The Echo of Old Books(46)
Ashlyn scrutinized the grainy photo of a heavily made-up Goldie being muscled into the back of a police wagon. Her platinum hair was cropped short and parted down the middle, her brow adorned with a beaded headpiece—the quintessential flapper. The photographer had caught her with her mouth open, presumably in the act of hurling some epithet at the policeman who had her by the arm. It was hardly a flattering photo, but once again, Goldie’s defiance was on full display.
The next two articles—Senator Thuneman Exposed in Bribery Scheme and The Enemy in Our Midst: American Nazis Hiding in Plain Sight—had obviously been included as evidence of Goldie’s journalistic bravado. Ashlyn scanned the latter briefly, noting that both Henry Ford and Charles Lindbergh had made it into the piece. The article after that, dated 1971, detailed Goldie’s involvement in a rally in defense of a woman named Shirley Wheeler, the first woman to be charged with manslaughter for illegally terminating a pregnancy.
And finally, a tiny tabloid piece dated November 2, 1974. Who’s the Hunk on Goldie Spencer’s Arm? The photo showed a smiling but noticeably older Goldie at some gala or other. She was wearing a dress trimmed in feathers and a necklace that could have bankrolled a small third-world country. On her arm was an impossibly tall Adonis. A 007 type, with chiseled good looks and a wide white smile, impeccable in black tie. Ashlyn felt a little thrill as she let her magnifying glass hover. Here, at last, was Steven Schwab, considerably younger than Goldie and still quite dashing.
Ashlyn peered more closely at his face, taking in the toothy smile, the sideways cut of his eyes as they sought Goldie’s, as if they’d just enjoyed some private joke. Was this the man Marian Manning had loved so desperately, the man who had deceived her and broken her heart? And if so, where did Goldie fit in? Perhaps she’d loved him first and had seen Marian Manning as the interloper. If all was fair in love and war—and Hemi and Steven Schwab were in fact the same person—Goldie had clearly been the victor.
According to Ruth, he’d been with her till the end. And the next article—Newspaper Heiress Goldie Spencer Dead at 80—seemed to bear that out, mentioning that Goldie’s Park Avenue apartment as well as a sizable portion of her fortune had gone to longtime companion Steven Schwab. In accordance with her will, the remainder of her estate had been divided among various charities championing women’s issues, which fit perfectly with the final item from the packet, a multipage spread that had appeared in The New Yorker the day of Goldie’s memorial service. Goldie Spencer: A Feminist Legacy.
Returning to the gala photo and the dashing Steven Schwab, Ashlyn looked for some detail that might confirm that he’d been the love of Marian Manning’s life. With the parade of men constantly moving in and out of Goldie’s orbit, Hemi could have been anyone. Still, the pieces fit remarkably well. Particularly the part about him being an aspiring novelist. What if Mr. Schwab had done more than just aspire? What if he’d actually written a book—an anonymous book—about a doomed love affair with the daughter of a powerful man?
Hemi . . . is that you?
And even if it was, how could she verify it? He was long past answering questions. As was Goldie. And the deeper she waded into Belle and Hemi’s story, the more questions she had. What had become of Marian Manning’s poetry? When had she broken her engagement to Teddy, and why, if not to marry Hemi? Might there be photos squirreled away somewhere that included both Steven Schwab and Marian Manning, snapped inadvertently during some party or gala? If so, it would be proof. Or near proof.
None of these things were her business, of course, nor would knowing them change the unhappy outcome. But the need to know was like an itch she couldn’t reach. At this point, there was only one person who might be able to help, though ability and willingness were two different things. Ethan seemed reluctant to wade any further into his aunt’s past, though she suspected he knew more than he realized. Perhaps the names Steven Schwab and Geraldine Spencer would jog his memory.
This time, she thought the call through before dialing. At this time of day, she was likely to get his answering machine, and she wanted to have her ducks in a row. When she was finally clear about what she wanted to say, she rehearsed her pitch once more, then dialed. As expected, Ethan’s machine picked up.
“Hey, it’s Ashlyn from the bookstore. I know you said you were crazy busy right now, but something’s come up. Some names I was hoping to run by you. And a few questions I forgot to ask the other night. Could you maybe call me back?”
By closing time, Ethan still hadn’t returned her call and she’d added six new questions to her list. She told herself that didn’t necessarily mean he was blowing her off. Maybe he wasn’t home yet or he’d forgotten to check his machine. She dialed again, hoping to catch him in person.
“I’m not here. Leave me a message.”
Damn.
“Hey, it’s me again. I was wondering if you’d gotten my message from this afternoon. A friend of mine did a little digging and came up with a name—Steven Schwab. I was hoping it might ring a bell. I think he might be Hemi. I’m about to close up, but you can reach me at my home number. Anyway . . . thanks.”
After a hot shower and a haphazard supper of salad and leftover chicken, Ashlyn spread the contents of the manila envelope out on the kitchen counter and read through them again.
She’d been almost giddy as she combed through it the first time, but her excitement had deflated a little since. Other than the fact that a man named Steven Schwab may or may not have had a romantic relationship with the infamous Goldie, what had she really learned? That he might have worked for one of the Spencer papers. That he might have been a novelist. Nothing that connected Steven Schwab to Marian Manning.