his sense of humor.

  A swan stuck its head underwater in search of food, long neck arching as it reemerged. I thought of Sofia lifting Frederick high in the air, joyful as she imagined the children she would now never have.

  Then I looked at Michael Behan. “Yes.”

  “Yes what?” But he was smiling.

  “Yes, I’ll talk to you.”

  The smile broadened into a grin and he bounced his feet on the grass, like a boy whose stone has just made six skips on the water.

  “So,” he said, “according to your boss, the Morettis tried to kidnap the Tyler baby. That’s ambitious, but not a surprise; they’ve been threatening Tyler for weeks. Only the nanny woke up, rushed into the nursery, and got her throat cut. True?”