The Dollhouse

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

New York City, 2016

Rose almost didn’t pick up her cell phone when she saw Maddy’s name. She’d gotten to work early and spent the quiet hour, before anyone else arrived, finishing up a book on the history of the Katharine Gibbs School, written by a former teacher. To think that the venerable Mrs. Gibbs began educating women for positions in business, where they were less than welcome, before women even had the right to vote. Fierce.

“Where have you been hiding?” Maddy’s voice was mocking but held an undertone of worry. Rose had left her a message after the migraine broke to tell her that she’d be dog-sitting for a neighbor for a few days, but they’d played phone tag ever since.

“Sorry, I’ve been swamped at work.”

“You doing okay? And any news from Griff?”

“Nothing from Griff. I assume he’s too busy reconstructing his nuclear family.”

Maddy guffawed. “God, he’s such an asshole. I told you not to date guys with old-man names. ‘Griffin Van Doren.’ Jesus.”

In spite of herself, Rose laughed. “I remember. Who could have predicted that just this once you’d be right?”

“Ha-ha, very funny. So when are you coming by? And which neighbor are you dog-sitting for, anyway? I thought everyone in the building was unfriendly.”

That was true. After she and Griff moved in, she’d expected a couple of the neighbors to stop in and say hello. But none did, and even if she ran into one or two waiting for the elevator, they weren’t very enthusiastic. “It’s one of the older ladies who’s lived there forever, since it was a women’s hotel. I’m doing a piece on her and the other women for work.”

“Do you really want to stay in a stranger’s apartment? It’d be fine to bring the dog with you. The kids would love it.”

“I’m not sure how much the dog would love the children, to tell you the truth. He’s a feisty old guy.” As she spoke, the decision to stay in Darby’s apartment, at least for the short term, solidified. It provided privacy, access to the women, and peace and quiet. She’d be out before Darby came back and no one would be the wiser. “Don’t worry, his owner returns in two weeks, at which point I’ll be moaning with self-pity on your couch.”

“Something to look forward to. So how’s your dad?”

Rose pressed her knuckles into her forehead. A couple of the other reporters had arrived and she lowered her voice. “He was moved yesterday. I stopped by; he seems like he’s adapting.”

Indeed, her father hadn’t made a fuss. His eyes had been blank, his jaw working back and forth with nervous energy. The dementia ward had lavender-colored walls and locked doors. A large black carpet had been placed in front of the elevator. One of the nurses explained that most patients in the ward were reluctant to step on it, thinking it was a dark hole, and that kept them from trying to escape.

How awful, to have a pit placed between you and freedom, or the world as you remembered it. She was sure her father remembered snippets of their old life. Before she’d left, he’d asked if she’d done her homework and called her Rosie, as he used to when she was a teenager. Then he’d burst into tears, mucus running down his nose and chin. No matter what she’d said, he wouldn’t be calmed, until the nurse kindly suggested she leave.

Maddy let out a sympathetic sigh. “You’re really getting spanked, aren’t you? What can I do to help?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Do you think Griff would’ve gone back to his wife anyway, even if Miranda was okay?”

“Maybe.” Connie was a powerhouse of energy, well matched to Griff’s temperament. Together they could run a small country. “I don’t know what to think anymore. How’s the soap business?”

“Trashy. The other day, I had to do a postcoital scene with Robert Hanes-Sterling. He tried to play footsie under the sheet, until I scraped his shin with my toenails. I think I made him bleed.”

“That’s truly disgusting.”

“And that’s why they pay me the big bucks. Tell me more about the story you’re working on.”

“There’s a group of elderly ladies who live in rent-controlled apartments, who’ve been there for years and years. One goes back as far as 1952.”

Maddy whistled. “The Sylvia Plath era.”

Plath again. “Sylvia Plath was only there for a month. These other women are the heart and soul of the place. They’ve seen the Barbizon change drastically, and seen New York City change drastically, too. Their stories should matter to us.”

“I like the way this has you all worked up. Surprised it got approved, though.”

“Barely squeaked by, and only because Tyler wants to sensationalize it. One of the ladies has a pretty tragic history. That’s why I’m dog-sitting for her, to find out more.”

“Is that kosher? I mean, in terms of journalistic integrity and all that?”

She preferred not to answer the question. “Coming from someone who gouges the legs of her coworkers.”

“Right. I think he went to get a tetanus shot once we wrapped.”

“As well he should.”

“Are you sure this isn’t some weird kind of masochism, staying at the Barbizon when Griff and Connie are there together?” Typical Maddy, like a dog with a bone. “Why put yourself through that kind of torture?”

“It’s only temporary.”

“So you’re not using it as an excuse to stick around, hoping he’ll want you to come back to him?”

She hated to admit it to herself, and she sure wasn’t going to admit it to Maddy. “Of course not. This is a combo of helping out a neighbor and getting some work done.” Time to change the subject. “It’s all going to be fine, especially if I can find a way to deal with the video producer I’m working with.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s a tough guy, shot documentaries in the Middle East, that kind of thing. Probably feels this job is beneath him.”

“Then tell him to go back to Afghanistan or wherever.”

“His mother fell ill and passed away, so I guess he’s biding his time for now. I understand that concept.”

“Is he cute?”

Rose rolled her eyes. “Please. He’s not my type. I feel like Snow White with her dwarf Smirky.”

Maddy laughed. “Well, hang in there. And we’re ready for you anytime. There’s a bottle of Pinot in the fridge with your name on it.”

The sound of throat clearing made her look up. Jason stood on the other side of her cubicle, one arm draped over the partition.

From the expression on his face, he had heard every word.

Rose studied Jason’s face, trying to figure out her next move. One side of his mouth curled upward and he looked amused, entertained even. But when their eyes met, he blinked once, and she knew he was covering his dismay, putting up a front.

She hadn’t meant to hurt him; she’d been joking with Maddy, trying to get her off her back about the Griff ordeal. But her joke was nasty.

“You hungry?” Jason asked. “Because I have an apple back at my desk.”

She leaned forward in her chair, hands gripping the edge of the seat. “I’m sorry, that was awful. It’s my friend Maddy. I didn’t mean . . .” She trailed off, hoping he’d say something to stop her from groveling. But he just stood there.

“Just checking in to see if you need me today. I finished another piece early and have the rest of the morning free.”

She had to find a way to make this up to him, to smooth things over. Especially if they were going to work together for the next few weeks. “I was going to head downtown, check out the location of that old jazz club, the one with the menu tucked into the book of spices.”

“The Flatted Fifth?”

“Yes, exactly. It shut down in the seventies. But I wanted to see the building it was in. You could film it and we could use before and after footage.” The idea was lame, but she hoped he’d say yes.

“Not very dynamic.”

“No. But it’s all I have for now. Will you come?”

He nodded. “I’ll get my equipment and meet you in the lobby.”

They took a taxi down. The cabbie drove like mad, braking suddenly and accelerating aggressively, which didn’t allow for much conversation. Rose gripped the hand strap above the window to avoid careening into Jason, all while filling him in on her visit to the button shop.

“This young girl might be Darby’s only real friend, from what I can tell. I’d love to find her.”

Jason raised his eyebrows. “Well, we know her name begins with an A. Shouldn’t be too hard.”

The taxi pulled up to a stop at a five-story building on Second Avenue. The gray stone facade was filthy, as if it had been rubbed with a giant piece of charcoal, and graffiti marred the front door. At ground level stood a French bistro.

She pointed to the restaurant, which had a CLOSED sign in the window. “That’s where the club used to be.”

Jason shot some exteriors, then knocked on the glass door.

A young woman appeared, looking harried and tired. “We’re not open until five tonight.”

Rose explained who they were, adding that they were researching the location of an old jazz club from the fifties. The minute she said WordMerge, the woman’s face lit up. “Of course, I love WordMerge. If you want, come on in and look around. The shell of the place is the same, but everything else has been renovated.”

The brick walls had been recently whitewashed and big windows looked out onto the street, making the space seem larger than it actually was. Jason pulled up a black-and-white photo on his phone, showing the interior of the club during a show. Men in suits and ties and women with coifed hairdos were tightly packed into the space, practically on top of one another, while a sax player stood at the edge of a low stage. Without the windows and whitewashing, the space had been dark and seedy.

“It looks like the stage was here, and the entrance around here.” Jason pointed out the locations. “I can take some interiors if you want.”

“Sure, why not.” Rose turned to the woman. “Do you know if anyone in the building has lived here a long time? They’d have to be pretty old by now, in their eighties.” It was a stretch.

“There’s Mr. B. He comes in for a steak frites every Wednesday, before it gets too crowded. Nice guy, talks about the old days. He’s the one you want to talk to.”

“Do you happen to have his contact info?”

“No, but he lives in apartment 5D. If you buzz him and tell him that Nicole said he should talk to you, he might let you up. Or you can come back on Wednesday and catch him here.”

The name on the buzzer for 5D said BUCKLEY.

Jackpot. Maybe Sam had been living a ten-minute taxi ride from Darby the past fifty years. A rush of adrenaline surged through her.

Rose hit the buzzer and waited. Nothing. “He’s got to be an old guy; we’ll give him time.”

“You’re the boss.”

She turned to him. “Look, I’m really sorry about what I said before. I don’t think I’m Snow White, I assure you of that. And you’re not . . .”

Again, she couldn’t finish the sentence.

He did. “A dwarf?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Most dwarfs would take offense at the comment, by the way. They like to be called little people.”

“It was just an expression.” Sweat prickled her neck. She really didn’t want to have this conversation. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Whatever you say.”

God, he was frustrating, always with that stupid smile. “But you do smirk.” She couldn’t help herself. “You’re smirking now.”

“No, I’m not. I’m smiling. You’re getting all bent out of shape and I’m enjoying it immensely.”

“That’s the definition of smirking.”

He laughed. “Point taken. Am I smirking now?”

She couldn’t help grinning. “Yes! You are.”

“Hello?”

The voice was crackly, although it was hard to tell if it was from the intercom or the person speaking.

Rose leaned in. “Mr. Buckley? Nicole downstairs suggested we try to reach you. We’re doing research on a news story about the Flatted Fifth and she said you might be able to help. My name is Rose Lewin and I’m with my colleague, Jason Wolf. Would you be interested in coming down and talking for a moment? We’d be happy to take you out to coffee nearby.”

“I can’t come down there. You come up here.”

Rose looked at Jason and he nodded. “Let’s go.”

The stuccoed hallway smelled of rotting vegetables, and the once colorful tile floors were edged with brown grout. When Mr. Buckley finally opened the door to his apartment, Rose was shocked at the contrast from the building’s public spaces. Sunlight streamed through the windows and the place was inviting and well kept.

“Come on in. You’re reporters, you say?” Mr. Buckley walked with a cane. He’d once been a tall man, but now his spine curved painfully forward. He had a gray beard and wore thick-framed glasses that overpowered the sharp angles of his face. He looked them both up and down before leading them to the sitting room.

“We are; we appreciate your time. We’re interested in finding out more about the people who frequented the Flatted Fifth in the early 1950s.” Rose sat on a scarlet couch dotted with garish saffron-colored pillows. Jason sat beside her and took out his camera.

“Do you mind if I record the interview?” he asked.

Mr. Buckley eased himself into a rail-back armchair upholstered in a nubby green fabric and nodded. “Fine with me.”

Jason nudged Rose and she followed his gaze. The entire wall of a hallway was filled with shelves of vinyl records, thousands of them.

“Can I take a look?” Jason asked Mr. Buckley.

“Go right ahead. My collection. Pretty much everything you need to know about the bebop era of jazz. The library at Lincoln Center asked me to leave my collection to them when I go. Nice to think of all those Juilliard kids getting a taste of what real music is like.”

“Are you Mr. Sam Buckley?” Rose couldn’t help herself.

“Sam?” His face clouded over. “No. I’m Malcolm.”

Rose silently kicked herself. If she pushed him too hard, she might very well scare him, as she’d done with Darby.

“This is your album.” Jason held a cover with black graphics over a photo of a drum kit.

Mr. Buckley grinned. “That it is. I toured and played with the best of them. Until I got hooked on the hard stuff. Not an easy life, when you’re always on the road. Easy to turn to whatever makes you feel good.”

Rose took out her notebook. “Heroin?”

“You got it. Went down the same path as Monk and Parker. I didn’t die, so I’m not famous. Could’ve been, though. Later, I found steady work as an arranger.”

“Maybe it’s better to be unknown and alive than famous and dead?” she said.

“Not so sure of that.” He looked down at the thick, arthritic joints on his hands. “It’s tough getting old when everyone else is gone. What’s your report about?”

“It’s an article, with some video as well. It’s basically about the Barbizon Hotel for Women and what it was like to be in New York City in the fifties and sixties.”

“How did you hear about the club?”

“One of the women who lives at the Barbizon has a menu from the Flatted Fifth. I understand the club was once owned by a Mr. Cornelius Buckley. I assume you’re related?”

“Cornelius was my dad. My older brother, Sam, was the cook.”

Rose tried to stifle her excitement. “Sam Buckley. Right. We found a book he compiled, of various spices and recipes. Dated from 1952.”

“Not surprising. He learned about that from his time in the war, all those fancy spices and things. My dad always put him down, didn’t want a cook for a son; he wanted a musician. My asthma kept me from being drafted, which meant I could focus on the drums. For a time I was the golden child. Until I washed out.”

“Can I put this record on?” asked Jason.

“Sure thing.”

She shot Jason a look, annoyed he’d changed the subject, but his back was turned to her as he fiddled with the stereo. The drums came loud and fast, the beat hard.

Malcolm’s face lit up. “You picked a good one. Dizzy and Charlie Parker at Birdland in 1951. Classic bebop.”

Rose listened carefully. From the look on his face, music was the key to getting Malcolm to open up. Jason had already figured that out.

“What makes it bebop?” she asked.

Malcolm laughed. “Bebop was all about speed and virtuosity. Back then, everyone was used to swing, right?” He waved his arms in the air. “Dancing around, all that. The greats, like Thelonious Monk, Dizzy, Max Roach, they started exploring a different take on the music. Listen here.”

The trumpet solo screeched up into the higher register, and although it always found its way back to the chord, at times the sound seemed strident, off-key.

Rose said so out loud and Malcolm nodded. “Yup. Not what you expect. It’s aggressive.”

Jason spoke up. “Bebop made what sounded like the wrong notes the right notes.”

“You’ve got it, kid. That’s it exactly.”

Score one for Jason. Maybe he wasn’t so annoying after all.

Rose could hardly wait for the song to finish to ask her next question, but she did, so that the noise wouldn’t interfere with the taping. “Is Sam still alive?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t heard from him in years.” He didn’t look at her while he spoke. “Where did you get his spice book?”

“From a Miss Darby McLaughlin. Is that name familiar?”

He blinked a couple of times before answering. “Nope. But why don’t you just ask her how she knew my brother?”

“She’s incapacitated at the moment.”

“Huh.”

“The notebook is a work of art, full of information and drawings. Sam wrote in the front that he gave it to her for safekeeping, as proof of his love. The message implies they were in danger. I’m curious to know more.”

“Can’t help you there. I was touring most of the time; didn’t make it back much until Sam had taken off.”

“Do you know why he took off?”

“My dad said he ran into trouble and had to leave town fast. Last I heard, he was out in California.” He pulled at his earlobe. “Anyway, he’s a private guy.”

The use of present tense was interesting. How did he know, if he hadn’t seen him in years? “Do you know anyone named Esme Castillo?”

He squinted his eyes as if he were conjuring up a vision. “Esme. She was the hatcheck girl at the club before I went on tour. Good voice. Pretty, too.”

Esme was the missing link between Darby and Sam. She worked in the hotel and at the Flatted Fifth. “Do you know what happened to her?”

“Who, Darby?”

“No. Esme.”

“Right. They say she fell off a building and died. But I don’t know much else.”

They continued talking for another twenty minutes, as Malcolm told story after story about his life as a jazz musician at that time. But whenever Rose tried to get him to tell her more about Sam, he clammed up.

Malcolm knew more than he was saying. He was protecting his brother for some reason. She was sure of that.

Outside, she let Jason carry on for a while about Malcolm’s extensive music knowledge. “He’s like a walking encyclopedia about bebop and hard bop and that entire era.”

“He really is. But I wish we’d found out more about Sam. Was it just me, or did you get the impression he knows where Sam is?”

“Definitely. He wouldn’t look at you when he answered. We’ll have to circle back to him, gently nudge him into opening up to us.”

“Hopefully, by our deadline. Thanks for diverting him when he was about to clam up.”

“Hey, I’m just the guy behind the camera. You were great with him, by the way, once I saved your ass.”

A jolt of pleasure ran through her at his praise, along with a spark of guilt for what she’d said about him earlier. “That means something, coming from someone who’s covered wars. Thank you.”

“It’s just the truth, Rose. You should think so, too.”