Miss Kopp's Midnight Confessions Read online

  When she told him that she wasn’t going home—“Wouldn’t you like me to stay a night?” was how she put it to him—he looked down at her with a little half-smile and thought about it for a minute, making another calculation. Then he said that she might as well come with him to the home of a distant cousin who lived down on Mott Street. He slept in a chair, and she took the only spare bed, but she went to him in the middle of the night, or perhaps he found his way to her bed, but one way or another, by morning they were something more than two strangers who’d run off to the city for a day.

  Next came the delicate question of what Tony’s obligations toward her might be. Minnie wasn’t going home, but she hadn’t any other place to lay her head. She’d been hoping that Tony kept a little room somewhere and would let her stay for a week or two. She was surprised to learn that he lived in his parents’ basement in Fort Lee and worked in their restaurant during the winter until the steamboat hired him back on in the spring. He couldn’t very well bring Minnie home to live in the basement.

  Minnie did her best to look a little helpless and love-struck, and perhaps she was. Tony seemed struck dumb by the obligation he found himself under, after what had transpired between them. She expected far more than he was prepared to give, but what was he to do about it?

  After some sly suggestions on her part, one or the other of them proposed that they take a furnished room in Fort Lee, posing as husband and wife. She couldn’t remember, later, exactly how it came about, but it was precisely the sort of situation she’d been hoping for. He promised to save every penny toward “something better for us,” which might have meant marriage and might have meant nothing at all, and Minnie didn’t mind either way. He told her that if she could take a job herself, they’d have enough money to go into New York from time to time. There would be dances and cabarets, and new dresses for Minnie, dresses that her sister had never once worn.

  What girl wouldn’t want a life like that? She would never see the inside of a knitting mill again, or share a bed with Goldie in that drafty room behind the kitchen. She’d be a woman of the world, with a home in New York—or near it, anyway, almost in sight of it. She would go to work just as Tony had asked her to, but it would be something droll and lighthearted. She would make bouquets at a flower shop. She would sell tickets at a moving picture house. She might even take the ferry across and have a little secretarial job in Manhattan like the girls she’d seen at the lunch counters.

  Everything went as she hoped it would—almost. They rented a room above a bakery on Main Street in Fort Lee. Minnie couldn’t find work in a theater or a flower shop, and it cost too much to go by ferry to New York every day, so she took a job as a carder in a jute mill, which was considerably dustier and less pleasant than the knitting mill back in Catskill. It was disagreeable work compared to running a knitting machine, and within a few days her fingers were always red and swollen from handling the rough material.

  She found out that living near New York wasn’t at all the same as living in New York, and that their plans to visit the city never quite came together. She only went once in the fall, and that was to mail a letter. Tony had insisted that she send word to her parents—otherwise, he argued, they’d send the police after her, and she could be forcibly taken back home, which would be so much worse for her. After some arguing, she wrote the letter, explaining that she was well and engaged to be married. (There had been no further talk of marriage, but what else could Minnie have said?) She insisted they go to New York to post it so that she couldn’t be found by the postmark.

  “I’d rather be the girl who ran away to New York than the one who ran away to Fort Lee,” she told Tony, and he indulged her and took her to the downtown post office in Manhattan. She’d dressed for lunch and an afternoon in the shops, but Tony wouldn’t pay for anything more than a sandwich at the train station. They rode back together in silence, Minnie despondent, Tony distracted.

  He spent most nights at his parents’ house so that they wouldn’t suspect him of wrongdoing. Although he wasn’t paying rent at home, he never did seem to have any money. He claimed that he was saving it, that he had to be frugal, that he had expenses of his own. It fell to Minnie to pay most of the rent and to stock the kitchen with the little that she earned. There was nothing left for new dresses and theater tickets. After the initial thrill of playing at husband and wife wore off, Tony didn’t come around as often. Sometimes she didn’t see him for a week, sometimes two. There was no real bond between them—there never had been—and Tony probably wished to be relieved of any further obligations toward her.

  Could she be blamed if she got lonely? What was there to do, all alone in her little room at night, but to read a library book or play a game of solitaire? The old emptiness had found her again. It practically roared in her ears. She couldn’t stand her own company anymore and grew to hate the worries that ran in circles in her head: Was anything to become of her and Tony? Would she ever get out of the jute mill and on to another life? Had she only traded one factory and dingy room for another?

  Minnie had always hated being poor and thought it unfair that such things as blue fox collars and emeralds and meringues existed if she couldn’t have them. There wasn’t enough money to go to town, much less to buy anything, and sometimes she could hardly afford to eat. She was bored and lonely and already tired of her new life and longing for another one.

  One evening, when the rent was a week late, and she’d had a few too many dinners of tea and toast (the toast salvaged from the bakery’s day-old bins downstairs), and she couldn’t stand to be alone in a room with herself for another night, she walked out of the jute mill and nearly ran into a man who was lingering there, fumbling with a cigarette. He backed away and apologized, and looked down at her with a bemused and crinkly smile.

  “Say, you look like a girl my sister used to know. What’s your name?”

  Minnie wanted nothing more in the world at that moment than to hear him say her name, so she gave it to him.

  20

  CONSTANCE WENT DOWNSTAIRS to look for Sheriff Heath but found Mrs. Heath in his office instead. She was seated at his desk, going over some papers, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world for the sheriff’s wife to occupy his place. Constance was so startled by the sight that she entirely forgot the reason for her visit.

  If she could, she would’ve turned around and left. She never knew how to behave in Mrs. Heath’s presence. All her efforts to stay in Cordelia’s good graces left her feeling exhausted and insufficient.

  But it was too late; she’d been spotted.

  “Miss Kopp!” Cordelia called out, extending to Constance the genteel smile that she always presented to the public. There was an aristocratic fragility in her appearance, like tissue too fine to touch. On this occasion she wore a blue velvet suit with a jacket that flared just below the waist, and a tam-o’-shanter hat to match. It was the uniform of a busy socialite. This, Constance realized, was a woman with an agenda.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Heath.”

  “I know you were looking for my husband, but I want a word with you before I run out. I’ve taken charge of Bob’s campaign —”

  “Campaign?”

  “Ah, yes. It’s an election year—didn’t you know that?”

  “I —”

  “Well, I’m arranging for a photographer, and a schedule of lectures throughout the summer and fall, and a few advertisements in the newspapers. Which brings me to you. Now, Bob assures me he’s spoken to you about this already, but you must know how important it is to stay out of the papers during an election year.”

  “I suppose so,” Constance said, although she hadn’t thought at all about how she ought to behave in an election year. She wasn’t accustomed to having to pay attention to such things, and Sheriff Heath certainly didn’t encourage it: he told his deputies to ignore political skirmishes and to do the best job they could without worrying about what the voters might think. But their jobs dep
ended upon Sheriff Heath winning his election, so it mattered a great deal.

  Cordelia pressed on. “I can’t seem to stop him from lecturing the Freeholders, or feuding with the prosecutor’s office, or turning a lady deputy loose on the streets, but I can try to keep it out of the papers, can’t I?”

  She didn’t bother to apologize for the remark about the lady deputy, as she’d made her views entirely clear already and there wouldn’t be any reason to pretend otherwise. Constance, for her part, didn’t bother to take offense. She thought it a waste of her time to cosset and fuss over every fresh injury Mrs. Heath tried to inflict upon her.

  “Yes, ma’am. You needn’t worry. I’d be perfectly happy to stay out of the papers. You wouldn’t believe the letters I’ve had.”

  Cordelia laughed brightly. “Bob told me! Marriage proposals! What kind of man wants to marry a woman in uniform?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Constance said agreeably. “There won’t be any trouble about the papers.”

  To her relief, Sheriff Heath’s footsteps came down the hall. She was still standing in the doorway, and when he spotted her, he called, “I heard there was quite a crowd in Paterson for Miss Fleurette’s show.”

  She started to answer, but then he came around the corner and saw Cordelia. “Dear, if you sit at my desk, people will think you’re running quite a bit more than my campaign.”

  Cordelia stood up and cleared her papers away. “I haven’t any other place to work.”

  “We’ll find you something. Did Miss Kopp tell you that her youngest sister had an audition with May Ward?”

  Cordelia wrinkled her pretty little nose. “Isn’t May Ward a sort of vaudeville act?”

  “She is,” said Constance, “but it’s what you might think of as light comedy. It wasn’t really an audition. It was more of a talent show with May Ward in attendance. The girls had a good time and there was no harm in it.”

  “Then they didn’t offer Miss Fleurette the part?” The sheriff took his seat behind the desk as his wife moved away.

  “Of course not. Just as Norma suspected, there were no parts on offer. But what I came to tell you is that I have been to see the Davises. It wasn’t at all what I expected.”

  Cordelia took a seat, gingerly, as if she hoped no one would notice that she was still there. But both Constance and Sheriff Heath turned to look at her.

  “This is the white slave case, isn’t it?” Cordelia asked.

  Mrs. Heath wasn’t in the habit of putting herself in the middle of her husband’s business like this. Constance could see that it annoyed him. There was an uneasiness between the sheriff and his wife that Constance wished they would keep behind the closed doors of their residence.

  Sheriff Heath very deliberately turned away from his wife and said, “Tell me what happened up in Catskill.”

  “They’re very strict,” Constance said. “I believe they think Minnie’s gone and ruined herself. They don’t want her back.”

  “And what does Miss Davis say?”

  “Well, she knows she’s not wanted, and she wants nothing to do with them either. She seems to think she can make a clean breast of it with the judge and go free.”

  “The prosecutor expects her to testify against Anthony Leo. Is she prepared to do that?”

  “She doesn’t want to,” Constance said. “She insists that she wasn’t coerced. I suppose she has some affection for Tony—Mr. Leo—and doesn’t think he’s to blame.”

  “Well, someone’s to blame,” Cordelia put in, with a nervous laugh.

  The sheriff sighed and dropped a pencil on his desk. “I thought you had quite a busy day, dear.”

  Cordelia twitched a little at that but stood up gracefully. “These are exactly the kinds of cases that could hurt your campaign. If you’re against arresting girls over morality crimes, then what are you for?”

  The sheriff rubbed his forehead and pushed his hair back. “It’s not as simple as that.”

  “It will be for the voters. But I won’t interfere.” She swept out of the room without another word. Constance allowed herself a flutter of relief: every word she said sounded wrong in Mrs. Heath’s presence. But perhaps Cordelia’s caution was well-founded.

  “If the election changes things with this case —” Constance began.

  “It doesn’t. But Miss Davis is the victim in this, even if she doesn’t see it that way. She’s sixteen and she was misled by a false promise of marriage. Try to get her to see it that way.”

  “Minnie isn’t the kind of girl who likes to change her mind, but I’ll try,” Constance said. “I’d also like to go down to Fort Lee and speak to her landlord.”

  “That’s fine. The prosecutor hasn’t even filed charges, so nothing’s going to happen this week. You have time.”

  “Would you mind if I spoke to Tony? If he cares about the girl at all, he might know someone who’d speak on her behalf.”

  “Mr. Courter will think you’re interfering with his case,” the sheriff said, but Constance could tell he rather liked the idea of that.

  “Then come with me,” she said, “and you can make sure that I don’t.”

  TONY LOOKED UP at Constance and the sheriff suspiciously, but then rose from his bunk and went over to the bars of his cell. Constance hadn’t seen him since the day of his arrest. Even without his nice suit and his hair pomade, he still had the easy good looks that a girl could fall for.

  In fact, he turned his eyes on her with the kind of affability that must have worked on many a young lady. “I remember you,” he said with a grin. “You’re the girl cop who took care of Minnie that day. How’s she getting on? Did they let her keep that sweet little place above the bakery? It always smelled like sugar up there.”

  Constance said, “Mr. Leo, she never did go back to that little room. She’s right upstairs in her own cell, up on the fifth floor. We’re holding her as a witness in the case against you. Didn’t you know that?”

  He took a step back, stunned. “She’s in jail? My girl’s in jail? I thought you’d take down her story and let her go.”

  “We didn’t,” said Sheriff Heath.

  “But she hasn’t done anything wrong! She’s never done nothing wrong in her life. She shouldn’t be held on my account.”

  “She refuses to testify against you,” Constance said. “She insists that neither of you did anything wrong.”

  He grinned. “That’s my girl. You tell her I said so.”

  Sheriff Heath said, “Son, we’re not here to pass messages between you two. Now that you know Minnie isn’t making any accusations against you, we’d like to know if you can help her.”

  “We need someone who can speak on her behalf,” Constance said, “and testify as to her character.”

  He put his shoulders back and said, “Yes, ma’am. It would be my honor.”

  She couldn’t help but smile at that. “Not you, Tony. Someone else. A landlord, a neighbor, someone she knew at work? Maybe someone in your family.”

  Tony shook his head. “My family didn’t know nothing about her. And I—well, Minnie and me had our troubles. I’m sorry, but I wasn’t around much. And when I was . . . well, we stayed in most nights. We didn’t go out and see people. I don’t think anybody in Fort Lee knew her.”

  Constance said, “Tony, don’t you see? If she tells the judge she went willingly, it doesn’t look good for her. He won’t release her if he thinks she’s prone to running off with any man she meets.”

  “She doesn’t run off with any man! She . . .” But he faltered as he saw the reasoning behind it. “That’s not fair,” he added, weakly.

  “It would’ve been fair of you to marry her, but you didn’t,” Sheriff Heath said.

  “Aw, Sheriff! Why can’t she go back to the jute factory, or home to her mother?”

  “Her mother and father won’t take her back now,” Constance told him, “and no judge is going to release her on her own. He’s going to want her under someone’s care, a girl of sixteen.”


  “Bah,” he said, the corners of his mouth turning down. “She never told me she was sixteen.”

  Sheriff Heath leaned in closer. Tony looked at him with the sorrowful eyes of a stray dog. “Listen to me, son. I know you must meet a lot of girls on that boat.”

  He shrugged and glanced over at Constance, embarrassed. “Some.”

  “Of course you do. And I bet Minnie isn’t the first girl you took down the river for a night.”

  “Well. There might have been a few. But they wanted to go, Sheriff! Honest. I never forced anybody.”

  He nodded sympathetically. “I know you didn’t. The trouble is, these girls start to get ideas about marriage and children, don’t they?”

  Tony let out a long breath. “That’s just it, Sheriff. They don’t want to go home to their mothers! What am I supposed to say about that?”

  “Well, you can’t marry all of them, Tony. And you weren’t going to marry this one either, were you?”

  He didn’t answer that.

  “We have a forged marriage license that we found in your pocket. The prosecutor is bound to turn up your lease, and I’ll bet it says that you and Minnie presented yourselves as man and wife. Do you know what that adds up to?”

  He put his head down a little. He looked like a child who’d just been scolded.

  Sheriff Heath leaned forward and said, “Look at me.”

  Tony did.

  Sheriff Heath said, “It means a white slave charge.”

  He stepped away from the bars and looked back and forth between the two of them. “I’m no white slaver. I never drugged a girl and I never kidnapped nobody. Let me out of here and I’ll marry Minnie tomorrow. I’ll marry her right now, with these chains on me, if you’ll take us to the courthouse.”