The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress: A Novel

Praise for Ariel Lawhon’s

The WIFE, the MAID and the MISTRESS

Inspired by a real-life unsolved mystery, this mesmerizing novel features characters that make a lasting impression.

—People magazine

This book is more meticulously choreographed than a chorus line. It all pays off. Clues accumulate. Each scene proves important. Everyone lies. Once the rabbit is out of the hat, everything takes on a different texture, reorganizes and makes sense. A second reading, like a second cocktail, is almost better than the first.

—Chelsea Cain, The New York Times Book Review

A gripping, fast-paced noir novel…Lawhon brings fresh intrigue to this tale…[and] captures a New York City period full of high-kicking showgirls, mob-linked speakeasies and Tammany Hall political scandal.

—Associated Press

A romp through New York in the late ’20s…. Populated by gangsters and crooked politicians, society ladies and dancers, this story is nothing like your day-to-day life and yet…you will find the three women mentioned in the title strangely recognizable.

—The Charlotte Observer

The twists and turns in the tale of lust, greed, and deceit keep you guessing until the final pages…. The Nancy Drew in you can’t wait to solve the artfully hidden clues in this historical mystery.

—DailyCandy

Juicy…. A plummy, pernicious mystery…. Reads like a cross between Sue Monk Kidd and Beth Hoffman.

—Chapter16.org

A great story, told with verve and feeling…. Lawhon walks one of fiction’s trickiest tightropes, creating a novel that is both genuinely moving and full of pulpy fun.

—Booklist

Vivid and unsettling, with a finale as startling as the pop of a gun.

—Caroline Leavitt, bestselling author of

Pictures of You and Is This Tomorrow

Ariel Lawhon

The WIFE, the MAID and the MISTRESS

Ariel Lawhon is a critically acclaimed, New York Times bestselling author of historical fiction. Her books have been translated into numerous languages and have been LibraryReads, One Book One County, Indie Next, Costco, Amazon Spotlight, and Book of the Month Club selections. She lives in the rolling hills outside Nashville, Tennessee, with her husband and four sons. Ariel splits her time between the grocery store and the baseball field.

ariellawhon.com

Also by Ariel Lawhon

The Frozen River

I Was Anastasia

Code Name Hélène

Flight of Dreams

VINTAGE BOOKS EDITION, OCTOBER 2014

Copyright © 2014 by Ariel Lawhon

Epilogue © 2020 by Ariel Lawhon

Excerpt from The Frozen River copyright © 2023 by Ariel Lawhon

Penguin Random House values and supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader. Please note that no part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems.

Published by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, 1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Doubleday, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, in 2014. Originally published in trade paperback by Anchor Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, in 2014.

Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

The Library of Congress has cataloged the Doubleday edition as follows:

Lawhon, Ariel.

The wife, the maid, and the mistress / Ariel Lawhon. — First edition.

pages cm

ISBN 978-0-385-53762-9

1. Crater, Joseph Force, born 1889—Fiction. 2. Judges—New York (State)—New York—Fiction. 3. Missing persons—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3601.L447G66 2014

813′. 6—dc23

2012049724

Vintage Books Trade Paperback ISBN 9780345805966

Ebook ISBN 9780385537636

Cover design by Anabeth Bostrup

Cover photograph © Ilina Simeonova/Trevillion Images

Book design by Pei Loi Koay, adapted for ebook

vintagebooks.com

rh_3.1_150789034_c0_r10

Contents

About the Author

Also by Ariel Lawhon

Dedication

Club Abbey: Greenwich Village, August 6, 1969

Chapter One: Belgrade Lakes, Maine, Saturday, August 2, 1930

Chapter Two: Orchard Street, Lower East Side, Monday, August 4, 1930

Chapter Three: Club Abbey, Wednesday, August 6, 1930

Chapter Four: Belgrade Lakes, Maine, Thursday, August 7, 1930

Chapter Five: Belgrade Lakes, Maine, Saturday, August 9, 1930

Chapter Six: Belgrade Lakes, Maine, Monday, August 11, 1930

Chapter Seven: Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, Monday, August 18, 1930

Chapter Eight: West Sixty-Fourth Street, Friday, August 22, 1930

Chapter Nine: Fifth Avenue, Saturday, August 23, 1930

Club Abbey: Greenwich Village, August 6, 1969

Chapter Ten: Fifth Avenue, Friday, August 29, 1930

Chapter Eleven: Orchard Street, Lower East Side, Sunday, August 31, 1930

Chapter Twelve: Smithson Tailors, Monday, September 1, 1930

Chapter Thirteen: Fifth Avenue, Wednesday, September 3, 1930

Chapter Fourteen: Belgrade Lakes, Maine, Saturday, September 13, 1930

Chapter Fifteen: Fifth Avenue, Friday, September 12, 1930

Club Abbey: Greenwich Village, August 6, 1969

Chapter Sixteen: Broadway Theater, Monday, September 15, 1930

Chapter Seventeen: Belgrade Lakes, Maine, Tuesday, September 16, 1930

Chapter Eighteen: West Sixty-Fourth Street, Sunday, September 21, 1930

Chapter Nineteen: Belgrade Lakes, Maine, Monday, September 22, 1930

Chapter Twenty: Fifth Avenue, Friday, September 26, 1930

Chapter Twenty-One: Belgrade Lakes, Maine,: Wednesday, October 15, 1930

Chapter Twenty-Two: Portland, Maine, Thursday, October 16, 1930

Chapter Twenty-Three: New York County Courthouse, Wednesday, October 29, 1930

Chapter Twenty-Four: West Forty-Fifth Street, Wednesday, November 5, 1930

Chapter Twenty-Five: Liberty National Bank, Thursday, November 6, 1930

Chapter Twenty-Six: Portland, Maine, Saturday, November 15, 1930

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Morosco Theatre, Friday, December 5, 1930

Club Abbey: Greenwich Village, August 6, 1969

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Portland, Maine, Sunday, January 18, 1931

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Fifth Avenue, Monday, January 19, 1931

Chapter Thirty: Queens, Monday, February 2, 1931

Chapter Thirty-One: St. Patrick’s Cathedral, Tuesday, February 3, 1931

Chapter Thirty-Two: Surrogate’s Court, Wednesday, February 4, 1931

Chapter Thirty-Three: Queens, Saturday, February 28, 1931

Chapter Thirty-Four: Fifth Avenue, Sunday, March 1, 1931

Chapter Thirty-Five: Shelby, Iowa, Tuesday, March 3, 1931

Chapter Thirty-Six: Club Abbey, Thursday, August 6, 1931

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Shelby, Iowa, Saturday, August 15, 1931

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Orchard Street, Lower East Side, Thursday, August 20, 1931

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Financial District, Manhattan, Monday, August 24, 1931

Club Abbey: Greenwich Village, August 6, 1969

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

Epilogue

Excerpt from The Frozen River

_150789034_

For Marybeth, I owe you one.

And for Ashley, I owe you everything else.

CLUB ABBEY

GREENWICH VILLAGE, AUGUST 6, 1969

There is, in the city’s sun-blistered canyons of concrete, a storied section known as Greenwich Village. And into it on August 6, this tall, stately woman walks, utterly disregarding the heat, on a pilgrimage out of the past. She isn’t alone. She is accompanied by a ghost. Her name is Stella Crater.

—Oscar Fraley, preface to The Empty Robe

We begin in a bar. We will end here as well, but that is more than you need to know at the moment. For now, a woman sits in a corner booth waiting to give her confession. But her party is late, and without an audience, she looks small and alone, like an invalid in an oversize church pew. It’s not so easy for her, this truth telling, and she strains against it. A single strand of pearls, brittle and yellowed with age, rests against the flat plane of her chest. She rolls them between her fingers as though counting the beads on a rosary. Stella Crater has avoided this confession for thirty-nine years. The same number of years she has been coming to this bar.

At one time, this meeting would have been a spectacle, splashed across the headlines of every paper in New York: WIFE OF MISSING JUDGE MEETS WITH LEAD INVESTIGATOR, TELLS ALL! But the days of front-page articles, interviews, and accusations are over, filed away in some distant archives. Tonight her stage is empty.

Stella looks at her watch. Nine-fifteen.

Club Abbey, once a speakeasy during the Jazz Age, is now another relic in Greenwich Village, peddling its former glory through the tourist guides. It sits one floor below street level, dark and subdued. The pine floors are scuffed. Black-and-white photos line the walls. An aging jukebox has long since replaced the jazz quartet. The only remnant is Stan, the bartender. He was fifteen when hired by the notorious gangster Owney Madden to sweep the floors at closing. Owney took a liking to the kid, as did the showgirls, and Stan’s been behind the bar ever since. He’s never missed Stella’s ritual. His part is small, but he plays it well.

Two lowball glasses. Twelve cubes of ice split between them. Whiskey on the rocks. Stan arranges napkins on her table and sets the glasses down. Her eyes are slick with a watery film—the harbinger of age and death.

Good to see you again, Mrs. Crater.

Stella swats him away with an emaciated hand, and he hangs back to watch, drying glasses with a dish towel. It’s the same thing every year: she sits alone in her booth for a few minutes, and then he brings the drinks. Straight whiskey, the way her husband liked it. She’ll raise one glass, saluting the empty place across from her, and say, Good luck, Joe, wherever you are. Stella will take her time with the drink, letting it burn, drawing out the moment until there’s nothing left in her glass. That is when she’ll rise and walk out, leaving the other drink untouched.

Except tonight she does none of these things.

Fifteen minutes she sits there, rubbing the rim of her glass. Stan has no script for what to do next, and he stares at her, confused. He doesn’t see the doors swing open or the older gentleman enter. Doesn’t see the trench coat or the faded gray fedora. Sees none of it until Detective Jude Simon slides into the booth across from Stella.

She lays her palm on the table, inches from a pack of cigarettes, and sits up straighter. The booth is hard against her back, walnut planks pressing against the knobs of her spine. You’re late.

Stella. Jude touches the brim of his hat in greeting. He takes stock of her shriveled body. Tips his head to the side. It’s been years.

You were here the first time—makes sense that you’d be here the last. Stella lifts her glass and takes a sip of whiskey. Shudders. Call it a deathbed confession.

Jude surveys the room through the weary smoke. The regular Wednesday night crowd—a few women, mostly men—scattered around in groups of two and three drinking longnecks and griping about the stock market. This isn’t exactly a church, and I’m not much of a priest, he says.

Priest. Detective. What’s the difference? You both love a good confession.

His shoulders twitch—a doubter’s shrug. I’m retired.

Stella draws a cigarette from the pack and props it between her lips.

She looks at him expectantly.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tarnished silver lighter. Something like a smile crosses his face and then melts away. He stares at it, cupped there in his palm, before striking it with his thumb. Jude used to be handsome, decades ago when Stella first met him, and the traces are still there in the square line of his jaw and the steel-blue eyes. But now he looks tired and sad. A bit wilted. It takes three tries before a weak flame sputters from the lighter. Perhaps his hand trembles as he holds it toward her, or it could be a trick of the light.

Stella tips her cigarette into the flame, and the end glows orange. You would be here tonight even if I hadn’t asked you to come. Her eyes shift toward the bar, where Stan pretends not to eavesdrop. You have your sources.

Maybe. Jude hangs his fedora on a peg beside the booth and pulls a pad and pen from his coat pocket. He waits for her to speak.

Stella lured him here with the promise of a story—the real version this time. He has been like a duck after bread crumbs for thirty-nine years. Pecking. Relentless. Gobbling up every scrap she leaves for him. Yet the truth is not something she will rush tonight. He will get it one morsel at a time.

Stella Crater picked her poison a long time ago—unfiltered Camels—and she takes a long drag now, sizing up her pet duck. Her cheeks collapse into the sharp angles of her face, and she holds the smoke in her lungs for several long seconds before blowing it from between her teeth. Oh, she’ll tell Detective Simon a story all right.

Thirty-nine years earlier …

Chapter One

BELGRADE LAKES, MAINE, SATURDAY, AUGUST 2, 1930

STELLA slept with the windows thrown open that summer, a breeze blowing back the curtains. The sounds of nature lulled her to sleep: frogs croaking in the shallow water beneath her window, the hum of a dragonfly outside the rusted screen, the call of a loon across the lake. She lay there, with one arm thrown across her face in resistance to the burgeoning sunlight, when she heard the Cadillac crunch up the long gravel driveway.

Joe.

Stella sat up and threw her legs over the edge of the bed, toes resting against the cool floorboards. She pushed a tangle of pale curls away from her eyes with a fine-boned hand. Yawned. Then grabbed a blue cotton shift from the floor and pulled it over her tan shoulders. She hadn’t expected her husband to come—hadn’t wanted him to—but there was no mistaking the familiar rumble of that engine. She went out to meet him wearing yesterday’s dress and a contrived grin.

You’re back.

Joseph Crater leaned out the open window and drew her in for a kiss. Drove all night. We beat the Bar Harbor Express by an hour! He clapped their chauffeur on the back. We’ll have to paint a racing stripe down the side of this old thing.

Stella pulled the car door open and saw two things at once: he’d brought her flowers—white peonies, her favorite—and he wasn’t wearing his wedding band. Again. The sight of that naked finger stripped the grin from her face.

Joe climbed out and reached for her with one arm, but she took a small step backward and looked at his pants pocket. The imprint of his ring pressed round against his cotton trousers. The question that surfaced was not the one she really wanted to ask. Did you have a pleasant trip?

He nodded.

Where did you go?

Joe’s answer was cautious. Atlantic City. With William Klein.

Her voice was even, almost carefree. Just the two of you? Joe hesitated long enough for her to rephrase the question. Were you and William alone?

He glanced at Fred Kahler, stiff behind the wheel, eyes downcast, and responded with a single sharp word. "Stell."

It took a moment to find her breath. All that fresh air and she couldn’t pull a stitch of it into her lungs. "Must you be so flagrant about it?"

We’ll talk about this later.

Stella heard the warning in his voice, but didn’t care. She rose up onto the balls of her feet, the gravel digging into her bare skin, as anger ripped through her voice. "We have nothing to talk about!"

His eyes went small and dark.

Stella grabbed the car door and, with a rage that startled them both, slammed it shut, crushing Joe’s hand in the frame. She heard the crunch before he screamed, and when he yanked his hand away, two fingers were bloody and mangled.

STELLA waited for Joe on the deck of the Salt House. It was Belgrade Lakes’ only fine-dining establishment, and they’d been late, thanks to his difficulty dressing with one hand. She had refused to help him.

Joe hadn’t yelled at her after the incident. Hadn’t called her names or lifted a hand to strike her. All he said was, I’ll need your help with this mess. Almost polite. Then he soaked his hand in the kitchen sink and waited for her to gather ointment and gauze. She had wrapped the bandage tighter than necessary, angered anew by his cavalier attitude and the way he expected her to accept that a man of his position would have a mistress. As though some skirt on Broadway was the same thing as a membership in the City Club.

By the time they arrived at the restaurant, he’d created a plausible fiction for his injury. Had a beastly run-in with a Studebaker, Joe explained to their waiter, wiggling his fingers for effect. Damn thing tried to eat my hand for lunch. And then, shortly after being seated, he excused himself to make a phone call.

Stella ordered their meal from a menu of summer fare: grilled fish, steaks, roasted vegetables, and fruit. A pleasant breeze rolled off the lake, rocking the Chinese lanterns that were strung around the deck. The red-and-yellow globes sent dancing spheres of amber across the linen tablecloths. Only a handful of the tables were occupied, and the diners leaned close over the candles, lost in conversation or in silence as they enjoyed the view. The longer she waited for Joe to return, the more they sent sympathetic glances her way.

The meal arrived with wine and bread, and Stella shifted candles and silverware to make room for the ample dinner. She waited until their server departed with his tray before taking a long drink of merlot. Steam rose from the pan-seared trout with lemon-caper sauce on her plate, and she wondered what sort of mood Joe would be in when he finished his call.

Minutes later, the door banged open on loose hinges, and Stella forced a smile as Joe strode toward the table, shoulders rounded forward like an ox. It was a look Stella knew well. Fury and determination and arrogance.

He yanked his chair away from the table with his good hand. I’m leaving in the morning.

Why?

I have to go back to the city tomorrow. Straighten a few things out. I’ll be back on Thursday, in plenty of time for your birthday.

But—

Don’t snivel. It doesn’t become you. Joe unfolded the crisp black napkin and spread it over his lap. You shouldn’t have waited. Food’s getting cold.

STELLA stayed in bed when Joe pushed back the covers at six the next morning. She stayed there while he bathed—the water turning on with a groan of rusted pipes—and when his toothbrush tapped against the sink. Stella stayed curled around her pillow when he rattled through the dresser and yanked his clothes from the closet. Didn’t move when he nudged her shoulder or when he cursed or when he brushed dry lips against her temple—a rote farewell—his freshly shaved chin rubbing against her cheek. Not until she heard his footsteps on the stairs did she open her eyes. And only when the Cadillac roared to life outside did she sit up. Four steps brought her to the window. She wiped his kiss from her temple. Goodbye.

The last Stella Crater ever saw of her husband was a glimpse of his shirt collar through the rear window as Fred eased the Cadillac down the gravel driveway.

Chapter Two

ORCHARD STREET, LOWER EAST SIDE, MONDAY, AUGUST 4, 1930

MARIA and Jude lay in a breathless tangle, watching the sky lighten to the color of ash outside their bedroom window. Wanton, he called her, throwing an arm above his head and dragging air deep into his lungs.

Maria pressed closer. Our marriage is doomed to fail.

Jude tugged at her earlobe with his teeth and buried his face in her hair, inhaling the scents of lemon peel and lavender. Why’s that?

We are totally incompatible.

You’ve been saying that for years.

Maria’s father considered Jude profane, and her mother interceded daily for his inevitable visit to purgatory, but their different religious beliefs—or his lack thereof—had never been an issue for them. Despite the fact that she’d chosen an agnostic husband over her parents’ objections.

When the baby comes, we’ll fight.

Jude moved the sheet away, exposing her flat stomach. He circled her navel with the tip of one finger and then placed his palm on her belly. The hope in her copper-penny eyes was too much for him. He turned away.

We never fight.

"But we will. Because I will be pregnant. One day."

When is your appointment?

Fourteen days. She breathed the words against his skin.

And you think this doctor can help?

It’s a start.

In the distance they could hear the rumble of the El where Park Row met the Bowery. Jude groaned and pushed the sheet away.

Don’t. Her breath was warm against his neck.

I have to.

You should stay.

Tell that to the sergeant.

Maria curled into him and wrapped her leg around his. His pulse throbbed against her thigh. I could convince you.

You could convince the pope to take a mistress.

Don’t say that. Her hands flew over her chest in the sign of the cross. She grabbed her rosary—pale blue beads on a silver chain—from the bedside table and slipped it around her neck. It hung between the swell of her breasts, carnal and reverent.

It’s true. If Pius the Eleventh saw you right now, he’d reconsider his vow of celibacy. Jude sat up, reluctant. I could lose my job.

Is that such a bad thing? She regretted the words as soon as they were out. A shadow crossed his face, and Maria crawled toward him. She slid her hand along his thigh and offered a coy smile. Consider the alternative, she whispered.

Jude laughed and dropped back to his elbows. You’re wicked.

Stay there.

Maria leaned over the bed and reached for something underneath. The heavy silver cross around her neck clanked against the floor as she stretched farther, balanced precariously on her hips. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her spine, could almost sense its caress in the small of her back. Finally, she felt the square edge of the box she’d stashed the night before.

"For you, Detective." She handed him the small brown package.

Jude took the gift and peered at the hastily tied string. Is that my shoelace?

We were out of ribbon.

What’s the occasion?

I wanted to give it to you back in March, when you got the promotion. She smiled, embarrassed. It took a while to save up.

Too excited to wait for her husband, Maria ripped off the paper and held up a cigarette lighter.

He took it and flipped the lid. A bright orange flame leapt up.

She pointed to the side. Your initials.

The letters J.S. were engraved across the metal in script and filled with black patina. Jude ran a thumb across them.

Do you like it?

Jude cupped the lighter in the palm of his hand. It was warm against his skin. I love it.

Then what’s wrong? She tapped the sudden crease between his eyebrows.

You shouldn’t have to work two jobs. It’s not right.

She pulled away to better see his face. You know Smithson won’t hire a woman tailor full-time—too big of a hit to his pride. So I’ll keep the housework for now. Besides, we need the money. Rent just went up.

"Not again?"

The notice came in the mail yesterday.

Jude sat up and stretched. He looked like a kitten, tongue curled and back arched. She laughed.

Not so fast. Maria caught him off balance and tipped him back onto the mattress. She pinned him down with her hands and knees and kissed him with the deep warmth known only to seasoned lovers. He didn’t resist.

MARIA slipped through the entrance of 40 Fifth Avenue and paused to catch her breath. She twisted her watch around her thin wrist and noted the time. Eight-thirty. She winced and rushed toward the elevator. Her lust and Jude’s shoelaces had made them both late for work, but she could always blame the incessant construction-induced traffic along Fifth Avenue. There were over seven hundred buildings under construction in Manhattan that year, turning her well-laid route into a maze of cracked concrete and cordoned-off streets. It seemed every building, cellar, subway, and foundation was undergoing some sort of alteration to make room for the relentless swell of people. The air was a broken symphony of shovels, rock drills, jackhammers, and cranes pecking, breaking, and thundering New York City into the twentieth century.

Maria wiped a bead of sweat from her upper lip and leaned against the cool wall of the elevator as it rose to the fifth floor. Her uniform, a black rayon dress with lace collar and cuffs, stuck against her back with the humidity and chafed her skin. She fished for the keys to apartment 508 inside her purse, thankful that the owners were on vacation in Maine and wouldn’t know she was late.

She let herself into the apartment and eased the door shut. Four times the size of the efficiency she shared with Jude, the Craters’ home spread before her, wood floors and cream-colored walls dotted with oil paintings in gilded frames. The living room was anchored by a stone fireplace with a stained mantel and a painting that cost more than she made in six months. Mrs. Crater had beamed the day they won the Monet at auction, confiding that it would be worth a small fortune in a few years—not that they hadn’t parted with a decent sum, mind you, but it was a luxury now that Mr. Crater had his seat on the bench. She had shown Maria the signature in the bottom right-hand corner, insisted she trace it with her fingertip to feel his name on the painting. They both knew it was the closest Maria would ever come to a Monet.

The rest of the apartment was compact. A small kitchen and dining room were off to the side, an empty pewter fruit bowl and place settings for six on the table. Vacant elegance. Maria stood in the entry and inhaled the smells of oiled furniture and floor wax. The heavy must of velvet drapes. One day she hoped to have a home as lovely. Jude’s promotion brought them a step closer, but the reality was that even if he made sergeant in a few years, they would never be able to afford something like this. She pushed aside a swell of envy and got to work.

The Craters kept the cleaning supplies beneath the cabinet in the guest bathroom, and she was about to collect them when she heard the Victrola playing softly in the master bedroom. Mr. Crater often left it on—a habit that irritated Mrs. Crater to no end—and must have forgotten to turn it off when he left for Maine on Friday evening.

Maria pushed open the dark wood door that led from the living room into the master bedroom. It was furnished, as was the rest of the apartment, thoughtfully and expensively. Sturdy walnut furniture. Red-and-cream bedclothes. Curtains puddled on the floor.

But stretched across the bed was a naked woman, twenty years younger than Mrs. Crater and a great deal more buxom. She and Maria stared at each other for one horrified second. The woman screamed and hurried to cover herself as Joseph Crater emerged from the bathroom, dripping wet, a towel around his waist. Maria gasped an apology and shut the door. She stood, paralyzed, listening to the tumult in the other room.

The maid, Crater said.

A whisper. What is she doing here?

Cleaning, obviously. He tripped over something. Cursed. I forgot to tell her not to come.

"You forgot?"

Stay here.

Maria looked at the front door, wondering if she could grab her purse and leave before he came out. Mr. Crater charged from the bedroom, holding on to his towel with one hand. Barrel chest. Pasty skin. And behind him, the woman, pushed up against the headboard with the bedspread yanked up to her chin. The look on her face was desperate and ashamed. Pleading. Maria shifted her gaze to the floor. She backed up as Mr. Crater strode toward her.

I’m so sorry. I thought you were in Maine. That’s what you said Friday, that you’d be gone. The words tumbled out, and she was afraid to meet his furious gaze.

Get out! He pointed at the front door.

Gladly. She stumbled backward, eyes still on the floor.

Don’t come back until Thursday when I’m gone, you understand?

Yes.

One word of this to my wife and you’re fired.

Of course.

Mr. Crater leaned in, his voice hoarse with anger. You know what I did for your husband. I will take it all away if you don’t keep your stupid mouth shut.

Maria couldn’t look at him for fear the hatred would be evident on her face, but she gave a quick nod and blinked hard.

It’s not her fault. She was just doing her job. His mistress now stood in the doorway, hair mussed, eyes large, and ample curves hidden by the bedclothes. Maria startled at the protective note in her voice.

Mr. Crater shifted his gaze between the two. Stay out of this.

Maria grabbed her purse from the side table.

You won’t say anything? Please? she said in a stage whisper, and took a step toward Maria. Don’t start trouble with him, the look said. Please go.

Mr. Crater had hired Maria three years earlier as a gift to his wife. She cleaned their home and cooked their meals and ran their errands. Mr. Crater signed her paychecks and gave her a small Christmas bonus every year. He had once pinched her bottom when his wife wasn’t home. Maria felt no loyalty to him and didn’t care to guard his secrets. But there was a depth of sadness in the girl’s hazel eyes that she could not turn from. An unspoken agreement passed between them.

I have nothing to tell, she said, and left the apartment, locking the door behind her.

FIFTH AVENUE, SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 1930

Thank you, Mr. Crater!

For?

Putting a good word in for Jude with Commissioner Mulrooney. He’s got an interview with the detective bureau next week.

He glanced up from his paper, impassive.

Maria twisted the cleaning rag in her hands and shot an uncertain look at Mrs. Crater. If he gets the promotion, he’ll finally get off the vice squad. We want to start a family, and that’s a hard job for a father to have.

I do wonder, Mr. Crater said, rising from the table with a sneer, how the daughter of Spanish immigrants managed to snag one of New York’s finest. It’s an odd match, don’t you think? He folded the newspaper in half, tossed it on the table, and retreated to the bedroom to dress for work.

Maria busied herself with his dirty breakfast dishes so Stella wouldn’t see the shame spread across her cheeks.

Ignore him, Mrs. Crater said. He’s all piss and vinegar because his own promotion looks a bit tentative right now.

He’s right. Maria swallowed. I married above myself.

Mrs. Crater placed a cool hand on the back of Maria’s neck. She patted. Your husband is obviously a wise man. Look at you, lovely thing!

I’m a maid.

You, she said, are smart enough to know that a woman is only as good as her husband. The better off he is, the better off you are. Many women don’t understand that.

Maria turned and peered at her. You convinced Mr. Crater, didn’t you?

He’s never been good at telling me no. Her eyes crinkled at the corners. I’ll listen to the back channel and see how things go for Jude. How’s that?

Back channel?

The political wives, dear. Chances are, I’ll know something before Joe.

Maria smiled, bright and grateful. Remind me never to get on your bad side.

We’re in this together. Where would women be if we didn’t look out for one another? She returned to