The lindbergh nanny, p.21
The Lindbergh Nanny, page 21
Not once has he approached me to say he is sorry about Charlie.
Did you?
We leave each other without asking.
* * *
The next day as I am taking down the curtains in the library so they can be cleaned and hemmed, Violet comes in to empty the ashtrays. She is much changed. Despite the police telling us we could not leave the country, Edna returned to England. Violet, once the lady of misrule, is quiet and listless without her sister. Apparently she has been ill, something to do with her tonsils. From my perch on the ladder, I can see she’s lost quite a lot of weight and her hair has gone dry and brittle.
From below I hear, “You know we’re not going to North Haven this summer. Because of all this trouble with the baby.”
“Trouble”—the word is so hideously inadequate. I stare down at her, reminded of how childish she is, how selfish.
I spit, “I couldn’t care less.”
I expect her to flounce off. But she takes her time with those ashtrays, dawdling as she makes her way from one table to the next. Her idleness agitates me; I fight the impulse to shout, There are five ashtrays in this room. Pick them up, empty them, and get out.
Then as I push the last ring over the bar, I remember, “You have no business prying into my private life!” How she knew she’d had coffee but couldn’t remember the name of the movie she’d seen. At the time, I admired her defiance, however brattish, of the police. But that was before we found Charlie. Now that I think of it, they never did learn who she was out with that night.
Violet was the first person at the Morrow house to know I was going to Hopewell.
Climbing down, I gather the fallen curtains off the floor. “I expect you miss your sister.”
It’s all Violet needs to set down the bin and throw herself onto one of the sofas. Planting her feet on the table, she says, “I do. She’s more clever than I am and I can’t stand not being able to talk with her. Especially when I’m in such a mess.”
She looks at me with a mix of yearning and resentment. Settling on the fat leather arm of the sofa I ask, “What sort of mess?”
“The police won’t stop questioning me!” she cries. “When Edna left, they were furious. ‘Why did she go home? We told her not to!’ Because she wanted to, what do you think? Who would want to stay here?”
Edna Sharpe applied for her visa a few days before Charlie was taken. “And when did she leave?”
Interrupted, she has to think. “I don’t know. Early April?”
Around the time the ransom was paid, I think.
“They will not stop asking me about men,” she says, returning to her grievance. “Where I went, who I saw, did this one buy me a drink, did I let that one make love to me? I told them, you’ve all got dirty minds, you should be ashamed.”
As she says this last, her voice goes oddly flat. Her eyes are fixed on the cold fireplace opposite the couch, as if her thoughts have drifted elsewhere. There’s a way she’s not looking at me, as if she’s considering telling me something, but she fears I will judge her harshly.
Leaning in, I confide, “They wanted to know how far Henry’d got with me in the famous green coupe. And of course, all about my gangster boyfriend in Detroit.”
She smiles, warming to friendliness, as she always has.
“But it’s not as if you’d have anything to tell them,” I add, fishing. “You and Mr. Banks have an understanding…”
She gathers a pillow to her belly, sinks her chin into its side. “Yes, but since we’d quarreled, I was … maybe seeing some other men.”
“Oh, that’s right.” I give her an approving rap. “Like that truck driver from the Peanut Grill. Is that who the police want to question?”
“No,” she says, scornfully. “They want to know about this other fellow I met, I think it was February. Edna and I were walking on Lydecker Street. This bloke drives up and says, ‘Give you a lift into town?’ I thought maybe I knew him? Then when I saw him up close, I realized I didn’t. But he seemed nice and we let him drive us…”
Of course he seemed nice, I think. Two English girls in uniform, in the vicinity of the Morrow house. Just the sort of girls a certain man would be very interested in meeting.
“He asked me out—of course. I said all right and he said he’d call and let me know when. Such a scandal, eh?”
“And did he call?”
She hesitates, then says boldly, “Yes. We went out the night it happened as a matter of fact. With another couple.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” I say, as if my vision of those two men and a woman had not radically, horribly shifted.
I wait, willing her to say more. But it seems she’s done.
I say, “Well…” meaning it’s time to get back to the curtains.
But as I rise, she grabs hold of my wrist. “… Be my friend?”
“We are friends, Violet.”
“No, I mean really. Edna’s not here and I need someone to talk to. Someone on my side.”
I give her a smile. “Of course I’ll be your friend, Violet. Come to me anytime.”
* * *
That evening, I tell Marguerite, “Violet says the police are giving her a terrible time.”
“Well. That’s hardly surprising.” She looks at me, eyebrow raised.
“There does seem to be quite a lot she doesn’t remember about the night Charlie was taken.”
“Not only that,” says Marguerite. “But three days before he was found, she went into the hospital with tonsil trouble. Of course that meant she couldn’t talk, which was convenient as the police wished to interview her again. Then, two days after they found the baby, she released herself—against doctor’s orders—and came back here. Where she knows Mrs. Morrow will protect her.”
This reminds me of something important. Unlike Banks, who sees the Morrows as a comedown in prestige for him, Violet has always liked the family—and they her. And I’ve never seen any malice in her toward the Lindberghs; she’s starstruck like everyone else. That argues against her doing anything so deliberately cruel as to conspire at kidnapping.
On the other hand, she is scatty. She leaks like a cracked cup, spreading her thoughts and feelings here and there, making you marvel, Oh, what a mess. More than once, I’ve reminded her to watch what she says. And as I once imagined the kidnappers instructing Henry to court me—Find someone lonely. They don’t ask questions when they’re lonely—I can imagine that man on Lydecker Street seeing Violet and knowing, yes, she’s lonely.
Remembering what Trooper McCann told me, I ask Marguerite, “You and she returned to the house at the same time that night. Did you get a look at who she was with?”
“No, it was dark and I never care to talk to Violet Sharpe.”
“Seems we’ll never know who it was then,” I say lightly. “If you didn’t see him and she can’t remember…”
“Says she can’t remember,” Marguerite corrects me. “Back in March when they took her and Ellerson to Hopewell to be interviewed, the police searched their rooms here. Do you know what they found in Miss Sharpe’s bureau? Six business cards. A man by the name of Ernie Brinkert. She has six of these cards—but she doesn’t know who she went out with that night? It seems very odd to me.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“They want to talk to me again.”
Violet has come into my room without knocking. Breathless, she leans against the door as if someone will try to bash their way in. Setting aside my magazine, I say, “Who?”
“The police. Will you be with me? Stay while they ask questions?”
“I don’t know that they’ll allow that, Violet.”
“They will. If I say I need you. I’ve been sick, I’m still sick, honestly. They know they have to be careful with me or they’ll get into trouble with Mrs. Morrow.”
Mrs. Morrow had a doctor look at Violet. He said her pulse was slightly elevated and she had a temperature of ninety-nine. Hardly a raging fever.
Crouching beside me, she pulls on my hands saying, “Please. Please?”
Why do you want me? I wonder. Show of solidarity? A reminder to the police that they have accused one woman and got it wrong? Or are you really so simple that you just need a friend—and believe me to be one?
“All right, Violet.”
* * *
The police choose what must be the smallest room in the house. I have to think it’s on purpose: six of us—Colonels Schwarzkopf and Lindbergh, me and Violet, Lieutenant Keaten, and a new man, Inspector Walsh—crammed into a space meant for three at the most. The colonels stand back. Walsh takes the chair opposite Violet, Keaten sits nearby at the desk. It’s not a pretty picture, the two of them leaning in, poking at her with questions. I take the place behind her; instantly, she takes hold of my hand. Walsh sees it and looks irritably at Schwarzkopf. Why am I here?
“She’s my friend,” says Violet fretfully. “I’m not feeling well.”
As always, the men look to Colonel Lindbergh, who says I may stay. Violet gives him a tremulous look of gratitude.
Walsh is a heavy man, red in the face with thick fingers; you feel he could start shouting at any moment. He begins by asking Violet to repeat her story of how she met Ernie Brinkert. Violet speaks in a low voice, her head down, so you have to strain to hear her. First Walsh asks her to speak up, then Keaten says, “I’m sorry, Miss Sharpe, but if you could raise your voice a little.” He is both a kind man, I think, and a man who believes kindness is effective, especially when paired with brutality. As Brex had McRell do the shouting, he has Walsh.
Violet’s hold on my hand intensifies. She looks to Lindbergh. He nods, encouraging her to go on.
Nervous, she exhales. “Ernie called me at one o’clock that afternoon.”
Keaten and Walsh exchange glances. Keaten repeats, “One o’clock.”
“… yes.”
Walsh inches forward on the chair. “Before you said he called you at eight o’clock in the evening.”
Violet’s nails dig into the side of my wrist. “I did?”
“Yes, you did.”
At first I don’t understand the importance of the timing. Then I realize: one o’clock was two hours after Mrs. Lindbergh called. This man, Ernie, whoever he is, could have known the Lindberghs were staying at Hopewell before I even got to the house.
With a cough, Violet recovers. “He picked me up around eight thirty that evening and we went to the Peanut Grill—”
“Now that’s another thing,” Walsh interrupts. A warning look from Keaten; he’s going at her too hard. In a softer voice, he says, “When we first spoke, Violet, you said you went to the moving pictures.”
She gazes at the ceiling as if the answer is written across it. “Maybe I thought we were going to?”
“You said you did. You said you were at the movies that night. For two hours, starting around nine.”
The time Charlie was taken. No wonder Violet couldn’t remember the name of the movie, she never went. I feel Keaten’s eyes on me and will myself not to react.
“Now you say you were at this roadhouse.” Violet gives a shaky nod. “Why did you lie, Violet? Can you explain why?”
“I could not explain why, I don’t know.”
“Were you upset when you found out you weren’t going to the movies?”
“I didn’t know about it then.”
I can’t decide: Is Violet brainless, the sloppy way she speaks—using words in a way that makes you wonder? “It”—does she mean not going to the movies or something else? What time is “then”? Or is it clever because your own brain goes foggy trying to fathom what on earth she means. She seems to have Inspector Walsh stymied at any rate, because he barks, “Are you in the habit of going out with people you don’t know and having a drink with them?”
Violet glances anxiously at Colonel Lindbergh. “No, I don’t know why I did it.”
“Are you in the habit of picking up strange men on the street?”
“No, I don’t know why I did it. I just did it and that is all.”
Her voice is rising; I can feel her wanting to get up out of the chair. I tighten my grip, a warning to stay put. Running out of the room will not help her cause. And—she must answer.
The men let the silence stretch, giving Violet a chance to compose herself. Then Lieutenant Keaten slides a slip of paper across the desk, asks in a neutral voice, “Can you tell us what this is, Miss Sharpe?”
“Where did you get that?”
“We found it in your room.”
I recoil. Marguerite had told me, but the proof that these men have gone rummaging through our closets and drawers, put their hands on our things—only to lay them bare on the table as if they had a perfect right—appalls me.
“Would you read it, please?” he asks.
Tearful, voice shaking, Violet reads, “‘Banks promises to try and be straight for twelve months.’”
Despite everything, my heart melts. I squeeze her hand.
“What does that mean?” Walsh wants to know. I glare; they know what it means, why put her through it.
“It is a private thing,” says Violet. “Something I don’t wish to answer.”
“Are you acquainted with Septimus Banks?”
“Well, I work with him.”
“I mean, are you intimately acquainted with him?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she says.
It’s well done; her tone is simple, her face unreadable. If Walsh wants her to say she’s sleeping with Septimus Banks, he’s going to have to be vulgar.
Walsh backs off. “‘Get straight,’” he repeats, as if he’d never heard the term. “What do you mean by that?”
“It is a thing I don’t wish to answer.”
“We know he drinks,” says Keaten.
She looks at him, unsure, then at me. I give her a reassuring smile; everyone knows Banks has a problem, she’s hardly telling secrets.
“Well, that is what I meant.” Then, before they can ask what concern it is of hers, she adds, “It’s not so much for him I mind. But I want Mrs. Morrow to have a fair deal.”
This she says loudly, wanting Colonel Lindbergh aware of her loyalties.
Walsh looks lost in thought. Then he says, “You deposited five hundred dollars in your account in October. Then another two hundred and forty in January. You’ve got more than sixteen hundred dollars in that account. That’s a lot of money, Violet.”
It is a lot of money, more than what she earns in a year. And I know she sends money home.
“I save,” Violet tells him. “And Mrs. Morrow gave me a hundred dollars as a Christmas present.”
“I guess she pays pretty well, too,” says Walsh sarcastically. “This man, Ernie—what was his business?”
“I don’t know.”
She’s back to lying. I fight the impulse to crack her hand.
“Can you … give us a description? Tell us what he looks like?”
Violet frowns. “He’s fairly tall. Thin. Wore a navy suit, a soft felt hat. And a dark gray overcoat.” Then, realizing she’s mostly described his clothes, she adds, “I’d say more dark than fair.”
I try to picture the man. All I come up with is someone not noticeably short or fat. Violet’s not one for noticing, but this is vague even for her.
“Did he make any attempt to make love to you?”
“No,” says Violet, embarrassed. I fight the temptation to roll my eyes, unable to see how the question relates in any way to Charlie.
“Really?” The disbelief is meant to be flattering. “Not even a kiss?”
“He did try to kiss me when he left,” she admits.
Then Walsh goes back to Banks. How much does he drink? Where does he get his liquor? At first I think this is just more bullying and shaming. Then I remember what Ellerson said about bootleggers. They ask again, she drank only coffee? Violet admits she had a cocktail as well.
Finally, Walsh tells her she can go. She is slow to rise, as if she’s expecting another attack. She gives one searching look to Colonel Lindbergh, reassurance he doesn’t think she’s a drunken slut—or worse. But his eyes are fixed on the floor.
“What he must think of me,” she whimpers when we’re back in her room upstairs.
“Oh, what he must think of them,” I scoff. “Honestly, do they not have wives? Are they so desperate for excitement?”
This is not entirely false on my part. Walsh’s badgering has brought up spiky memories of Brex and McRell’s bullying over Scotty Gow. What does it matter if this Ernie tried to kiss her? And why don’t the police say straight out liquor means bootleggers, bootleggers means gangs, and a gang very likely took Charlie. Violet might help if they’d let her, especially if it meant Colonel Lindbergh saw her helping.
But it occurs to me, Violet has had chances to be helpful. And she has not taken them.
“Violet?”
“Um?”
“This Ernie fellow—he called at one o’clock?”
A fraction of hesitation. Then she goes to her bureau, opens the top drawer as if looking for something. “I forgot before, what time he called. It’s not like I knew I’d have to remember.”
Or, I think, at the earlier interview, you didn’t know the police can trace phone records. Now you do so you thought it best to come clean about the time.
I ask the question Walsh didn’t. “But you didn’t mention me to Ernie?”
“How do you mean?”
“My going to Hopewell. You didn’t say anything that would tell him the Lindberghs weren’t coming back to Englewood that night?”
It’s an easy question. Or should be. It’s one she should have gone over and over again in her mind. Lord knows I have.
She pushes some scarves from one end of the drawer to the other. Refolds some underthings. Then shuts the drawer with a push of her stomach. “I don’t recall.”
“Maybe it was … you could go out because the Lindberghs weren’t going to be back for dinner, and the other girl could manage on her own?” I wait. “Maybe you said something like that.”
“I don’t remember,” she says. Too fast. She made the plan to say it before I’d even finished.
