Assuming they were there. Ellis hadn’t yet verified that fact. But one peek through the window could end the mystery—his worries, too, if he saw them doing well. Perhaps a meeting with Mr. Millstone wouldn’t be needed after all.
The thought was enough to propel Ellis.
He got out of his car just as a paperboy bicycled past, tossing rolled editions to front doors. The kid drew from his shoulder bag like an expert archer handling a quiver. When a woman walking her pup disappeared around the corner, leaving the street vacant, Ellis ascended the steps. On the porch, a wire basket of empty glass bottles awaited a dairyman’s delivery.
Ellis looked cautiously through a narrow gap in the lace curtains. In a parlor room on a large Persian rug, a young girl sat before a floor-model radio. She wore a sailor dress, black Mary Janes, and a red bow in her hair. No ponytail or overalls. But it was her. Ruby Dillard. Bright and clean as a new penny.
On an antique love seat, a slender woman in a fashionable day dress held an open book on her lap. Contentment curved her lips, seemingly more from watching the girl than from listening to the radio. In the background, a white-manteled fireplace and Tiffany lamps adorned the room. The whole scene befitted a cover of the Saturday Evening Post.
Through the window came the soft sound of laughter. A young boy’s giggles.
Calvin.
Relief drifted through Ellis, his spirits lifting, until a light creak shot from behind.
He swung around to find the front door opened. Alfred Millstone was reaching for the evening paper, the startle clear on his face.
“Mr. Millstone. Good evening.” Ellis felt just as jarred, but also embarrassed by his audacious plan to lurk. What the hell had he been thinking?
“Who-who are you?” the man stammered.
Ellis needed an explanation fast.
Then he thought: Why not tell the truth? This was indeed the person who’d relieved Geraldine of her burden. He might want to know that she’d passed, that he’d done a good thing, in case he had doubts.
“Sir, I’m Ellis Reed…with the Herald Tribune.” Ellis held out his hand in greeting.
Mr. Millstone turned markedly stern. “A reporter?” He made no move to accept the handshake. “What is it you want?”
There was irony here—that a newspaper was welcome at the home, while a newsman plainly was not. He and Ellis’s father could well be instant pals.
But then what did Ellis expect? After all the bank runs following the market crash, a double hit-job on folks’ savings, reporters hadn’t portrayed banks, or their executives, in the best light.
“You answer me now, or I’ll phone the police.” Mr. Millstone’s high forehead shone with a slight flush, triggering Ellis’s gut to intervene.
It told him to leave well enough alone, that there was no good reason to press on. Hadn’t he disrupted enough lives already? He could simply toss out an excuse for his presence and be on his way.
“Sir, I’m…working on a piece. For the paper. A profile.”
The man’s eyes tightened behind his glasses. “On?”
“Well…you, Mr. Millstone.”
What sounded like a western, with horses’ hoofbeats and yippee ki-yays, projected from the radio. Its burst of gunshots reverberated through the silence on the porch.
Ellis needed to elaborate to prevent a police summons that could end in a similar way. “As I’m sure you know, after Black Tuesday, trust in the banking community’s been set back a bit. A personal profile on prominent bankers like yourself could help remedy the situation by rebuilding relationships with your customers.”
Obviously, Mr. Millstone wasn’t going to agree—a good thing. Ellis just needed to provide an easy out. “If you’d rather not, that’s certainly fine. We could—”
“When?”
Ellis blinked. Shit.
“I presume you have a deadline in the near future.”
Ellis mentally scrambled, mustering a look of gratitude. “How’s tomorrow?”
Mr. Millstone’s demeanor lightened the smallest amount. “Fine. Two o’clock.” Then he stressed with a pointer finger, “At the bank.”
“Yes, of course. I look forward to it.”
A quick sniff, and Mr. Millstone bid good night. Then, as if suddenly recalling his purpose for coming out, he snatched up his evening paper and shut the door.
Ellis exhaled in a quiet rush. “Well done, dimwit,” he muttered to himself.
When he turned for the steps, he noted the window. The view of the parlor, along with the children, was gone. Someone had drawn the drapes.
• • •
The phone was ringing as Ellis approached his apartment. He unlocked it and rushed inside to pick up the handset on the entry table. He’d barely said hello when