Goodfellowe House Read online

  Goodfellowe House

  A Lanie Price Mystery

  Persia Walker

  Contents

  About this Book

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Enjoyed This Book?

  Black Orchid Blues

  An Excerpt

  About the Author

  About this Book

  Previously titled: DARKNESS AND THE DEVIL BEHIND ME

  It is December 1923. Esther Todd is a lovely young pianist, a rising star. Her future is bright, her escape from poverty a real possibility. That is, until one night, when she vanishes along the snowy streets of New York City.

  Days later, thieves hit the home of her society patron, pulling off a million-dollar heist in an inside job. Are the disappearance and the robbery coincidence or conspiracy?

  Someone knows, but nobody’s talking. Three years later, the mystery remains.

  Reporter Lanie Price covered the initial case. Esther's sister, Ruth, now begs Lanie to dedicate her Christmas column to the case. Maybe someone, somewhere will remember something. Lanie starts asking hard questions, dangerous questions, the kind just about guaranteed to get her killed.

  Chapter 1

  We may never fully know what happened that night in late December of ’23, but what we do know is bitter fact, based on details shared by a grieving family and hard truths that later came to light.

  What I can tell you is this:

  It was nearly midnight when Esther Sue Todd hurried out into that blustery night. She was bent against the wind, wrapped tightly in her coat. Her older sister, Ruth, stood just inside the front entrance to Harlem Hospital, under the large Christmas wreath hanging over the lobby door. She watched Esther’s thin, buffeted figure until it faded behind a wall of swirling snow. With a sigh, she repressed a sense of fear—You always thinking the worst, Ruth—and hurried back to the emergency waiting room to rejoin their friend Beth.

  Beth Johnson had claimed a corner of a bench. She sat hunched over, gripping the seat’s rounded edge as though she’d pass out any minute. Her olive-toned complexion had taken on an undertone of gray. The flat light of the waiting room added to her pallor, but it wasn’t entirely to blame. Bad fish for dinner: That was it.

  “Want me to get you a cup of water?” Ruth asked.

  Beth shook her head. She sagged and leaned her head back on the bench, but the wood was too hard to be comfortable, so she sat erect again with a groan.

  “Why don’t you just stretch out?” Ruth asked. “There’s plenty of room. I’ll just go sit over there.” She pointed to one of the nearby benches.

  Beth was too weak to argue. She gave a weary nod, drew her feet up and lay down, curling into a tight knot of misery. Ruth took off her coat, rolled it into a ball and put it under Beth’s head as a cushion.

  Ruth eased down onto a bench and shivered. The waiting room was poorly heated and a cold draft swept through the massive Victorian hall. She blew on her hands, rubbed them together and hugged herself. How, she wondered, had the evening turned out so wrong?

  It had started well enough. They were going to see the Christmas show at the Renaissance Ballroom, a large entertainment center on 138th Street and Seventh Avenue. All kinds of events were held at the Renaissance, everything from basketball games, to dances and musical shows.

  It had been snowing off and on all day and the forecast predicted more, but not even warnings of a blizzard could’ve stopped their plans. The chance to go out was something special, but to have the time—and money—to see the Christmas Show at the Renaissance was extraordinary. Esther, especially, had looked forward to the evening. She’d been talking about it for weeks. Between working, taking care of her young son, and practicing the piano to please Mrs. Goodfellowe, she had little or no time for herself. That night was to have been different. She was going to kick up her heels and have fun.

  Ruth glanced up at the huge clock above the door. Was it really only five hours ago that she and Esther had picked up Beth with Mrs. Goodfellowe’s car? They’d been so excited as they drove off and more than satisfied with their balcony seats. The performers had the audience laughing and clapping and everyone was having a fine old time. Everything was going swell until about twenty minutes into the show. That’s when Esther noticed that Beth was holding her stomach and grimacing.

  “You all right?”

  Beth could barely answer. She nodded that she was, but she’d broken out into a sweat. Esther touched Beth’s forehead. The girl was cold and clammy.

  “Maybe I’d better go to the hospital,” Beth whispered.

  She worsened fast. By the time Ruth and Esther got Beth down the stairs and outside, she was so weak, she could barely stand. Esther put the pedal to the floor and sped to Harlem Hospital on 135th Street and Lenox Avenue, going as fast as the snow would allow. She brought Ruth and Beth to the hospital’s front door, and then drove away to find a parking space.

  She was gone twenty minutes.

  By the time she got back, a doctor had seen Beth. He suspected it was something she’d eaten. Sure enough, Beth said she’d had fish for dinner and that it hadn’t smelled right. Beth would be fine, the doctor said. She had upchucked and gotten some medicine. She just needed rest. She could spend the night at the hospital, but she’d have to pay for the bed up front.

  Well, they didn’t have the money for that. So the doctor said Beth could rest for a while, an hour or so, and then go home.

  Esther and Ruth took up watch downstairs in the waiting room. Outside, the wind picked up and the snow fell harder—thick, heavy flakes that quickly accumulated. After two hours, a nurse brought Beth downstairs. She was still weak, but said she felt strong enough to go home.

  Ruth and Esther eyed Beth with matching frowns.

  “You sure you don’t want to rest here a little longer?” Esther asked.

  “No, no, I want to go home.” Beth rubbed her forehead. Her eyes were bleary and unfocused.

  Esther and Ruth exchanged another look.

  “I don’t like it,” Ruth said.

  “But we can’t force her to stay. Maybe taking her home would be the best thing to do. The doctor said he can’t do much more for her. What she needs is to relax. She can’t do that here. She can at home.”

  Ruth was sti
ll unhappy, but she relented. “All right.”

  “I’ll go get the car.” Esther tightened her coat. “Give me fifteen, twenty minutes.”

  “Let me walk you out.” Ruth turned back to Beth. “You’ll be okay?”

  Slumped on the bench, Beth nodded and closed her eyes. Ruth gave her a worried look, but decided she’d be all right alone for the five minutes.

  “Where’d you park?” she asked Esther as they headed down the corridor.

  “Over on 132nd and Madison, right at the corner, in front of the bakery. It’s not far, but it’s too far for Beth to walk.”

  They were soon at the entrance. Esther started toward the door.

  “Wait a minute,” Ruth said. She went past her sister to the door and peered out. The night was as dark as soot; the only light came from the gas lamps that lit Lenox Avenue. It was windy. The snow was coming down hard.

  “Maybe I should go with you. I don’t like the way it looks out there. I don’t see nobody on the street right now and you know, this ain’t the best part of town.”

  “This is a fine part of town.” Esther spoke with the pride of a new emigrant. She’d only come up from Virginia seven months earlier. “It’s the best part of New York City. Ain’t nobody hanging around this hospital who’d do me no harm.”

  Ruth was unconvinced.

  Esther gave her a peck on the cheek. “You stay here with Beth.” She swept out the door with a wave. “See you in a few!”

  Ruth went back to Beth. She’d put her feet up on the bench, curled up and closed her eyes. Ruth couldn’t tell if Beth had fallen sleep or was just resting. Either way, she wasn’t going to disturb her. Ruth watched her for a long moment, taking comfort in the rhythmic rise and fall of Beth’s chest. Then she gave a little shiver. The waiting room was chilly and on a night like this, it was damp. She drew her coat around her.

  Minutes crawled by. Ruth began to pace. She tried hard not to check the wall clock. But it was nigh on impossible not to. Beth turned over, trying to get comfortable. She opened her eyes and blinked, then frowned.

  “She not back yet?” Beth groaned. “Just how far did she park that thing?”

  Ruth told her not to fret. Beth nodded, closed her eyes again and apparently went back to sleep.

  Ruth studied Beth a moment, wishing she could just put her head down like that. But she couldn’t. She was getting worried.

  Something was wrong.

  Seconds ticked by. Eternally long seconds that mushroomed into minutes.

  Ruth headed toward the door. Beth opened her eyes and raised up immediately.

  “Where you going?”

  “Just outside to see.”

  Ruth pushed open the door and stepped out into the night. A harsh wind slammed into her and she gasped. The night had turned so very cold. The wind sliced through her coat, as sharp and penetrating as a blade made of ice. The driven snowflakes scratched her face. A gust of wind kicked up her front coat flap. She pushed it down and held it in place with one gloved hand, while holding down her hat with the other.

  She gazed to her left, down the way Esther must’ve gone. Lenox Avenue was a wide boulevard. Some people thought of it as the Fifth Avenue of Harlem, and it was usually brimming with people. But that night, the wind and snow had driven away every living soul. The avenue, poorly lit by street lamps spaced far apart, was an icy blur, shadowed, dark and desolate.

  Teeth chattering, she snuggled deeper into her coat. As soon as they got home, she would make herself a hot cup of tea. That sure would be nice.

  Esther must’ve found it hard going in the snow. The wind itself would’ve pushed her back. Ruth had to lean into it just to take the few steps to the curb. This kind of weather would’ve made the short walk to Mrs. Goodfellowe’s car seem double the distance. No doubt that was why Esther hadn’t returned yet. Ruth felt a stab of annoyance. Fighting your way through this weather was crazy. Esther should’ve come on back to the hospital. The three of them could’ve waited out the worst of it and then gone on home. A person could catch pneumonia out here.

  Ruth pushed her way through the snow and wind to get to the corner of 135th Street. She peered to her left, eastward: nothing but darkness and shadows and more snow.

  She stomped her feet to shake off the snow. Like Esther, she was wearing thin shoes, not boots. If her toes were curling at the cold after just two minutes of standing outside, then Esther’s feet must be soaked by now—or feeling like ice.

  At the thought, Ruth’s sense of irritation vanished. She couldn’t stay angry with her baby sister for not turning back. Esther wasn’t the kind to give up. That’s all. She was the kind to set her head against the wind and keep on going.

  Again, Ruth shivered. It didn’t make sense to stand out here too long. She just prayed that Esther wouldn’t come down with pneumonia. It sure wouldn’t be good if both she and Esther got sick. She’d better go back inside. She started toward the hospital entrance. She was nearly there, when a car honked, startling her. The sound was brief, harsh and abrupt. She turned in its direction.

  With ghostly headlights, Mrs. Goodfellowe’s car came barreling around the corner of 135th Street, moving way too fast for the slippery street. The soft snow caught the front tires and sent the Packard into a slow spin. Ruth’s heart skipped a beat and her breath caught. For one terrible moment, she thought the car would flip over or crash into a lamppost.

  It did neither.

  The car swerved to a nerve-rattling halt and rocked on its axle. There was a dull moment when the whole world seemed to stand still. Even the battering wind and swirling snow paused.

  Dead silence.

  Then came a horrible sob, a gut wrenching cry. It came from a voice so familiar and so beloved she would’ve known it anywhere.

  I heard her, she would say. Impossible, people would answer, simply impossible given the distance and the wind.

  No one would listen. No one would believe. So after a time, Ruth would stop mentioning it. What others thought didn’t matter. She knew what she’d heard—and still heard every night, year in and year out, as that cry echoed within her, cutting deeper into her soul.

  But on that night, before grief took over, it was fear she felt, fear and puzzlement. Who was driving Mrs. Goodfellowe’s car? It couldn’t be Esther. It just couldn’t be. Esther didn’t drive like that. So, where was she? And who was behind the wheel?

  The driver put the car in reverse, straightened it out and headed up the street. Kicking up a spray of white dust, the Packard plowed through the snow with gathering speed. The car’s front end wove right and left. It was moving so fast, it looked as though it would go on by. But as it approached the hospital entrance, it slowed. Enormously relieved, Ruth stepped off the curb.

  For a split second, there it was, the car slowly gliding by, right in front of her. Ruth bent and tried to see in through the snow-splattered side passenger window. Later, she would say it was Esther she saw, that her sister turned to look at her, her face ashen, her eyes wide with fear.

  “Esther?”

  Esther’s lips moved, but then she glanced back in terror. A shadow shifted in the darkness behind her. Something—or someone—was in that backseat.

  Then the motor revved and the car gunned forward, kicking up plumes of snow. Ruth jumped back, just in time. The car sped onward. She watched it careen down the street, for a moment too stunned to react.

  Then she gave a yell and ran out into the street, jumping up and down, waving and calling out. But Esther just kept on going. If anything, she drove faster.

  Ruth stumbled back inside, her heart hammering, and told Beth what she’d seen.

  “You sure it was her?” Beth asked.

  “Of course, I am.”

  And I’m sure she wasn’t alone.

  She prayed she was wrong, that Esther was all right, that it hadn’t been her at all.

  “I’m calling the cops,” she said.

  “Don’t worry. She’ll be back,” Beth said. “Of cour
se, she will. She has to.”

  But it would be a while—a long while—before Esther Todd was ever seen again.

  Chapter 2

  I spotted her before she spotted me. It was the first Monday in December and I was at my desk in the city room of the Harlem Chronicle. Our newsroom sounded like Farmer John’s barnyard with people squawking at each another, telephones jangling and typewriters clacking. Everybody was pounding the keys, working on their year-end roundups.

  To be fair, I was making my share of the racket, trying to get out my weekly column. The latest item for Lanie’s World was supposed to be a glittery Christmas piece, another report on the glamorous life of Harlem’s fast set. But I was bored and uninspired, and my copy showed it. It was about as glittery as the bottom of a rusty bucket. The thing is, I actually enjoyed writing that kind of gossipy stuff. At least, most times I did. But doing it full-time was like eating cotton candy twenty-four hours a day. After a constant diet of sugar and nothing but, even the most die-hard sweet tooth will get to yearning for a nice, substantial steak.

  I read what I’d written and shook my head. I’d been a good reporter once, covering crime and its consequences. But that was a lifetime ago. At that moment, I would’ve given just about anything to feel that I was doing more than shoving paper. I wanted to write about something that would make a difference. I had once. I had been that kind of reporter once.