“Did you date J. D. Salinger?”
“No, not my type.”
“This is exactly what I’m looking for; the history is fascinating.” She tapped the notepad with her pen. “You know, I’ve tried to reach some of the other women on the floor, but they don’t want to talk, it seems.”
“Old biddies, the lot of them.” She let out a husky laugh. Her profile was aristocratic, with a high forehead and strong nose. Rose could very well imagine her dressed to kill in the cinched, girdled fashions of a bygone era. “When it was still a hotel, they used to sit in the lobby all day commenting on the other guests like a Greek chorus. After it went condo, loitering was discouraged, so they withdrew to the fourth floor.”
“What about Darby McLaughlin; did you know her back then?”
Stella paused for a moment, then seemed to choose her words carefully. “She was an odd duck at first. We had an uneasy beginning, but we eventually reached a kind of detente. Darby went to Gibbs, then worked as a secretary for the same company for years and years until she retired.” The radiator began to clank. “Oh, dear God, I keep telling the super to come up and turn the damn thing off already, but he’s too busy kowtowing to the rich tenants. Don’t be offended.”
“No, not at all. What kind of company did Miss McLaughlin work for?”
“Some button shop on West Thirty-Eighth Street. Only retired five or six years ago, old goose.”
The clanking continued. “Do you want me to turn the heat off?”
“No, it involves taking all the plants off the windowsill and lifting up that shelf they sit on. It’s the least he can do, for the little I ask of him.”
“It must be strange to see the building change so drastically.”
“Everything changes. I couldn’t care less. I have my little slice of New York City and that’s enough for me.”
“You said you were good friends with Miss McLaughlin?”
“I didn’t say that. But we help each other out, now and again. I’m taking care of Bird while she’s away.”
The news surprised Rose. “Where did she go?”
“God knows. This morning she seemed upset, asked me to watch Bird while she’s gone for a while, and that was that. Said she had some business to take care of. Whatever that means. What kind of business can an eighty-one-year-old woman have? Said she’d be back in three weeks.”
Rose’s hopes fell. Tyler wouldn’t be happy. “Does she often go on trips?”
“Rarely. Can’t think of the last time she left town. Like I said, she was in a hurry. You said you talked to her?”
“Yes, we were going to set up a time to speak further. Were you here when she had the accident?”
“How did you hear about that?”
“One of the doormen. He was very respectful,” she added quickly.
“Patrick. Biggest gossip in the building.” Her voice became quiet, eerie. “I can’t help you out there. Darby’s private. She doesn’t talk much about it.”
“Do you remember the name of the maid who died?”
Stella let out a low whistle. “Can’t forget her. She was a wiseass. Esme. Esme Castillo was her full name. After it happened, it was all the girls could talk about for weeks. The hotel kept the scandal quiet, never even hit the papers.” She stared at Rose through narrowed eyelids. “Is that what you want to write about?”
“No, not if she’s uncomfortable. I would like to talk to her, though, about other things. Do you think you might explain what I’m doing the next time you see her?”
“You seem like a nice enough gal. I’ll see what I can do, but you shouldn’t hold your breath. Darby’s probably the last of the old-timers you’ll get to open up. After the accident, she closed herself off. Like a curtain coming down at the end of a play.”
Rose left her business card with Stella and took the stairs up one flight. On one hand, Miss McLaughlin’s sudden exodus put her story into a tailspin. On the other, Stella’s story would make an epic profile and might keep Tyler at bay until she returned.
Exhausted, she passed out on the couch until the ringing of her cell phone woke her up out of a heavy, black sleep. She hurried to it, hoping maybe it was Griff. Instead, Stella’s voice crackled across the line.
“I need your help.”
“Sure, Stella, what can I do for you?”
“Get my apartment key from Patrick and take Darby’s dog.”
“I’m sorry?”
“My doctor put me in the hospital for tests. Apparently it’s my heart, not my nerves. They think I’m having some kind of a heart attack or something.”
“I’m so sorry. What can I do?”
“What I just asked. Take care of Bird while I’m away. Patrick will give you the key.”
“I’m happy to help, but Miss McLaughlin and I barely know each other.”
“Darby doesn’t have many friends, so that’s nothing new. You live in the building, and I can track you down if you steal anything, not that we have anything to steal.”
“I won’t steal a thing, I promise.”
“If he runs out of food, there’s more in Darby’s apartment. Her key is on my kitchen counter. He’s a good dog, won’t poop on your rugs or anything like that. Darby’s instructions are on the kitchen counter.”
Rose tried not to sound too excited. Once Miss McLaughlin found out she’d stepped in during a crisis, she’d have to talk. Assuming she wasn’t too pissed off. Either way, Rose was just being neighborly, and it was an opportunity to move the story forward and connect with the primary source. “Okay, get well soon and let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”
“Enjoy being young. That’s what you can do for me.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
New York City, 1952
So this was what a hangover felt like.
Darby wanted to curl back in bed and wait for the pounding in her right temple to subside, but that wasn’t what a Katie Gibbs girl did. No, a Katie Gibbs girl gets up and goes to work no matter how ill she might be, knowing that her boss depends on her punctuality. Or at least that’s what the typing teacher said as Darby slunk to her seat five minutes after the other girls had arrived.
“Punctuality and presence. If you’re not there to answer Mr. Blake’s phone, he may miss a very important call, one that the entire organization depends on. Would you want to be the girl who causes a business crisis?” Mrs. Allen peered at Darby through thick-framed glasses, like a scientist staring into a petri dish. “Darby McLaughlin. You are late.”
Darby’s stomach churned. She had never been late a day in high school. As a matter of fact, she’d always arrived early, terrified of standing out.
“I’m sorry. I got lost, but it won’t happen again.”
“You got lost?”
Thankfully, the girl who sat next to Darby raised her hand, and Mrs. Allen was momentarily distracted.
“Yes, Maureen.”
“Mrs. Allen, who is Mr. Blake?”
“Mr. Blake is the name of the first boss I ever had. I learned much from him, so I use him as my teaching tool.” She glared in their direction. “Any other questions?”
“No, ma’am.”
She turned away from Darby and began handing out sample letters. Darby slid hers into the stand at the right of the gray Remington typewriter and wished her eyes weren’t so blurry. She had taken a terrible risk, going out with Esme. No more taking reckless chances. She’d experienced two sides of New York City, the snooty and the subversive, and from now on, her studies would take precedence.
Mrs. Allen turned on the record player and they began typing in time to a slow march. By the end of a couple of months, according to Mrs. Allen, they’d progress to the Ringing Anvil March, typing forty-seven words per minute. Upon completion of the course, they’d be up to fifty-five. The music helped, flowing through Darby like water and making her fingers dance on the keys. At the end of the class, Darby was pleased to be one of the only students whose letter was deemed “mailable.” Her desk mate, the girl named Maureen, had also done well.