Rose traced the writing with her finger, her pulse racing. She’d been right to trust her instincts. There was a compelling story here, no question.
Inside, the book was set up like a diary, with dates on the top right of each entry. But instead of words, drawings of various plants and seeds and strange Asian characters covered the pages, along with names Rose had never heard before: annatto, noomi basra. Like a chant from yoga class. The pages were worn at the edges and as fragile as ice shavings.
Every so often a familiar word caught her eye: turmeric, fenugreek, chili.
The book contained a list of exotic spices, with adjectives describing their essence. Halfway through, the writer had started to create blends of spices, along with descriptions that made her mouth water: Crush rosemary, lavender, and fennel. Roll in goat cheese or sprinkle on lamb.
Who was Sam Buckley and why did he keep such a meticulous record on the subject of spices? She went to her computer and googled the name, but it was too common, even if she narrowed the search field by including the word spice. The book was obviously a keepsake, as Darby had never cooked with it. No grease stains or spills marred the paper.
A pocket in the inside back cover held a number of loose papers. One was an ancient menu from a place called the Flatted Fifth. The entrées were banal. Bourbon for ninety cents, imported brandies for ninety-five cents. Cheeseburger, chili, fries. No lavender-rubbed goat cheese here.
Also inside was a small vinyl record, about six inches in diameter, with the words Esme and Darby scrawled across the paper sleeve.
The maid.
Rose opened the portable record player and put on the record. The turntable spun into motion and she stepped back and enjoyed the scratchy silence at the very beginning of the recording, like the quiet crackle of a fire. Giggles followed, and then a girl’s voice rang out, soon matched by another, higher voice. The same song Rose had heard from her apartment, before Griff had shown up and blown her life to bits.
Even though the recording was rough, the girls’ voices worked well together. The harmonies, now familiar to Rose’s ear, were perfect and lilting. A moment of silence fell once the last note drifted off, followed by the bookend of giggles.
She played it again and went back to her laptop. Who was Esme, other than a maid who died under horrific circumstances, with no fanfare? She’d searched for the name online, with no luck. The past was a black hole.
The record was in beautiful condition, not a scratch on it. Rose returned it to its sleeve with the care of an archivist and tucked it back into the pocket of the book.
“And why should I care?”
Rose sighed. Tyler had been in a foul mood all day, and she’d tried her best to avoid him. This was not the time to ask for a raise, no matter how much she needed one. But he’d sought her out on his own, calling her into his office after lunch and lobbing question after question about the Barbizon story. She was certain they had an interesting story on their hands. He wasn’t easily convinced.
“Because Darby McLaughlin is a link between the way women were treated in the 1950s and the way they are now.”
“Meaning what?”
“Back then, they were supposed to get married, have kids, maybe work part-time if at all. Even the girls who came to New York City only did so to learn a skill until they found Mr. Right.”
“Like most of the girls I know.” He held a pen under his nose as if it were a mustache, curled up his lip to support it without any hands. “Just kidding.”
Rose took two deep breaths to keep from losing her temper. “Darby’s story is part of the fabric of the city, one we don’t want to forget.”
“What did she do with her life that makes her so unforgettable?”
There was no way to spin the answer to that question. “According to a neighbor, she worked as a secretary for the same company until she retired.”
He tossed the pen down on the table. “So it’s sad, pathetic. What’s the draw?”
“It has the bones of a juicy airport novel. A good thriller.” She leaned forward. “I want to find out what happened when the maid, Esme Castillo, slashed her. Why were they fighting? And what other intrigue went on behind those walls? I’ve uncovered evidence that Darby was trying to escape some kind of dangerous situation.”
“Huh.” Luckily, he didn’t press for more details. “What about the video element?”
She’d hoped he’d forgotten that part. She never liked video, even when she was working for network news. Being in front of a camera changed people. When she carried only a notebook and pen, maybe a small recorder, her sources stayed relaxed and said things they might not when a camera was stuck in their face. Not to mention all the time it took setting up the lights and sound. By the time the camera was rolling, they tended to offer up careful, canned sentences.
“I haven’t heard from the freelance video guy you mentioned yet. What was his name?” She stalled, glanced down at the notebook on her lap.
“Jason Wolf. Hold on. I think he’s in the office today.”
Tyler lumbered to the door and hollered. “Gina, is Jason in?”
A minute later a broad-shouldered man in his early forties strolled in. He shook Rose’s hand, his bear of a paw enveloping hers, and settled on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other knee, arms wide along the back. His eyes were a brilliant, elegant blue, but the rest of him looked like an aging college rugby player.
He wore an old army jacket and sneakers, a combination that usually worked only on Brooklyn hipsters, and tossed her a satisfied smile. “Rose Lewin, from Channel 7, right?”
“Right.”
“I remember your piece on the rats in the Hudson.”
The story had gone viral soon after the network aired it, shots of rats scrambling along the crumbling piers, set to classical music. The producers thought the sound track would “elevate” the story. They were rodents, for God’s sake.
“Not one of my most favorite clips.” She grimaced. “One of the reasons I was glad to leave television.”
“That and the controversy.” Tyler, chiming in. “We were lucky to snag Rose right after she resigned. ‘The woman who brought down Senator Madden.’ Our investors love it.”
Jason didn’t say a word, just lifted one eyebrow.
Rose flipped through her notebook, eager to move on from the topic. “Shall I fill you in on the Barbizon story?”
“Please do.” The words carried a trace of teasing. Other women probably found it charming, and there was an unmistakable air of masculinity to him that boys like Tyler wished they had.
She checked her notes and dove in. “The building was built in 1927 as a residence for professional women, with around seven hundred rooms. The whole idea was to create a private club-type building for women—only men’s clubs existed before then—and this one included perks like a gym and a pool. And it wasn’t like you could just show up and check in. Hotel guests had to supply three character references.”
“Isn’t this the place where Sylvia Plath went nuts?” asked Jason.
She took a deep breath. “Not exactly. In 1953, Sylvia Plath stayed at the Barbizon for a month while working as a guest editor for Mademoiselle magazine. After she went home, she tried to commit suicide, and then wrote about her experience in The Bell Jar, referring to the Barbizon as the Amazon Hotel.”
“That needs to be in there.” Tyler’s voice pitched up, a sign of excitement. “You can shoot B-roll of book covers, old photos, that kind of thing.”
Jason jiggled his leg. “Fading out on a shot of her gravestone?”
“I don’t think we need to focus so much on Sylvia Plath,” interrupted Rose. “It’s been said and done. Old news. We want to focus on the women who are living there now, who have seen it change from an exclusive women’s hotel to a condo. How their perspective mirrors the changes in New York City, how it relates to women today.”