Free Downtown Strut: An Edna Ferber Mystery (Edna Ferber Mysteries) by Ed Ifkovic Page A

novel.”
    Harriet grinned. “Christ, another pickanniny scribbling The Great American Novel.”
    Another flash of anger. “Well, why not?”
    Bella was watching the fury build in Lawson. I could see some humor at the corners of her eyes. “Could I star in the film adaptation?” she asked coyly, batting her eyelashes. “Or do you insist on Clara Bow in black face for the role?” He ignored her, though I noticed his lips trembled. “You could sell it to the Famous Artists’ Studio.”
    Lawson seethed. “I’ll make it before you do, honey.”
    “We’ll see about that.”
    No one said anything, but we all stared at the flash fire between the two lovers.
    “It helps to be a…female,” Lawson spat out.
    “Just what are you saying?” Bella countered. “I’m a good girl.” She turned to me. “You know, Miss Ferber, Lawson tried for a part in a Jed Harris production, and was cruelly and publicly dismissed.”
    “Jed? What play?” I was baffled.
    Now Roddy stood up. “Ridiculous. It was not a Jed Harris production, Bella. And you know that. Just cut it out. It was a play produced by some friend of his. A musical revue with a Negro cast. Yes, Mr. Harris was there. But could we stop this bickering, you two?” He pointed to the ostentatious Steinway grand piano nearby. “Look where we are .”
    There was something comical about the moment, such innocence in the line, such foolishness, as everyone mechanically stared at my piano. Ellie and Harriet burst out laughing. Even Bella and Lawson, both on edge, were shaking their heads, smiling. Cathartic, the moment, yet I couldn’t understand the raw, gnawing tension between Bella and Lawson, other than the fact that here were two worldly and ambitious young people whose photogenic looks and native intelligences had not yet given them lives they believed they were destined to lead.
    “Everyone seems to be writing a novel,” Roddy said into the silence.
    “Even you?” I asked.
    “Of course.” A pause. “Sort of.” A chuckle. “Maybe.”
    Again, the laughter in the room.
    “Powder room,” Ellie whispered to me. Waters pointed to a hallway. “First door on the left.” She nodded and left the room.
    The moment Ellie was out of the room Bella whispered to Lawson in a biting tone, “Someone should tell her how to dress.” Lawson groaned. “I mean,” Bella went on, “she looks like a rag doll in that Victorian smock.” Raw, malicious words, said fiercely, coldly. She avoided looking at me as she crossed her legs and revealed her own fashionable attire, the flapper dress and her strapped high heels with the wide buckles.
    Roddy defended Ellie. “For God’s sake, Bella.”
    Bella rolled her eyes. “Roddy always defends the indefensible. Booker T. Washington, begging and scraping, singing coon songs on Fifth Avenue for a plug nickel.”
    Roddy said nothing.
    Waters was shuffling his papers. “I hope I don’t get this nasty when I grow up.”
    The line made me laugh out loud.
    Lawson spoke to Waters but he was looking at Bella. “Waters, you’re still a boy. You haven’t met women as wicked as Bella before this. I hope you never do. They’re…hard-boiled eggs.” He was staring directly into Bella’s face.
    “Bottle it, Lawson,” Bella sneered.
    Someone knocked on the door, and Waters rushed to get it. He stepped aside as Freddy walked into the room. Dressed in a bulky military parka, a street-arab pork-pie cap pulled over his forehead, he mumbled something about losing track of time.
    “It’s because you can’t tell time yet,” Bella said.
    Freddy ignored her, though he glanced at Ellie. Then, surprising me, he planted himself in the entrance to the living room, his parka still buttoned, his face still stiff with winter cold, and, uninvited, began to recite from memory a short poem, his rapid-fire rat-a-tat delivery a little spine chilling. It was rebellious verse, the lines filled with bitterness about a vicious Southern lynching of a feeble