Goodfellowe House Page 10

  I said good-bye to Ruth at the corner of 139th Street and turned down the block toward home. Ruth was upset at the unpleasantness of the news. I was happy that there was any news at all. As I’d told Mrs. Goodfellowe, I wasn’t scared to learn something about Esther if it meant bringing her back. Beth’s information bore out the wisdom of Bellamy’s advice. Now, I just had to confirm the secret lover’s identity.

  And I had to wonder how many other secrets Esther Todd had kept.

  Chapter 12

  Trouble was brewing. When I entered the newsroom the next morning, the clatter paused. Eyes followed me as I went to my desk.

  What had I done now?

  Amid the mess of my desk, five personalized, expensive envelopes were stacked in a neat pile next to slips bearing telephone messages. I sat down and shouldered off my coat.

  Working quickly, I sorted the invites. A’Lelia wanted me to attend the opening of some new nightclub. Several people were throwing supper parties. The James Weldon Johnsons were inviting me to their next literary afternoon. There were also invitations from Charles Johnson, Enrique Cachemailles and the Rev. Frederick A. Cullen, Countee Cullen’s adoptive father. Last, but by no means the least, was a little note from the Walter Whites.

  The Whites—Gladys was elegance personified and Walter, a gregarious intellectual—issued some of the most treasured invitations in New York City. Much of Harlem loved Walter, even if just as much of it wondered why this blond-haired, blue-eyed man with edgy Wall Street mannerisms said he was colored. But Nordic-looking blacks weren’t unusual among the upper crust of Atlanta, which was White’s hometown. He was a founding member of the civil rights movement, and had risked life and limb in the battle against lynching, so no one doubted his commitment to the cause. I’d met White on several occasions but this was the first time he’d invited me to his home.

  I was just reading the invitation’s opening lines—“We would love the pleasure of your company at …”—when a shadow fell across my desk. I looked up to see Selena. She bent down and spoke in a loud stage whisper meant to carry.

  “Sam wants to see you. In his office. Now.”

  Selena had been with the paper for three months. She had a sharp nose, both literally and figuratively. She was also a woman of definite goals, one of them being my column. Not long after arriving, she’d made it clear that she wanted it and would do anything to get it. She’d been making regular plays for Sam, too, but whether it was because she really wanted him—or just saw him as a means to an end—was anyone’s guess.

  If bad news was headed my way, Selena made sure she was the one to bring it. She gave me a theatrical look of concern. “Good luck. You’re gonna need it.”

  I ignored her, took a deep breath and cut across the newsroom to reach Sam’s office, aware of another wave of glances.

  Sam’s office smelled of his cologne—clean and woodsy—but it also held the scratchy trace of newspaper dust. The odor wasn’t as strong in here as in the main room, but it was just as noticeable because of the confined space. Sam was at his battered desk, wearing a dark gray vest over a white shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing lean, but muscular forearms. He was editing articles, but put them aside and stood as I came in.

  “Close the door and sit down.”

  He gestured toward the chair in front of his desk. I eased down in it and he sat again, too.

  “You went to see Mrs. Goodfellowe yesterday.”

  “Is that a statement or a question?”

  He gave me an exasperated look. “Do you know who just called?”

  “Let me guess. She called Ramsey and Ramsey called you.” ‘She’ being Mrs. Goodfellowe, and ‘Ramsey,’ George Ramsey, the newspaper’s executive editor.

  “No. I had Canfield himself on the phone.”

  Byron Canfield? The head of the Movement, the umbrella group for black civil rights efforts? Impressive.

  “What happened? Did she threaten to cancel a donation?”

  “Actually, she did mention a certain award and the Movement’s magazine, all of which she sponsors.”

  “And they let her get away with it?”

  Sam’s dark brown eyes looked tired. “Mrs. Goodfellowe is an important patron. The Movement needs people like her.”

  “She’s just the kind it doesn’t need: people who put their own interests first.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Am I? People like her undermine the Movement with her money. We’re nothing but puppets on a string for her.”

  “There’s always a trade-off for support.”

  “And you think that’s right?”

  “Lanie.” He put up a hand. “I will not argue with you.”

  “Don’t you even want to hear why I went to see her? Aren’t you even curious about why she’s so upset? The real reason?”

  “I know why you went to see her. And I don’t need to guess why she’s upset. That’s pretty damn clear.”

  “But—”

  “Look, I respect what you’re trying to do. But I cannot let you irritate the powers-that-be. Stay away from Katherine Goodfellowe. And when you write that column, make sure you leave her out of it. Got me?”

  I didn’t trust myself to answer politely.

  “Lanie? Tell me you’ve understood.”

  “How can you give in so easily? Why don’t you fight? Believe in something?”

  “I do believe in something. I believe in this paper. I believe in protecting it.”

  “You call this protecting it? Letting Canfield tell you what to do? He might choose to listen to that woman, but you don’t have to.”

  His voice took on an edge. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

  “And don’t you tell me how to do mine.”

  I stood up and walked out.

  “Lanie!”

  I went to my desk and grabbed up my coat. Answering invitations could wait. I had to get out of there.

  “Lanie!”

  The whole newsroom jumped. He came up behind me, grabbed me by the elbow and hustled me out to the corridor. I wrenched my arm away. He spoke in a tense, angry whisper.

  “Don’t you ever do that again, walk out when I’m talking to you.”

  He paused, took a deep breath and counted to three, making a visible effort to control his anger.

  “You’re the only one who can upset me this way, the only one. I’m asking you, don’t ever do it in there.” He nodded toward the newsroom. “That’s my workplace, Lanie. Yours and mine. We don’t want to mess it up … for either of us.”

  His words surprised me into silence. Marcus Hobbs, our sports writer, was passing by and gave us a curious glance. Sam gave him a curt nod that clearly said, “Mind your business,” and Hobbs went away.

  Sam looked at me. “Well?”

  The hard knot of anger that had formed in my gut softened. I gave a little nod.

  “Good,” he said, relieved. “I know you’re fearless. But these are not the kind of people you mess with. The success of your column depends on their favor.”

  That comment made me angry all over again. What he said was news to me and I let him know it. He looked at me as though I was missing the obvious, and to him, I guess I was.

  “Lanie, who do you think sends you those invitations?”

  “I know who and I know why. They send them because they need coverage, because they want to impress their friends, and being in my column helps them do it.”

  “They help us sell papers—”

  “And we make them look good. Tit-for-tat. I don’t tell them who to invite and they shouldn’t be telling me what to write.”

  I was pushing hard—I knew that—but I’ve always been that way. Push me and I push back. At the same time, I realized that my anger was not meant for him.

  “Lanie, you’re not making my job easier.” He sounded weary.

  I felt a pang of sympathy. I didn’t want to complicate his life. I respected him, and liked him. Furthermore, I understood his
dilemma. The problem was, he wasn’t understanding mine: I had a promise to keep and I meant to do it.

  “Are you going to forbid the column on Esther?”

  “I’m close to it.”

  I searched his gaze, not wanting to believe it. “Don’t.”

  I laid a light hand on his forearm. I hadn’t planned to, but I did, and just like that, the connection between us changed. I felt it and he did, too. I saw it in his eyes.

  I sensed the newsroom door open behind us. A feminine voice said, “Sam, could you come in here for a moment, please? We have a problem.”

  It was Selena.

  His eyes slid from mine to a point over my shoulder. “I’ll be right there.”

  There was a pause, the sensation of jealous eyes on my back and then the soft thud of the door closing.

  Sam’s gaze returned to me. He spoke in a low voice. “Maybe we could continue this conversation later?”

  I hesitated.

  “Sam?” Selena was back in the doorway.

  “Dinner? Tonight?” he asked me. “Around seven, at the Bamboo Inn?”

  I surprised myself. “Monday would be better.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

  Chapter 13

  The Chronicle kept copies of its old issues stacked in a basement room. An old woman named Ethel Cane zealously guarded this room. You didn’t dare go near it, much less enter it, without Ethel’s permission. Most people said she’d been here before the building was built—that it was actually built around her. That could’ve been true. Ethel might’ve well been one of the people whose homes were torn down in the name of progress. Not long after I joined the paper, she told me, “Honey, this is my spot and I ain’t gonna leave it.”

  I took her some coffee. “How ya doin’ Mrs. Cane? I brought a little joe for you.”

  She accepted the cup with a suspicious eye. “What d’you want? You don’t never come down here if it ain’t for something.”

  “Course not. I wouldn’t waste your time—or mine.”

  She chuckled and sipped. “Well, I got to say, you sure do know how to make this nasty brew taste like something. What kind of something, I ain’t gonna say.”

  I ignored that. “So Mrs. Cane, I need to look up a party that happened back in ‘23.”

  “Now, why would you want to do that?” She was nothing if not nosey. “You ‘bout to rock somebody’s boat, huh? ‘Bout to do a Lanie-Lanie on ‘em.”

  She’d come up with that term and for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what it meant.

  “Just doing my job,” I said, “asking questions.”

  “Honey, you got a twinkle in your eyes that’s brighter than Broadway, and it says you’re on to something. Whoever you’re after, they’d better start running.”

  I repressed a smile.

  She took another sip. “So tell me again, who can I help you do a Lanie-Lanie on today?”

  * * *

  Not twenty minutes later I had confirmation of what Beth said. Back in ‘23, the Chronicle didn’t do full coverage of black society or its parties, but it did run small pieces once or twice a week, especially when the story involved meetings between the socially or politically significant. Such was the case in September of ‘23. Katherine Goodfellowe and Eric Alan Powell had indeed thrown a party and one of their guests was a man named Sexton—Sexton A. Whitfield.

  Whitfield was a prominent Republican, but not just any prominent Republican. He was the Collector of Internal Revenue for the Third District of New York County and that made him very prominent indeed.

  The sixtyish Whitfield was also self-educated and self-made. He had an impressive history of appointments, from private secretary of New York State’s treasurer, to chief clerk in the State Treasury to supervisor of Accounts for the New York Racing Commission. He was on a first name basis with religious leaders, judges, the mayor’s staff and Mayor Jimmy Walker himself. He had “friends” everywhere.

  Whitfield had certainly used his influence to achieve a lot of good. Thanks to his direct intervention, more colored had been appointed to better-paying city and federal positions than ever before. If you needed coal in the winter, medicine for a Harlem clinic or books for a classroom, Whitfield was the man to see.

  But if you crossed him, or criticized one of his allies, you were dead meat. A master of Machiavellian maneuvers, Whitfield moved silently and struck swiftly. He deserved his reputation as being cool, calculating and occasionally vindictive.

  People were still talking about the Hamilton incident, five years after the fact. Edward H. Hamilton was a militant socialist and leading Negro nationalist. Back in ‘21, he had a humble job as a clerk at the post office. He wrote a couple of letters to the New York Sun criticizing conservative civil rights leader Booker T. Washington. Whitfield owed his start to Booker T. and was fiercely loyal, so when he saw the letters he was furious. Whitfield picked up the phone and by the time he hung up, Hamilton was out of a job. Apparently, the postmaster general was one of Whitfield’s many “friends.”

  He was a powerhouse, all right. Not good looking by any stretch of the imagination, but impressively clever, urbane and discerning.

  I’d met him at one of Carl Van Vechten’s infamously smart dinner parties. Whitfield knew about international affairs, and could speak with eloquence and enlightenment on a wide range of matters. But his attitude toward women was primitive. Upon learning what I did for a living—and that no, I wasn’t interested in dating him—he lectured me on how women belong in the kitchen, that American women don’t know how to appreciate their men and that the so-called ‘modern woman’ is simply a woman who has lost her soul. A woman, he said, is meant to be taken care of, to be cosseted, coddled and protected—as long as she remembers her place. The moment she forgets it, he said, she must be reminded.

  Could an accomplished man of his position really think that way? At the time, I couldn’t believe it, but now I had to wonder.

  Whitfield wouldn’t have been interested in a woman who saw him for what he was, but what about someone like Esther? She was poor and struggling. By all accounts, she was trusting, often naive. He might’ve found her an easy target. What had he promised her? Help or rescue? Maybe even love? Had he promised her anything? Would he have even had to? Maybe she had simply hoped.

  Dear, sweet Esther. The vicious scar that marred her face showed that she’d already once fallen prey to the charms of an abuser. If Whitfield had targeted her for seduction, where would she found the strength to resist him?

  At some point, however, she must’ve realized that she’d stepped into a trap. She’d tried to walk away. Had he refused to let her? Could he, a man of his high station, have been involved in something so despicable as making her disappear?

  Chapter 14

  Back in the newsroom, I contacted Ruth. Had the family retained any of Esther’s belongings?

  “All of them,” she said. “Mama and daddy couldn’t never bring themselves to throw nothing away. Neither can I. Dumb, huh?”

  “Not at all. Would you mind if I went through them?”

  A surprised pause, and then: “Sure, okay.”

  Ruth had packed Esther’s belongings into a trunk and shoved it into a closet. That evening, we dragged it into the living room. Then Ruth headed to the kitchen to prepare supper, leaving Job and I sitting cross-legged on the floor, the trunk before us. We lifted the heavy lid, releasing a sharp smell. Ruth had been generous with the mothballs.

  For about three seconds, Job and I just sat surveying the trunk’s contents. A stranger would’ve seen a typical assortment of clothing, books and bills, receipts and odd papers. But I saw much more, and glancing at Job, I was sure he did, too.

  I reached for one of the books. It turned out to be a journal. My heartbeat picked up a notch. Maybe Esther had written something about her mysterious beau.

  But no, there was only one entry, dated December 18, 1923. It was about her excitement at going out that evening, and a
promise to write more on the morrow, a promise she was unable to keep.

  I laid the journal aside and started to reach into the trunk, but stopped. It struck me that Job hadn’t moved to touch anything. He was sitting quite still, holding himself back. His eyes glittered wetly.

  “Job, honey? Are you okay?”

  “I didn’t know,” he said in a small voice.

  “Know what?” I leaned closer to hear him.

  “That my mama’s stuff was in there.” He gestured to the trunk.

  “What do you mean, you didn’t know?”

  He spoke in a halting voice. “I been asking Auntie Ruth about that trunk. I done asked her again and again. She always said it was just some old stuff. She didn’t tell me…” His tone was bitter. “She didn’t say nothing.”

  “Oh, Job.” My heart broke for him. I took him in my arms and hugged him. “Your Auntie Ruth wanted to protect you. That’s all. She wants to make sure you never get hurt again. I guess she thought … well, she must’ve thought it was better if you didn’t know.”

  He raised his big, brown eyes to me. “But, how could she—?”

  “Listen. Today, she let you stay in here with me. So I guess she thinks it’s time.”

  He thought about that and nodded. “She’s always telling me how I’m a big boy, now.”

  “Yeah,” I said softly. “You’re a big boy.”

  My gaze went to the trunk, hoping it held answers. “Whatever we find in there, we have to be very careful with it.r”

  “You mean ‘cause Mama might want it when she comes back?”

  I didn’t know how to answer.

  He bit down on his lower lip, nodded and sighed. “That’s all right, Miss Lanie. I know my mama’s never coming back. I know she gone for good. I just want to know why.”

  “That’s what we all want to know, honey.” I eyed the neatly folded stack of clothes and papers. And that’s what I’m going to find out.