Mrs. Roosevelt's Confidante (5 page)

The P.M. waved a hand through a fog of thick blue cigar smoke. “Have that giant butler send up more scotch.”

Mrs. Roosevelt knocked at the open door and then stuck her head in. “Everything all right?” Her tone seemed pitched even higher than usual.

“We're fine, ma'am. Thank you.” Maggie looked closer at the First Lady. Her face was pale as a photograph that had been left out too long in the sun. “Are you all right, ma'am? Do
you
need anything?”

“I know it's silly, but I'm worried. My secretary didn't call in today. She's still not answering her telephone, and her doorman hasn't seen her. I think I should go and check on her.”

Churchill spoke from behind his curtain of smoke, like Oz the Great and Powerful. “Use Miss Hope,” he said, jabbing in Maggie's general direction with his cigar.

“Oh, no. I couldn't possibly…” Mrs. Roosevelt protested.

“She's an excellent secretary, and helpful in all sorts of…situations. Take her with you!” He waved at the smoke with the cigar. “I must insist!”

As if I were a piece of office equipment,
Maggie thought. She and John locked eyes. This was
not
the plan. Not the plan at all.

“Well,” said the First Lady, “maybe we should go to Blanche's apartment, Miss Hope.”

“ ‘Apartment' means ‘flat,' ” Maggie whispered to the P.M.

“I know what ‘apartment' means, Miss Hope!” he boomed. “I've been to America before—nearly run down in New York City back in the day, I'll have you know!” Then, in a gentler tone to the First Lady, “Well, Mrs. Roosevelt, Miss Hope is a woman of many talents. Perhaps she can accompany you, checking on this Miss…”

“Balfour,” Maggie prompted.

Churchill glared. “Balfour, yes.”

“Of course I'd be happy to help you in any way, Mrs. Roosevelt. Is there anyone you'd like me to call? One of your husband's detectives?”

“Call?” If possible, her voice rose even higher. “No, no, I'm sure I'm just being a nervous Nellie. Perhaps she's ill? Maybe she needs soup? I could have Mrs. Nesbitt prepare some…”

Maggie saw John's look, his eyes dark. Well, their special evening would have to wait just a bit longer. “Would you like me to alert the Secret Service that we're leaving, Mrs. Roosevelt?”

“I've already arranged to have the car brought around, just in case. And, Miss Hope, I rarely travel with the Secret Service.” The First Lady smiled, an expression that revealed what some might consider overly large teeth but was all the more beautiful for its sincerity. “Not only do I drive myself but I have a concealed weapon permit, and I always carry a gun.”

Her normally pleasant expression turned fierce. “Franklin says I'm a crack shot.”

“Public Enemy Number One is off and running!” Eleanor Roosevelt sang to Maggie on their way out. “It's J. Edgar Hoover who calls me that, actually—the Secret Service has named me Rover. Of course, Public Enemy Number One is better than Negro-loving Bitch. Have you heard that the Ku Klux Klan has a bounty on my head?”

“No, I haven't. Would you like me to drive, ma'am?” The Secret Service had pulled up an anonymous-looking black sedan, then left it running, with the door open. It had been awhile, but Maggie was sure she could still remember how to drive on the right-hand side of the road.

“Oh, heavens, no.” Once they'd settled into the car's leather seats, Mrs. Roosevelt pulled out of the gravel drive. “Are you comfortable, Miss Hope?”

“Yes, ma'am.”
As comfortable as anyone could possibly be in this rather unusual situation.
“Thank you, ma'am.”

Blanche's apartment was a faux-Tudor building on Massachusetts Avenue at Twelfth Street, now covered in cottony fog.

Mrs. Roosevelt was about to pull into the hazy circular drive that led to the main entrance when Maggie asked, “Maybe we should park on the street, ma'am?”

Mrs. Roosevelt looked surprised. “Yes, yes, of course, Miss Hope. That's an excellent suggestion.”

They parked on Twelfth and then walked to the building, made of brick and covered in gargoyles, including one sticking out a forked tongue. A horse-drawn cart passed, the
clip-clop
of the hooves echoing in the hazy darkness, and the raw air smelled of horse and woodsmoke. Mrs. Roosevelt headed to the front door, replete with uniformed doorman, but Maggie had other ideas. “Let's use the side door—er, if you don't mind. Ma'am.”

Mrs. Roosevelt gave the younger woman a curious look, then nodded. They waited until one of the cleaning staff exited, then held the door and walked in. Inside was the same Tudor architecture as the exterior, and Maggie was reminded of her years in Claflin Hall at Wellesley College. “What's her apartment number?” she asked as they stepped into the wood-paneled elevator.

“Seven fourteen.”

The elevator arrived at the seventh floor, and they walked to 714. Maggie knocked. “Miss Balfour?” Then, even louder, “Blanche Balfour? Blanche?”

Nothing.

Still in her evening gown and long gloves, Maggie plucked a hairpin from her bun. A Glaswegian safecracker, lock expert, and master criminal had once taught her how to pick a lock at spy-training camp in Scotland. Seconds later, the lock sprang open with a smart
click
.

The First Lady's eyes widened. “You're a woman of many talents, Miss Hope.”

You have no idea.
“Please allow me to go first, ma'am.”

The heavy oak door creaked open. Inside, the apartment was deep in shadows. Maggie, with Mrs. Roosevelt at her heels, walked past the efficiency kitchen and through the living room.

“Blanche? Blanche?” Maggie pushed open the door to what she supposed was the bedroom.

The room reeked of bourbon, and the bedclothes were tangled. A light glowed from underneath a closed door.

“Blanche?” Maggie called. She opened the bathroom door. There, in a bathtub of blood, lay a young woman. Maggie took in the scene, the girl's staring, glassy eyes. “Oh, no…”

“What? What is it?”

Maggie turned. “I'm so sorry, ma'am, you don't want to see—”

But Mrs. Roosevelt pushed past her. “Oh, God,” she whispered, taking in the sight. “Poor Blanche,” she murmured, putting one gloved hand to her heart. “The poor, dear girl…”

Maggie was immediately aware of the possibility of scandal—the First Lady in the apartment of a girl who killed herself?
No, no. Can't have this. Must clear out immediately.

“Mrs. Roosevelt,” she said in a soothing voice, “I need to call the police. I'll tell them—anonymously, of course—what we found. And then you and I are going to leave from the side entrance. Quickly. Do you understand, ma'am?”

The unflappable Mrs. Roosevelt seemed smaller and almost frail. “She's dead,” she murmured in disbelief.

“She is. And the best thing we can do is call the police and then leave.”

Mrs. Roosevelt sank into a chair, clutching her handbag. “I just can't believe it.”

“Mrs. Roosevelt!” Maggie cried, then softened her tone. “Please don't sit down. You may leave evidence.”

Mrs. Roosevelt nodded and rose as Maggie moved to the bedside telephone. She picked up the receiver. “The police, please. Yes, I'd like to report a death,” she said over the clicks and static. “At nine twenty-six Massachusetts Avenue, apartment seven fourteen.” She hung up without waiting for any reply.

“We need to leave now, ma'am,” she said. “Wait—” On the desk was a pad of yellow legal paper, the first page blank. A quick glance in the desk's wastepaper basket proved it was empty. Maggie took the entire pad and tucked it under her arm.

“What's that?” the First Lady asked. “Is it all right to take it?” Sirens wailed in the distance.

“Mrs. Roosevelt, with all due respect, we need to leave
now
.”

At the car, Maggie looked at Mrs. Roosevelt and saw that the woman's gloved hands were shaking. “Oh, spinach!” the First Lady exclaimed as she tried to fish the keys out of her handbag, only to drop them.

“Ma'am, would you like me to drive?”

Eleanor Roosevelt looked at Maggie with gratitude. “Thank you, Miss Hope,” she managed. “I suppose I'm in…shock.”

Maggie slid in behind the wheel. She waited, thoughts roiling, as the First Lady settled herself in the passenger seat and then handed her the keys.
I wish I had words of comfort,
Maggie thought, as she drove back through the thick fog to the White House in painful silence.

Only when they were safely ensconced in the First Lady's second-floor study did Maggie ask, “May I please have a pencil?”

“Of course.” Mrs. Roosevelt procured one from her desk.

Maggie took it and began shading the top sheet of paper on the pad she had taken from Miss Balfour's apartment with the pencil lead.

“What are you doing?” the First Lady wanted to know, peering at the empty page.

Maggie, biting her lip and engrossed in her task, didn't answer. But what she was up to became increasingly clear as she continued to shade the paper with the side of the lead. As if by magic, writing began to appear on the page.

“Oh, I see,” Mrs. Roosevelt murmured. “It's the last thing Blanche wrote.”

To whom it may concern:

I'm so sorry, but I just couldn't take it any longer.

The First Lady of the United States of America, Eleanor Roosevelt, has—I'm ashamed even to say it—tried to kiss me. And, I blush to write this, more. When I refused her advances, she swore she would ruin my good name in Washington and that I'd never find respectable work again.

Please know I am a lady, of upright morals and character. I had hoped to marry, to have children.

But now there's no chance. Mrs. Roosevelt has ruined everything. Since I have nothing left, the only answer is to end my life.

Sincerely yours,

Blanche Imogene Balfour

There was a hush as Mrs. Roosevelt read the note, then struggled to take in its implications. She sank into the sofa. “This isn't true,” she murmured, her face ashen, letter in hand. “Not at all. These are lies.
Lies!
I was never anything but kind to that girl.”

Maggie stared into the First Lady's eyes. All she saw was pain and distress and she believed her. Still, it had to be asked: “Then why would Blanche write those things about you?”

“I don't know! None of it ever happened!” The First Lady looked at the paper again. “Do you know, I don't believe this is even her handwriting. Blanche didn't write this. She couldn't have!”

“Do you have an example of Blanche's handwriting?”

Mrs. Roosevelt rose and went to her desk. She rummaged in the papers. “Here,” she said, handing a sheet to Maggie. “Here's a list she made.”

Maggie studied the two handwriting specimens. “The penmanship's similar. But I wouldn't call it a match. Still, there's no way to say it's
not
a match either. All right, let's think this through logically. Blanche is dead. It looks as if she slit her own wrists—sorry, ma'am—in the bath. But she would have written the note first and left it. If that's the scenario, what happened to the actual note?”

“Maybe she decided against keeping it?” the First Lady suggested, sitting on the sofa. Maggie sat beside her. “Maybe she crumpled it up and threw it away?”

Maggie shook her head. “No, the wastebasket was empty.”

The First Lady slumped back. “Then where's the original note? What happened to it?”

Maggie's mind raced. If news of Blanche's suicide and the contents of the note got out, it would cause a horrific scandal, and would weaken President Roosevelt's standing in the U.S. and in the world. It would hinder the vital newborn union of the United States and the United Kingdom. It would cause Hitler and his crew to gloat about the “degenerate” Americans. It would give critics excuses to pull away from the Roosevelt Administration during a time of crisis. She thought of Mr. Churchill, how hard he had worked, how much he had suffered to make sure this meeting would come off well. How much it meant to him, to all of them, to the British people.

“All right,” Maggie said, “let's say, for the sake of argument, that Blanche wanted to frame you and left an incriminating note before she killed herself. Do you think she was a lone vigilante? Or could she have been working with someone else? A group? Do you have enemies?”

“My dear girl, we could start with the head of the FBI himself, J. Edgar Hoover, and then come up with a list of thousands.”

“Well, then, is there anyone in particular you may have antagonized recently?”

Mrs. Roosevelt gave a squeak that might have been a laugh. “Not any more than usual. But then again, I always seem to be offending someone or other. I never thought of that as a terrible thing before, though. I always say, ‘Do what you feel in your heart to be right—for you'll be criticized anyway.' In other words, Miss Hope, you'll find, if you haven't already, that you're damned if you do, and damned if you don't.” She sighed and dropped the piece of paper to her lap. “I'm not the most popular woman in many circles, particularly down in Dixie. Most particularly with the Kluckers.”

“The Kluckers?”

“The Ku Klux Klan, Miss Hope.”

For a fleeting moment, Maggie felt a connection with the older woman. Ever since she'd arrived in London, three years before, it had been one “damned if you do, damned if you don't” situation after another.

Then she cleared her mind, as she had been taught, and returned to the case at hand.

Maggie had seen that the President and Mrs. Roosevelt did not share a bedroom. She had seen the proximity of Lorena Hickok's bedroom to Mrs. Roosevelt's. Maggie's own aunt Edith was a lesbian, living with her lover, the two of them posing as spinster roommates. Maggie knew how these deceptions went. She wanted to ask Mrs. Roosevelt,
Is there anything else that one of your enemies might have on you?
but she decided against it.