Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!

A Dish Best Served Cold

New York City

1978

Dena Nordstrom had ruined Sidney Capello’s one chance to be big in network television, but like a rat in a maze he had quickly scurried in another direction. In the tabloid business, where speed does count, Capello had shot to the top like a silver bullet. He had tired of being a freelance. It was too much of a hassle dealing with editors for a good price, so he cut out the middle man and started his own paper. Stripped of the dead weight of ethics, a conscience, or fear of the law, combined with his willingness to do anything to get a story, Capello and his paper were soon way ahead of the pack. Not fussing over facts was an economy. In less than a year his cheaply produced paper outsold everything on the supermarket rack and his readership was growing stronger every day. And he intended to keep it number one despite growing competition.

He had no qualms about stealing mail, tapping phones, and bribing or even placing maids, gardeners, or chauffeurs in the homes of the well known. His appetite for access to private information was boundless, and FBI files read like first-grade primers compared to his. He knew who was sleeping with whom, when, where, and how they did it, and could come up with one or two “witnesses” and, if necessary and for enough money, he could provide the “other person” involved, whether that person had been there or not. He had access to medical records, bank statements, private phone conversations. He knew how almost any half-fact could be blown up into a scandal at a moment’s notice. But the main reason for Sidney’s success was his ability to look to the future, to put away something for a rainy day. He had his “insurance” file chock-full of tidbits, photos, documents he could use when that rainy day came. If it had been a slow news week, he simply pulled something out that had been on hold, added a few factoids, and ran it. One aging movie star lost a lead in a movie when her before-and-after plastic surgery photos showed up in color on the cover of Capello’s sheet, for no reason other than it had been a slow week. He liked being on top and he also had what he called a Hot File, ready to go, his get-them-before-they’re-famous time bombs. He sent his staff out gathering information on anybody he even suspected might become newsworthy one day—kid actors, musicians, public servants, do-gooders. It was expensive, but what was thirty or forty thousand dollars when one story might sell millions of papers? He wanted to have a head start program of his own: as soon as someone hit it big he wanted to be ready. This is how the Dena Nordstrom file had come into being and now sat, ticking away, waiting for the right moment. Capello was usually strictly business, but he took a personal interest in her story. If it had not been for Nordstrom he might be producing television today. He had put his most expensive, tough-digging researcher, Barbara Zofko, to work on this one. It had been worth it. What she had dug up exceeded even his wildest dreams. Now all he had to do was sit back and wait for the right moment, and he was a patient man. It was a dirty business. But it wasn’t blackmail. Ask him and he would tell you it was simply entertainment news, and news as entertainment, and there was much more money in the tabloid business than there ever had been in blackmail. And it was legal. It sort of made you proud to be an American.

If Sidney Capello was the queen bee, Barbara Zofko was the perfect drone. She served him well. A lumpy, misshapen sort of woman with thick, slightly pockmarked, shiny white skin, not ugly, not pretty, she had the kind of face that could walk past a thousand people a day and not one would remember her. This characteristic worked in her favor. In fact, she was perfect for her job: she had no human relations to interfere with her work.

Barbara Zofko did not mind eating alone. She preferred it. She was totally focused on her work and the next meal. Her appetite was insatiable and she could eat a bag of cookies, an entire cake, and a dozen doughnuts at one sitting. And, if there was one characteristic that had made her what she had become, it was that hunger. Zofko had come from a small coal-mining town outside of Pittsburgh, one of seven children. The daughter of a taciturn miner and a mother who had been old at thirty, Barbara had never had enough of anything, love, money, or food, and now, no matter how much she ate, she never felt quite full. She was always left feeling just a little bit hungry and that’s why she was Capello’s top bird dog. She had been on this case for several weeks now and so far all she had been able to turn up on Dena Nordstrom was that she had attended schools all over the country and everyone remembered her but few people remembered much about her. It was turning out to be difficult. The hardest target to hit is a moving target and from the age of four, this TV woman had done nothing but move from one place to another. She had not stayed in college long enough to graduate, and when Barbara had gotten a list of the names of her sorority sisters and tracked them down all over the country, it had been a waste. Not one would say anything bad about her and a few said how wonderful she had been. Not only that, the woman in Alabama who had been her roommate in college had almost talked her ear off. She had gone on and on for hours with glowing accounts of what a fabulous girl Dena was. She had a hard time getting the woman off the phone. Zofko figured there must be some kind of conspiracy. She had tracked Dena’s career from one local television station to another and nothing. They all said the same thing. Nice girl. We knew she would do well. Another blind alley.

Time to start on the immediate family. When Barbara made her reservations at the only place in Elmwood Springs to stay, her first thought was “fried clams.” She always liked the little fried clams at Howard Johnson’s, so she was not terribly upset at having to spend some time there. When she checked in that first day, she was disappointed that they did not have room service, but her spirits lifted when she saw the brochure for the International House of Pancakes and learned it was not too far off. She dumped her bags and did what she always did in a strange town. She drove to the nearest supermarket, got a basket and circled the bread and pastry section like a great white shark, and snatched a variety of sweet supplies to get her through the night. The next morning she knocked on Norma Warren’s front door.

“Mrs. Warren?”

“Yes?”

“You don’t know me but I’m here from the governor’s office in Jefferson City and I wondered if I might talk to you about something concerning your cousin … Dena Nordstrom?”

Norma was surprised and caught off guard as Zofko knew she would be. “It’s a confidential matter.”

“Oh … well, of course. Come in.”

They went into the living room.

“Mrs. Warren, this year the state of Missouri is setting up a Missouri Hall of Fame and your cousin has been picked to receive the first Missouri Woman of the Year award.”

Norma drew in her breath. “Ohhh really? You don’t mean it!”

“Yes. But we aren’t announcing it to the press until next month so I have to ask you to keep it under your hat.”

“Yes, of course. I understand. What an honor.”

“We want it to be a surprise.”

Norma whispered, “Even from Dena?”

“Yes. Especially her.”

“I understand. Mum’s the word. Will there be a dinner or anything?”

Zofko was getting her tape recorder and notebook out of her satchel. “Excuse me?”

“Will there be a dinner … or an awards banquet?”

“Oh, yes. Now, what we need from you, Mrs. Warren, is a little background information for the official bio.”

“Will it be formal, do you think?”

“Yes, I believe it will be, and if you have any photographs we could use, school pictures or—”

“Where will it be? Here, or will it be in Jefferson City?”

“In Jefferson City.”

“Oh. Do you think we’ll be able to go? Is the public invited?”

“You’ll be sent invitations.”

“When is it?”

“The date has not been set but we’ll let you know.”

“Oh, I’m so excited I am about to faint. Do you think we could get an extra ticket for Aunt Elner? We’ll be happy to pay for the ticket. She’s her great-aunt, actually, she would just be thrilled to pieces. Will the governor be there?”

“Now, as I understand it, her father was born in Elmwood Springs …”

Norma stood up. “I’m so excited, I haven’t even offered you a thing. Would you like some coffee or anything?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you. Well, I will take a Coke if you have it.”

Two hours later Norma was still talking about what a darling little girl Dena had been. “Her mother was working so I took Baby Girl up to nursery school at Neighbor Dorothy’s house and picked her up every day and she was the sweetest little thing. I remember her fourth birthday party, we had a big birthday cake for her. Her mother had her dressed up like a little doll.”

Zofko responded to the word cake, realized she was starving again, and tried to cut to the chase. “Mrs. Warren, you say her mother was from where?”

“I couldn’t say. I really don’t know.”

Zofko’s ears perked up. “Didn’t she ever say?”

“No. But she was a lovely person.”

“And you say she’s deceased?”

Norma nodded and changed the subject. “And of course, when we actually met Wayne Newton in person, we were beside ourselves. Baby Girl arranged it. She has been so good to us.”

“Mrs. Warren, when did Dena’s mother pass away?”

“Oh, I really couldn’t say for sure.”

“And when did she leave Elmwood Springs?”

“She was about four and a half—I think.”

“Dena, you mean. Where do you think I could get some more information about her mother?”

“Well, really, all you need to say is that she was not from Missouri.”

Zofko decided to drop it for the moment. She could check that out later.

“Mrs. Warren, I think that’s enough. We’ll get the pictures back to you as soon as we make copies. You’ve been very helpful.”

“I hope so. You know what? I’m sorry but I never got your name.”

“Barbara.” She stood up and shook hands with Norma and said, “Congratulations.”

Norma walked her to the door. “I just wish her daddy was alive to see this day. Tell the governor that we are just thrilled. Oh, and Barbara, you’ll be at the dinner, won’t you?”

“I’m sure I will.”

“I hope you’ll be at our table!”

Norma ran back to the kitchen and called him at work. “Macky,” she said, “I know a secret. But I can’t tell. Just wait till you find out, you are going to be so excited. I can’t talk anymore, I have to go.”

After talking in circles with Dena’s great-aunt, Mrs. Elner Shimfessle, Barbara Zofko left Elmwood Springs without anything more than two jars of fig preserves, a few good fried clam dinners under her belt, and several school pictures. Other than that the trip had been a bust. The family had been dull, typical small-town, church-going, well-liked people. Nothing she could use. The father, Gene, had once gotten in trouble for swimming inside the town’s water tower with a bunch of other boys. Certainly nothing that even Capello could work up a good smear over. The only item where there might be something was the mother. She had noticed that both Mrs. Warren and Mrs. Shimfessle had been extremely sketchy and seemed reluctant to talk much about her. Both had answered the questions about her with the same phrase, “I couldn’t say for sure.”

All she had to go on was that when the mother left she had gone to work in some department store. Somewhere. But Zofko had her resources. She got the mother’s Social Security number and began tracking her from the first job she had down to the last. She tracked down every state employment record on her and was able to get copies of her job data. They were always the same: Name: Marion Chapman Nordstrom. Born: December 9, 1920, Washington, D.C. Parents: Deceased.

Her record of employment was odd. She had first applied for a Social Security number in 1942 and had gone to work in a dress shop in New York City and remained at that job until 1943, when she went to Gumps in San Francisco. From then on she seemed to go from one job to the next, from one town to another. Through store records Zofko managed to find the names of several women who had been employed at a department store still in existence in Chicago, flew to Chicago, and found one still living in the city and still employed. She was a thin, pale woman named Jan, who smoked too much and was happy to talk. “I’ll tell you what I can … but it’s been years now since we worked together … but I always wondered what had happened to Miss Chapman. The last thing I heard she had moved to Boston, but yes, I surely do remember her. Oh, Miss Chapman was the last word.”

Zofko asked what she meant and she laughed. “I mean she was It. Yes, Miss Chapman was a walking fashion plate if there ever was one, impeccably dressed. I tell you the rest of us used to marvel at how she kept herself. Not a hair out of place, makeup perfect. She wasn’t stuck up or anything like that, she was perfectly pleasant, but she, oh, I guess you could say she held herself back—or apart—from us, in a way. Of course, I was young—I don’t think I was even eighteen—but I remember all of us younger girls wanted to be like Miss Chapman, dress like her, walk like her, talk like her. But she was one of a kind. We always wondered why somebody like her had to work. You know, with her looks, her style … If it had been me, I would have hooked me a rich one and quit, put my feet up for the rest of my days.”

Zofko was surprised that she used Nordstrom’s maiden name. “Do you know if she was married or not?”

“No, I never heard if she was. She never talked about it if she was. She wasn’t social. I don’t think she ever went anywhere but to her job and home. Not that she didn’t have offers. Some of those society women, and I mean rich women, were always inviting her to parties, but she never went. She was very polite but she never went. She dressed some of the wealthiest women in Chicago. Yes, Miss Chapman was the last word. If she said a dress looked good on them, they bought it, no questions asked. And you say she has a big check coming from the government?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, my, well, I just don’t know what to tell you about finding her but if you do, tell her Jan in the shoe department says hello. She probably won’t remember me but tell her anyway.”

A week later Zofko located a Mrs. Eunice Silvernail in Birmingham, Michigan. She and her sister were now living together in a retirement home. Zofko explained that she was trying to find out information that might give the Internal Revenue Service a clue as to her whereabouts. People were always willing to help if there was money involved. Mrs. Silvernail and her sister sat in the small living room, they all ate cherry pie, and the sisters chatted away about the good old days and showed Zofko the watch Mrs. Silvernail had received from the department store when she had retired. Zofko finally reminded them of the purpose of her visit. Mrs. Silvernail said, “You know, when you called I went back through my things and I thought I had a picture of Miss Chapman; we had employee pictures taken every year. I found the year but she wasn’t in it. I can’t imagine why—maybe she was sick that day. I know she was working there then, and I certainly remember her. What kind of information are you looking for?”

Zofko took another bite of the pie they had put out on the coffee table. “Anything, anything at all you can remember.”

Mrs. Silvernail closed her eyes. “She always wore Shalimar—I know that because I was behind the perfume counter that year, before I moved to lingerie—and she got the employee discount. You know, I’ve worked with so many people, it’s hard to pinpoint details but I do remember that. And she was a pretty woman, had a lovely voice; she worked in Better Dresses. You know, we have a lot of rich women here and they all shopped in her department and I’ll tell you something—she was just as elegant as her customers. More so than some; she held her own.”

Zofko had heard all this before. “Do you know if she had any boyfriends?”

Mrs. Silvernail said, “No, she was not interested in men. I can tell you that for a fact. The owner’s son, Marcus, a good-looking man, had his eye on her and she wouldn’t so much as give him a tumble. He was just crazy about her, followed her home, and found out she had been married and had a child. Begged her to marry him, said he would put a hundred thousand dollars in that child’s name, buy her a house, a car, anything she wanted, just name it, but she just gave him his walking papers. But you know men, if they think they can’t have you, then they go crazy trying to get you. But he never did. Lord, if it had been me, I think I would have married him. I mean, how many chances like that come along? Of course, that was before I met Mr. Silvernail, but she was having no part of it and I don’t mean maybe. And she left shortly after that. I wouldn’t be surprised if that didn’t have something to do with why she left. But he finally got married. He married that girl from … handbags, I forget her name, but … that’s all I know.”

A day later Zofko sat in her own apartment eating a bag of Fritos, studying the chart she had made. She was not going to give it up. She read and reread the copies of all the employee records and job applications she had managed to get hold of and this time noticed something she had not caught before. A Lili’s dress shop had been listed in all her references, then suddenly, after 1946, did not appear on any more applications. Why had she left that job out? Could something have happened there that might be the reason she was running? What had happened on that job that she did not want checked? Why had she left? Had she been fired? Maybe for stealing? Maybe for having an affair with a married man? Zofko was hopeful. She went to the New York City library newspaper reference room searching through the 1937 and 1938 advertisements in the New York area and she found it. Lili’s Exclusive dress shop, “clothes for the discriminating woman,” 116 Park Avenue. She went to the city records and looked up the address and the list of owners. It showed that the building at 116 Park had been purchased from a Rickter, William J., and sold to Steiner, Lili Carlotta, in 1935 and sold back again in 1944 to Rickter, William J., the original owner. From there it was easy. She called a woman who worked for the New York Census Department and was on Sidney’s payroll as well and told her to send everything she had on Lili Carlotta Steiner. Then she went back to her office and waited. The information came by messenger. Zofko ripped open the envelope as if it were a bag of M & M’s and devoured the contents with about as much relish:

Steiner, Lili Carlotta

Born: Vienna, Austria, 1893

Moved to New York, resided in Yorkville section at 463 East 85th Street. Owned and operated fashionable dress shop until the time of her arrest. Closely associated with American Nazi Party members and accused of spying and on December 13, 1946, was convicted and served ten years in prison. Died in 1962 at the age of sixty-nine in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

When Capello read the information she handed him, he looked at her. “What can I say? It doesn’t get better than this. You’re the best.” Barbara Zofko was happy. She liked to please her boss.

“How long did she work for Steiner?”

“About eight months.”

Capello nodded. “It’s enough, more than enough. Write it—Hitler, holocaust, death camps, the whole deal.”

Zofko went back to her office, sat down, and knocked out a few sample headlines and phrases:

Dena Nordstrom’s Shameful Nazi Past … mother war criminal … leader of American Nazi bund … Daughter of Nazi spy now in American broadcasting. Mother close friend of Hitler, a source revealed … aided the Nazi cause … Nazi war criminal confesses, names top American broadcaster as the daughter of Nazi spy …

She would finish a full rough draft later. Right now she needed lunch. After all, there was no rush. Nordstrom was not quite a big enough star yet. They had time, time to embellish, add “evidence.” Certainly time for a nice lunch. She deserved a reward, she had worked hard, and she had come up with the nucleus of a great story. It wasn’t airtight, it wasn’t complete, it might not be true, but it would do the job. When she finished, she put it in the file with the rest. This little hand grenade would wait for a time when Sidney Capello decided to pull the pin and throw it at Nordstrom, the all-American girl.