Symphony of Secrets, page 22
“I understand you’re looking for a suit,” Jeremy was saying as he led Fred up the stairs, back into the ready-to-wear men’s suit section.
“Not just a suit,” Fred said. “I want something elegant. Super refined.” Fred had been debating as to whether to get a fully bespoke suit, but ready-to-wear Bergdorf Goodman was the height of elegance right then. He wanted to be able to tell people he’d gotten his suit at Bergdorf’s.
“Yes, of course.” Jeremy assessed Fred through slightly narrowed eyes. “Thomas is just your size.” He called for Thomas, a slender fellow with silvery fair hair. Both of the Bergdorf employees were older than Fred. That gave Fred some satisfaction, as well.
Jeremy led Fred around the showroom. “We have a double-breasted sack suit in worsted wool that might be just the ticket. It was popular a few years ago, but we’ve made some tweaks, and it’s very fashionable right now. What do you think?” He pulled out a beautiful blue pinstripe, held it up. Fred nodded appreciatively, and Thomas disappeared to try it on.
After much debate, they decided the blue pinstripe did not do justice to Fred’s fair complexion. The dark gray was a possibility. Then again, the dark green tailored lounge suit might be appropriate, even if it was a bit more casual. Jeremy suggested dressing it up with a few striped shirts with turned-down collars—very in, you know—accompanied by a stylish woolen homburg. “You can’t go wrong with a homburg,” Jeremy told him, and Fred was inclined to agree.
Two hours later, his purchases made—he’d decided on the blue pinstripe after all—Fred asked Jeremy to accompany him to the music section of the store. Fred knew where it was, since he’d played there a handful of times, but he didn’t want the salesclerks to take one look at him and immediately assume he was just a run-of-the-mill song plugger without two bits to rub together. Jeremy, carrying the boxes, led the way.
But his worries were for naught. The song plugger up that day wasn’t from Ditmars & Ross, and Fred didn’t recognize him. Jeremy introduced Fred to the salesclerk: Miss Sophie Normil, an older matron with a pince-nez. She was new, as well. “Sophie,” Jeremy said, “this is Mr. Delaney. He’s a composer. He wrote ‘Bring Back the Moon.’ ”
Sophie gaped at Fred. Her pince-nez fell off her nose. Fred would have laughed, the sight was so comical and somehow so trite, but he didn’t have time; Sophie was pumping his hand, speaking breathlessly and standing a little too close.
He’d thought in the past that he just enjoyed being admired; now he realized that he craved it. Not being liked, not being respected—being adored. People idolizing him made him feel bigger and more important. They saw a better man than he saw himself, and he loved that.
“Mr. Delaney it is an honor—an honor!—to meet you. I’m such a fan—such a fan! ‘Let the Rain Come’ is one of my favorite—favorite!—songs! And ‘Bring Back the Moon’! Oh! It’s just divine! Divine, I tell you!” Fred could feel a fine spray of spittle on his face.
He ducked his head. He was blushing. He’d never actually met a fan before, someone who knew his name. And at Bergdorf Goodman, of all places.
“What are you working on next? Do tell! I was just telling the girls in my sewing circle—I have a little sewing circle, you see, started it during the war and we just kept it going, nothing serious of course, just gloves and scarves for the soldiers, now the veterans—anyway, I was just telling the girls that I was so hoping you’d write us a waltz—oh I know, so old-fashioned!—but I says to them, I says, ‘If anyone could write a really danceable waltz, a really elegant waltz, it’s Mr. Fred Delaney!’ And here you are!”
“Gosh,” Fred told her modestly, “maybe I’ll write a waltz next. I was just thinking about it the other day.”
“Oh! Would you? Would you really? Oh my goodness, wait until I tell the girls about this. That I was the inspiration for a waltz! It’s too good to be true, I tell you.” She waved her hand dramatically in front of her jowls as if she were about to faint.
Fred couldn’t decide if she was just pulling his leg, but the way she waved her hand, eyes swimming up at him, made him believe she was serious. “Yes, well,” he said. “Anyway, I’m hoping to purchase something.”
“Oh! You’re going to buy something here? Today? Oh goodness. What are you looking for? Do you know what you want?”
Fred eyed her again, looking for any sign that she was mocking him.
She stared back eagerly, no mischief in her eyes.
“I’d like a Victrola,” he told her, already heading over to that corner of the department where the phonograph players posed like a miniature city of skyscrapers, their rosewood and mahogany cases gleaming.
“Oh my,” Sophie said, hurrying to keep up. “We have a fine selection—quite fine!—so I’m happy to—”
“I’d like the Victrola the Sixteenth with the electric motor attachment,” he said, cutting her off. “That one.” He pointed to the Victrola No. 2. For months he’d been eyeing it: top-notch, with an improved four-spring motor and a wider tone arm. It didn’t have the ornate carving of some of its brethren, and wasn’t the height of beauty, but there was no question.
“Oh, good choice,” Sophie said. “Its sound is far superior to the others. And so smart of you to get an electric motor. That’s all the rage these days—all the rage.”
“Can you have it delivered?” He handed her his card. “This afternoon?”
“Of course,” she said. And—yes, Freddy was sure of it—she looked up and batted her eyelashes at him. Actually batted them. Despite the pince-nez, and despite never having been batted at before, he could tell an eye-batting as well as the next man. “Would you be willing to sign your card?” she asked him. “I’d love to show the girls.”
He signed the card. F Delaney. His first autograph.
Fifteen minutes later he was piling his packages into a taxi and shuttling home. He didn’t have much to carry: the suit and the shirts were being altered and wouldn’t be ready for a few days; and the Victrola, along with a dozen brand-new phonograph records, would be delivered later that afternoon. But he enjoyed the convenience of a taxi.
Josephine was out, which was just as well. This wasn’t unusual. Unless the weather was too inclement, she wandered on Saturdays. Someone usually played music in Central Park, and she could spend her afternoon in dance halls or vaudeville shows absorbing their music.
Later, when Josephine arrived home just as the March sun was setting, the studio looked different: on one wall, next to the armoire and an arm’s breadth from her bedroll, an unfamiliar object sat draped in a white sheet. A large yellow bow rested uneasily on top, the ribbon’s ends curling halfway down to the floor.
Josephine was wearing her new maroon dress, Fred noted with approval. Her eyes widened and she looked at Fred, who’d leaped off his bed when he heard her unlock the door and was now standing next to the object, grinning.
“I want to show you how much I appreciate you, Josephine Reed. Your lessons, your cooking and cleaning, your talent and everything else. Go on. Open it.”
She approached, slowly reached out a hand, drew back, looked at Fred.
“Go on,” he said.
With agonizing hesitancy, Josephine pulled off the sheet—so slowly that Fred had to fight himself to not snatch the sheet from her and give it a good yank. She kept looking over at him as if not quite believing this was happening.
The sheet fell. She crushed a wad of it in her hand.
“What do you think?”
“Oh. Oh, my,” she said.
“Does that mean you like it? Let’s just say that you like it. It’s electric, see? It’s the latest thing. Not even a hand crank. And open the doors. Go on,” he said, when she hung back, “go ahead and open them. See? I got six phonograph records, too. You can get more but I thought I’d give you these to get you started. And see?” He handed her the one on top, that had his name, Fred Delaney, on it: “Blue Billy Lane.” “Our own record! Our very first one!”
Some of the Ditmars & Ross music had made its way onto phonograph discs, although not many—Mr. Ditmars had only just begun dabbling in them. So although Josephine must have seen copies of the phonograph record before now, her eyes filled with tears and she hugged it to herself.
“I love it a lot. This is swell.”
“Come on, let’s play it,” he said. “You know how?”
He showed her how to insert the needle into the holder, position the record, flick the On switch.
“Blue Billy Lane,” sung by Madeline Ross, poured out of the brass horn on the top of the machine. She listened, eyes glistening. There was something very special about hearing it, in their room, together.
“Thank you,” she said again. “I really like it. It must have cost you a lot. Especially the electric one.”
“Sure, it wasn’t cheap, but I wanted to show you just how great you really are.” He wanted to hug her, but he knew she didn’t like to be touched.
“Where did you get the money?”
“I sold ‘Everyday Blues’ and ‘When You Saw Me Last,’ ” he said. “Plus I’ve been saving. I’ve been wanting to get this for you.”
“Oh,” she said. “I don’t know what to say.”
“We’re a team,” he said. “Your music is good, no doubt about it, but my lyrics make them great. I’ve got big plans for us.”
They spent the evening playing the phonograph records. On Monday, when the shops opened, Josephine purchased another dozen records and played them endlessly, ears inches from the brass horn, eyes closed.
She didn’t notice, or didn’t remark upon, the boxes that arrived on Tuesday from Bergdorf Goodman and didn’t compliment Freddy on his beautiful new suit.
26
You Can Trust Us
Bern
The next morning, a mild day in early February, as Bern headed toward the elevator bank, the security guard on desk duty called, “Dr. Hendricks?”
He looked up, preoccupied.
“Ms. Roberts wanted a word with you. She asked if you could stop in?”
He thanked the guard, pressed 17.
Bern hoped the conversation with Mallory wouldn’t take long. He was preoccupied with Josephine, wondering about how many songs she’d been involved in, and brooding about what could have happened to her.
Mallory met him as he got out of the elevator. “Just the man I was hoping to see,” she said. Her bright red blouse and off-white skirt seemed somehow joyous and summery, even though it was the middle of winter. “How are things progressing? Is the end in sight?”
“We’re getting there,” he said vaguely. She made no move to lead him back to her office. Why had she summoned him?
“Great to hear,” she said, and it sounded forced.
Unease tingled. “Is everything okay?” he asked.
“Not really,” she said. “We’re just waiting on a couple more people, and then we can get started.”
“Waiting on who? Get started on what?”
“My cousin Kurt wanted to have a word with you. He and a few other board members.”
Kurt Delaney, the nephew of Frederic Delaney, was chairman of the board. Bern knew who he was, of course, but had never spoken to him.
“The problem is that he’s in Thailand at the moment, and the logistics have been a nightmare on such short notice.”
He had no idea what she was talking about, but adrenaline, cold and icy, started tingling in his fingers. “I’m sure it can wait,” he said, “whatever it is, can’t it? Till he’s back? I have enough to keep me busy for a while.”
“No, let’s see if he’s here,” she said, looking at her watch. Maybe fifteen seconds had elapsed since the last time she’d checked.
She led him past her office, down to the door at the very end of the hall, which opened into an enormous state-of-the-art conference room that took Bern’s breath away. The left wall was solid glass, with a spectacular view of Lincoln Center; behind loomed the dark mass of Central Park. An audiovisual center—an enormous television or movie screen, Bern wasn’t sure what to call it—took up the entire back wall. Perhaps a dozen faces peered down from the videoconference link. A dozen or so chairs encircled the sparsely elegant jet-black table, with eight people already there, despite the fact that it was only just after nine in the morning. Ice water sweated in pitchers down the center of the table, with croissants and pastries fanning out in a decadent display. No one had eaten anything.
Bern recognized only one other person at the table: Stanford Whitman, the lawyer he’d met the night he’d arrived. Introductions to the others followed: board members Suzanne Herz and Beth Lamb, both casually dressed in jeans and blazers; Kamae Sandgren, Whitman’s legal associate, a thin blond woman with very pale blue eyes; and several others, including a heavyset dark-haired man in a beautifully tailored suit who didn’t identify himself or clarify his connection with the board.
Mallory introduced Bern to the heads on the video screens: financier Momad Husseini; Michael Amoury, CFO of Orange Incorporated, one of the biggest lighting companies in the world; Thomas Alexander, the world-class conductor for Orchestra du Paravel; and Andrew Kean, the famous concert pianist, among others.
As they were making introductions, the top center video screen flickered to life. Bern recognized the chairman, Kurt Delaney, bearded and in his early eighties.
“Here you are,” Mallory said to him. “Is this video link better?”
“We’ll see,” Kurt said. “Sure hope so.” His eyes sought out Bern. “Dr. Hendricks,” he said, clearly impatient and wanting to get started. “Hello. It’s nice to meet you. You’ve certainly been an industrious young man, haven’t you?”
Something about the way Delaney said young man made Bern want to bristle; it was overly familiar and demeaning, as if he’d called Bern son or boy.
“I’ve been hard at work on RED,” Bern said, “if that’s what you mean.”
One of the faces on-screen—he thought it was Husseini—laughed.
Kurt was already talking. “You’ve certainly been hard at work,” he said. “Tell us about Josephine Reed.”
How did they know? Had they been monitoring his computer? Had they double-checked with the professor at Duke, who Bern had supposedly met with? He wondered if it was Stephanie. But what could she have seen?
“Who?” he said carefully.
“Come on,” Kurt said. “Don’t play stupid with us, Doctor. Josephine Reed. Of South Carolina. How many Josephine Reeds are there?”
Bern would give nothing away, he decided. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything you know,” Stanford Whitman told him. “And Mr. Delaney meant North Carolina. Oxford, North Carolina.”
Now that it was out, Bern almost welcomed what would come next. Fine. Good. They were done with the secrecy. “As I gather you’ve figured out, Josephine Reed is JoR, the initials on the Doodle page that accompanied the RED score.”
Michael Amoury, the CFO of Orange Inc., said, “Who was she? A girlfriend? Relative? Lover?”
“I believe,” Bern said, “she may have been his mistress. I also believe she may be the reason that Delaney had such a deep affinity with the Black community.”
Bern’s phone pinged. Eboni. He switched it to Do Not Disturb.
“How did she know Frederic Delaney?” someone asked.
One of the video monitors filled with the photo of Josephine Reed staring at the camera, Frederic Delaney in the foreground. “Is this her?” Kurt said.
“Yes,” Bern said steadily. “I believe so.”
“And you think she’s JoR, from the Doodle?”
“It seems likely,” Bern said.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Mallory said. “We would have helped, you know.”
He shrugged again, kicking himself for listening to Eboni. Why hadn’t he trusted his own gut? He should have gone to the Foundation weeks ago. “I wanted to have something definite to tell you first. It’s all just conjecture.”
“But it’s our conjecture,” Kurt said. “You should have told us.”
Bern shook his head. “I wanted to figure everything out before I brought it to you.”
One of the other faces spoke up. “What was in the trunk?”
How did they know about the trunk? “What do you mean?” Bern said, stalling.
“You went to North Carolina,” Mallory reminded him. “You said it was to consult”—she peered at her tablet—“John Owens at Duke University. But when you came back, you came back with a black trunk. What was in it?” On the screen flashed an image of Bern and Eboni hauling the steamer trunk from the Delaney plane.
“We just picked it up,” Bern said. “Eboni—she’s the computer programmer I’ve been working with—she liked it. Brought it back with her.”
“Don’t lie to me, young man.” Bern could hear the contempt in his voice. Young man sounded more and more like boy.
“Josephine Reed comes from Oxford, North Carolina,” Kurt said. “Her descendants still live there. They told us that they sold you a trunk. That they sold the Delaney Foundation a trunk. We want to know what was in it.”
Bern swallowed. Before he could reply, someone else was saying, “They said it was filled with papers. They described papers that looked like other Delaney Doodles. Where are they?”
