The Dollhouse(24)

“Of course, and I appreciate it.”

They ventured into the living room, where two south-facing windows filled with plants served as the focal point, along with an oversize couch.

“It’s not grand, but in New York, it’s a steal.”

“I’m sure.” Rose sat down on the couch, sinking in so far her knees rose above her hips, and tried not to spill her tea. “So kind of you to do this, Ms. Conover.” She placed the cup on the table beside her and took out a notebook and a pen from her bag.

“Oh, please, call me Stella.”

“Stella. When did you come to the Barbizon?”

“Back in 1952. I was scouted by the Eileen Ford agency. I worked as a model for ten years, and then became a muse of sorts for the designers, if you know what I mean.”

Rose blinked.

“I made the rounds. Let certain men take care of me for the pleasure of having me on their arm. Don’t be squeamish. Figured it would lead to other Cinderella-type things like in the movies, but no such luck. I did well, though. I made enough to take care of myself.”

“I see.” If all of the women were as forthright as Stella, the piece for WordMerge would be terrific. “What was it like when you first arrived? I understand men weren’t allowed above the first floor?”

“The rules were strict. I remember coming down in slacks one day and the matron on duty, this dour woman, told me to go right back upstairs and change. I couldn’t cross the lobby in pants, only a skirt. And this lasted through the sixties, mind you. Seems so silly today.”

“What about the girls who went to secretarial school?”

“Right. The Katharine Gibbs girls. We always felt so smug when we saw them dressed in their gloves and hats for class. They had their own floors and we didn’t interact much. The place was like a beehive with all these tiny rooms off long, dark hallways. Lively, though, everyone had a great time. J. D. Salinger used to show up at the café on the ground floor, hoping to pick up one of the models.”

“Did you date J. D. Salinger?”

“No, not my type.”

“This is exactly what I’m looking for; the history is fascinating.” She tapped the notepad with her pen. “You know, I’ve tried to reach some of the other women on the floor, but they don’t want to talk, it seems.”

“Old biddies, the lot of them.” She let out a husky laugh. Her profile was aristocratic, with a high forehead and strong nose. Rose could very well imagine her dressed to kill in the cinched, girdled fashions of a bygone era. “When it was still a hotel, they used to sit in the lobby all day commenting on the other guests like a Greek chorus. After it went condo, loitering was discouraged, so they withdrew to the fourth floor.”

“What about Darby McLaughlin; did you know her back then?”

Stella paused for a moment, then seemed to choose her words carefully. “She was an odd duck at first. We had an uneasy beginning, but we eventually reached a kind of detente. Darby went to Gibbs, then worked as a secretary for the same company for years and years until she retired.” The radiator began to clank. “Oh, dear God, I keep telling the super to come up and turn the damn thing off already, but he’s too busy kowtowing to the rich tenants. Don’t be offended.”

“No, not at all. What kind of company did Miss McLaughlin work for?”

“Some button shop on West Thirty-Eighth Street. Only retired five or six years ago, old goose.”

The clanking continued. “Do you want me to turn the heat off?”

“No, it involves taking all the plants off the windowsill and lifting up that shelf they sit on. It’s the least he can do, for the little I ask of him.”

“It must be strange to see the building change so drastically.”

“Everything changes. I couldn’t care less. I have my little slice of New York City and that’s enough for me.”

“You said you were good friends with Miss McLaughlin?”

“I didn’t say that. But we help each other out, now and again. I’m taking care of Bird while she’s away.”

The news surprised Rose. “Where did she go?”

“God knows. This morning she seemed upset, asked me to watch Bird while she’s gone for a while, and that was that. Said she had some business to take care of. Whatever that means. What kind of business can an eighty-one-year-old woman have? Said she’d be back in three weeks.”

Rose’s hopes fell. Tyler wouldn’t be happy. “Does she often go on trips?”

“Rarely. Can’t think of the last time she left town. Like I said, she was in a hurry. You said you talked to her?”

“Yes, we were going to set up a time to speak further. Were you here when she had the accident?”

“How did you hear about that?”

“One of the doormen. He was very respectful,” she added quickly.

“Patrick. Biggest gossip in the building.” Her voice became quiet, eerie. “I can’t help you out there. Darby’s private. She doesn’t talk much about it.”

“Do you remember the name of the maid who died?”

Stella let out a low whistle. “Can’t forget her. She was a wiseass. Esme. Esme Castillo was her full name. After it happened, it was all the girls could talk about for weeks. The hotel kept the scandal quiet, never even hit the papers.” She stared at Rose through narrowed eyelids. “Is that what you want to write about?”