The Dollhouse

CHAPTER ELEVEN

New York City, 2016

Twelve hours after the migraine struck, the pain finally passed. Rose had spent the entire night on the couch, raising her head for a sip of water only once, trying to breathe through the nausea in her gut and the pounding in her head. Now relief flooded through her body, and everything she usually took for granted, like sunlight and the sound of construction and traffic outside the windows, she welcomed with what could almost be called joy.

The apartment smelled yeasty and stale. She opened the windows and took a shower before heading out with the dog. Bird seemed as happy as she was to be outdoors, and didn’t charge any of the other dogs they passed on the narrow pathways in Central Park.

Rose made sure to enter and exit through the building’s service entrance, where the doormen were unlikely to engage her in conversation. When she turned down the hallway to Miss McLaughlin’s apartment, a woman with a walker clomped her way, stopping to let out a phlegmy cough.

As Rose drew closer, the woman regarded her with suspicion, one bushy gray eyebrow raised. “Who are you?”

“I’m the dog sitter for Miss McLaughlin.”

“Where’d she go?”

“I’m not sure. On vacation.”

“Darby never goes on vacation.”

“She’ll be back in a couple of weeks. I’m Rose.” She stuck out her hand and the woman gave her a limp handshake.

“Alice Wilcox.”

Bird sniffed the legs of her walker.

“Have you lived here long?” asked Rose.

Alice laughed. “I came to the hotel in the sixties. Long enough.”

“And do you know Miss McLaughlin well?”

“Nope. Keeps to herself. But I don’t like that dog. Barks too much. ’Specially when she comes home after midnight.”

“Does Miss McLaughlin often stay out late?” Seemed strange for an octogenarian.

“Sure does. She goes out in the evening, dressed all fancy, and returns home at one A.M., sometimes. Damn dog barks when she comes home and it wakes me up. I’ve talked to her, but she just nods in that weird way of hers. Not very neighborly.”

“I’ll try to keep the dog quiet for you.”

As they chatted on, Alice eventually recognized Rose from the news and agreed to be interviewed for the WordMerge story.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so difficult after all.

Rose thanked her and stuck the key in the lock of Miss McLaughlin’s front door. Instead of continuing on to the elevator, Alice turned around and clomped slowly back. “I’m doing my laps,” she said by way of explanation.

Rose nodded and ducked inside.

As she made coffee, she heard voices in the hallway and stuck her ear to the door. The doors were cheap, not like the ones in the renovated apartments, and the conversation rang clear.

“Who are you?” Alice appeared to have resumed her guard duty.

A young woman’s voice explained that she was Stella’s grandniece, Susan, and she was picking up some of her things. Stella would be staying with her and her husband in New Jersey while she recuperated.

Rose stepped out into the hallway and introduced herself. Susan wore dangly gold earrings, skinny jeans, and a friendly smile.

“Stella asked me to take care of a neighbor’s dog while she was away,” Rose explained. “How is she doing?”

“She’ll be fine. She thought it was something to do with her nerves, but it was a heart condition. They caught it early, thank God, but she needs to take it easy. I’ll be stopping by to get her mail and water her plants. Since I work in the city, it’s easy enough.”

“Tell her I said to get well soon, and that I’ll take care of the dog in the meantime.”

Rose retreated back into the apartment and leaned against the door. She shouldn’t be in here; she was risking the story, her job. Miss McLaughlin might even call the police when she found out. But she hadn’t stolen the key. Stella had given it to her, then an emergency had come up. And who else was going to take care of her damn dog?

The ceiling creaked above her. Griff must be home, with Connie. They were probably wandering through the apartment, figuring out where their divan would go, how quickly she could replace the king-size bed. Rose had been reduced to a memory. She wanted to throw her head back and scream at the ceiling, release all her pent-up anger at him for not knowing his mind better, for having fallen in and out of love so quickly. She should have been more wary of him, but he was a force of nature. It was part of what made him so good at his job. She’d been sucked in by his charm.

In any case, she was alone. She’d end up like Darby, living in a cave, no family left to worry about her or care for her. When sad-old-lady Rose, homeless and ancient, hobbled down the street, young women would look away quickly, worried that her fate would be theirs. She’d add a catalog of physical pains to her mental anguish until she petered out, unceremoniously.

Jesus, she sounded pathetic. She gave herself a good mental shake and resolved to think positive. It’d been a week since Griff had blown up their life, and who knew what the future held? She didn’t do herself any good sulking around like a petulant teenager. Back in high school, when she’d flung herself facedown on the couch after getting a less than flattering haircut, her father had drily observed: “At least you have two arms and two legs.”

And that was still true today. She was healthy and strong and it was time to buck up.

In the kitchen, Rose poured hot water into a mug. Darby had only instant coffee in her pantry, and no matter how many spoonfuls Rose put in, it tasted watery. She wandered over to the small bookshelf and studied the spines. Several historical romances, along with a couple of biographies. Old LPs by jazz greats like Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie, Sarah Vaughan, and Thelonious Monk filled two entire shelves.

A silver-framed photograph on the highest shelf caught Rose’s eye. She reached up and moved it into better light. It was a black-and-white studio portrait, the kind they did back in the fifties, of a young woman with glowing skin and lustrous hair. She was pretty enough, but her eyes were truly astonishing. Large and liquid, almost alive. Even though Rose knew it was silly, she shifted the frame from side to side to see if the girl’s gaze would follow her, like an old portrait in a haunted house.

To Darby, with love was written on the right-hand corner in loopy cursive letters. Rose removed it from the frame and turned it over, but the back of the photograph contained no clue to the identity of the sitter, nor the year taken.

The photo had been placed upon a large tome that lay on its side on the top shelf, too big to fit upright. At first glance, it looked like an old photo album or scrapbook, with a black leather cover marred with scratches and scuffs, and a gold clasp on the side. She carried it with her coffee back to the couch and curled up with her legs underneath her. The clasp opened with a satisfying click; the pages inside were wafer thin, brittle with age.

The first page had Sam Buckley, 1952 written on the top right-hand corner, as well as a hastily written inscription.

Darby, Stay where you are. Once the coast is clear, I’ll find you and we’ll make our escape. Keep this as proof that I will come back for you. Love, Sam.

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.”

“I like that.” Jason looked up, surprised.

“Besides, there are many other famous, accomplished women who lived there as well. Liza Minnelli, Candice Bergen, Joan Crawford.”

“Lots of good stuff here,” said Tyler. “But what about the lady with the scar?”

“Huh?” Jason turned to her for clarification.

Rose spoke up. “One of the women who arrived at the hotel in the early fifties now lives on the fourth floor, in one of the rent-controlled apartments that house a dozen or so women like her. She was involved in some kind of skirmish way back when, and was cut on the face, while one of the maids fell to her death from a terrace.”

“Now, that’s interesting. Will she talk to you about it?”

“She’s away at the moment, but I think I have an in.”

Tyler piped up. “Rose lives in the Barbizon.”

“Is there any kind of conflict of interest?” Jason asked.

“Not that I can see.” She didn’t mention that she was sleeping on Darby McLaughlin’s couch, without the woman’s knowledge. She’d find a rental soon enough and, hopefully, Darby would be so grateful that Rose stepped in to take care of Bird that she’d agree to be interviewed. At least that was the way it played in her head.

“I think you’ll make a good team.” Tyler stood, dismissing them. “Jason has been out in the field for a long time, working in war zones, so I’m guessing this chick-lit story will be a breeze for him, right, man?”

Tyler’s attempt at male bonding was met with another raised eyebrow from Jason. “Yeah, right.”

“Great. Let’s try to wrap this up by the first week in July.”

Three weeks away. It’d be close. She nodded and walked out of the room. Jason followed her to her cubicle and leaned against the partition, hands in his pockets.

“So what’s next, Ms. Lewin?”

His overly formal tone annoyed her. As did Tyler’s “chick-lit” comment. “I have to make some more inroads with the ladies on the fourth floor. I’ll need a couple of days. In the meantime, I’ve found some information about Darby McLaughlin.”

“Which one is she?”

“The one with the scar on her face.”

“The one who’s out of town, and you haven’t lined up yet, even though Tyler thinks she’s the focus of the story.”

“Right.” He was quick, obviously. She continued on. “You see, there’s this book of spices.”

“A what?”

“A scrapbook of descriptions of spices from 1952, with mementos and things like that tucked inside. I’m going to dig in a little deeper, see if I can find out some more background. Darby didn’t create it. Someone named Sam Buckley did, but she saved it all these years.”

“What makes you think this scrapbook is important?”

“There’s an inscription inside that mentions waiting until the coast is clear and then they’ll make a run for it, that kind of thing. My guess is it has something to do with her accident.”

“How did you get it?”

“One of the neighbors had it.” Another lie. “Do you want to see it?”

“Sure.”

She’d wrapped it in plastic and placed it in her bag on her way out the door that morning, hoping to find the time to study it further. Jason leaned over her desk and leafed through the pages. He fingered the delicate material with a gentle touch. “It’s beautiful.”

The magic of the drawings and scribblings was undeniable. “Even better, smell it.”

He leaned in and sniffed. “Powerful. Like walking into a Moroccan bazaar. Amazing, after all these years.”

“And if you look in the back, there’s an old menu to some jazz club. We could re-create that time period in the story, focus on 1952, what it was like to be a woman in New York City.”

“You seem to be very caught up by this Darby woman.”

“I am. She has this air of royalty about her, but not in a pampered way. More like she’s a force to be reckoned with, like she makes her own weather.”

“Superstorm Darby?”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Sure. Kind of like that.” She needed Jason on her side, if only to back up her ideas with Tyler.

“How many ladies are left?”

“Ten. One’s in the hospital, but I know she’ll be happy to be interviewed when she’s out. Another has already given me the green light. Give me a day and I’ll see if I can line up some more. It’s going to be slow going, as they’re all pretty reclusive.”

“Okay. You call the shots.”

Rose nodded and put away the book.

If only she did.