Free The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress by Ariel Lawhon Page B

the sleep from his eyes.
    “Something wrong?”
    “Joe never came back from the city.”
    He pointed a long, knuckled finger at the wall. “Phone’s over there.”
    Stella wove around the barrels of apples and crates of Sunkist soda toward the back wall, where, partly hidden behind a shelf of canned goods, a box phone hung. She waited until Irv was out of sight to lift the business cards from her pocket. Owney Madden first. She lifted the receiver and turned the crank until static crackled onto the line, followed by a tired-sounding voice, then requested an operator in Manhattan. Stella read the Greenwich Village exchange and the five-digit number that would connect her to Club Abbey.
    Irv was silent behind the counter, most likely straining to hear her conversation, and she bent closer to the wall. A metallic ringing erupted in her ear. One minute stretched into three before someone answered. He sounded young and half asleep.
    “Abbey.”
    “Who is this?”
    “Stan.” A yawn, and then, “The bartender.”
    “I need Owney Madden, please.” Stella was surprised at the authority in her voice.
    He laughed. “Listen, Owney ain’t awake right now, much less here.”
    “Then give me his home number.”
    “I ain’t got it. And even if I did, I ain’t stupid enough to hand it out.”
    “I need to talk to him. It’s important.”
    “Then you can do like all the other broads. No shortcuts. Come by around midnight and show Owney what you got.”
    “What I’ve got, Stan, is a missing husband.” She took a deep breath and lowered her voice, mindful of Irv’s affinity for gossip. “And seeing as how your employer’s card was in his pocket, that’s a matter I’d like to discuss with him. Unless he’d rather I take my questions to the police.”
    She paused, waiting for his reply. He had none.
    “So you tell Mr. Madden that Joseph Crater’s wife needs to talk. Can you remember that? Or do you need to write it down?”
    Stan’s voice took on a decidedly more respectful tone when he said, “Joseph Crater. Got it.”
    “He knows how to reach me.” Stella set the receiver back on its cradle, picked up the other card, and gave her instructions to the operator.
    This time the phone was answered on the first ring. “Have you seen Joe?” she demanded.
    Simon Rifkind did not sound pleased to hear her voice. “Stella?”
    “He was supposed to be back last Wednesday, and I’ve not heard from him.”
    “Slow down. Tell me what happened.” He sounded small and distant on the other end, as though he spoke through a culvert, and he listened in silence as she explained the urgent phone call that had lured Joe back to New York City and how more than a week had come and gone without word. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” Rifkind finally said.
    “You would let me know if Joe got himself into trouble?”
    She wondered what he was thinking in the long pause before he answered. “No need to worry. I’m sure all is well. He likely got caught up with business. You know how Joe is.”
    “You have to find him.” She looked around the shelf and looked back at Irv, who was studying an inventory sheet with exaggerated interest. Her voice fell to a whisper. “I need money.”
    “I’m sure he’ll turn up, Stella.”
    “You don’t understand. There is Fred’s salary to pay, and a lot of other things as well.”
    “Can’t you—”
    “You know he takes care of all that.”
    “How about I go by the courthouse and collect his check. I can deposit it for you. Would that help?”
    “Yes. Very much.”
    “Which bank?”
    On Joe’s insistence, they held accounts at several banks. She had to think of the one for their personal checking. “New York Bank and Trust.”
    “I’ll ask around. You stay put, and I’ll be in contact the moment I find something out.”
    “Thank you.”
    “And, Stella?”
    “Yes?”
    “Best not to talk about this in public just yet. Joe’s spot on the bench is still