The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress: A Novel

The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress: A Novel

4.2 27
by Ariel Lawhon

View All Available Formats & Editions

“Inspired by a real-life unsolved mystery, this mesmerizing novel features characters that make a lasting impression.”—PEOPLE MAGAZINE

"More meticulously choreographed than a chorus line. It all pays off."—THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW

They say behind every great man, there's a woman. In this case, there are

See more details below


“Inspired by a real-life unsolved mystery, this mesmerizing novel features characters that make a lasting impression.”—PEOPLE MAGAZINE

"More meticulously choreographed than a chorus line. It all pays off."—THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW

They say behind every great man, there's a woman. In this case, there are three.
Stella Crater, the judge's wife, is the picture of propriety draped in long pearls and the latest Chanel. Ritzi, a leggy showgirl with Broadway aspirations, thinks moonlighting in the judge's bed is the quickest way off the chorus line. Maria Simon, the dutiful maid, has the judge to thank for her husband's recent promotion to detective in the NYPD. Meanwhile, Crater is equally indebted to Tammany Hall leaders and the city's most notorious gangster, Owney "The Killer" Madden.

On a sultry summer night, as rumors circulate about the judge's involvement in wide-scale political corruption, the Honorable Joseph Crater steps into a cab and disappears without a trace. Or does he?

After 39 years of necessary duplicity, Stella Crater is finally ready to reveal what she knows. Sliding into a plush leather banquette at Club Abbey, the site of many absinthe-soaked affairs and the judge's favorite watering hole back in the day, Stella orders two whiskeys on the rocks—one for her and one in honor of her missing husband. Stirring the ice cubes in the lowball glass, Stella begins to tell a tale—of greed, lust, and deceit. As the novel unfolds and the women slyly break out of their prescribed roles, it becomes clear that each knows more than she has initially let on.

With a layered intensity and prose as effervescent as the bubbly that flows every night, The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress is a wickedly entertaining historical mystery that will transport readers to a bygone era with tipsy spins through subterranean jazz clubs and backstage dressing rooms. But beneath the Art Deco skyline and amid the intoxicating smell of smoke and whiskey, the question of why Judge Crater disappeared lingers seductively until a twist in the very last pages.

Read More

Editorial Reviews

The New York Times Book Review - Chelsea Cain
Lawhon has a gift for lean banter and descriptive shorthand…But don't let Lawhon's straightforward style and narrative restraint fool you. This book is more meticulously choreographed than a chorus line. It all pays off. Clues accumulate. Each scene proves important. Everyone lies. Once the rabbit is out of the hat, everything takes on a different texture, reorganizes and makes sense. A second reading, like a second cocktail, is almost better than the first.
Publishers Weekly
Lawhon’s disappointing debut novel reimagines the 1930 disappearance of justice Joseph Crater, an unsolved crime that fixates armchair detectives to this day. Set among the speakeasies and society soirees of Jazz Age Manhattan, the story also winds its way through the cramped tenements of the Lower East Side and goes behind the scenes of Broadway spectaculars. One August night, Joseph Crater leaves Club Abbey, a speakeasy owned by notorious gangster Owney Madden, and is never seen again. There are rumors of political corruption and shady connections with the criminal underworld, but the story centers on three women in his life—his wife, Stella; his mistress, showgirl Ritzi; and his maid, Maria. The three of them, all severely affected by his disappearance, must deal with the unexpected consequences, while trying to decide if there is a chance that he might still be alive. Stella hides in her Maine vacation home to avoid being harassed by police detectives and journalists. Ritzi shoulders a grueling life that is nothing like the glamorous starlet’s existence that she dreamed of. Maria, whose husband is a detective assigned to the Crater case, works on starting a family while managing two jobs. These women do everything they can to protect themselves and their families from the malevolent men who let nothing stand in the way of them and their money. A fascinating story, but rendered colorless by its lack of momentum and stock characters. (Jan.)
From the Publisher
"Good crime stories don't stay buried, and Ariel Lawhon's new novel, THE WIFE, THE MAID, AND THE MISTRESS digs up the case of the so-called Missingest Man in New York and feasts on its bones … This case was an a la carte menu of the era's social hot buttons: chorus girls, speakeasies, bootleggers, Tammany Hall corruption, nattily clad gangsters and irritating rich people … Lawhon has a gift for lean banter and descriptive shorthand … But don't let Lawhon's straightforward style and narrative restraint fool you. This book is more meticulously choreographed than a chorus line. It all pays off. Clues accumulate. Each scene proves important. Everyone lies. Once the rabbit is out of the hat everything takes on a different texture, reorganizes and makes sense. A second reading, like a second cocktail, is almost better than the first."
      - The New York Times Book Review
"As rumors swirl about political corruption, an NYC judge disappears in 1930 without a trace. Caught in the scandal are his wife and showgirl mistress – plus his dutiful maid, whose detective husband is investigating the case. Inspired by a real-life unsolved mystery, this mesmerizing novel features characters that make a lasting impression."
People Magazine

A gripping, fast-paced noir novel.... captures a New York City period full of high-kicking showgirls, mob-linked speakeasies and Tammany Hall political scandal.... Lawhon brings fresh intrigue to this tale, making the final outcome a guessing game for the reader as events unfold... Her version is built colorfully around many of the actual places and people who were key figures in the case... Stella, Maria and Ritzi are central to Lawhon's tale and give it a depth of emotion that is often missing from crime thrillers... the story moves forward with momentum, thanks to well-crafted scenes and fluid dialogue. Also, despite the many decades since Judge Crater went missing, the mystery of his disappearance is still a powerful magnet for its fictional retelling.”
- Associated Press

“Set among seedy speakeasies and backstage dressing rooms during Prohibition, the twists and turns in the tale of lust, greed, and deceit keep you guessing until the final pages....The Nancy Drew in you can’t wait to solve the artfully hidden clues in this historical mystery.”
—Daily Candy

  “A romp through New York in the late 20's…Populated by gangsters and crooked politicians, society ladies and dancers, this story is nothing like your day-to-day life and yet... you will find the three women mentioned in the title (a wife, a maid and a mistress) strangely recognizable…. Ariel Lawhon has cleverly re-imagined what might have happened if three women in his life really did know”
Charlotte Observer
“A romp through 1930s New York populated by gangsters and crooked politicians, society ladies and dancers”
Deep South Magazine
“Turns a historical mystery into nail-biting entertainment”                                                                                                                                    
—Nashville Scene
“An intriguing mystery…  Lawhon’s storytelling skills bring the characters to life and will have readers sympathizing with them even when they cheat and steal. She weaves reality and fantasy together so well — if you’re looking for a page-turner filled with glitz and glamour as well as murder, greed and deceit, this one’s for you.”
—Romantic Times 

"Lawhon begins her story in 1969, when Stella meets with Jude to reveal the truth. In extended flashbacks, [Lawhon] paints a sordid portrait of mobsters and mayhem, corruption and carnage, greed and graft as she slyly builds the suspense to a stunning revelation. A story of a bygone New York, "The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress" is also a tale of three women, strong in different ways, who lived at a time when gender roles often led to stereotyping and disrespect. The world might never know the full facts about Crater's fate, but readers with a taste for noir will enjoy this intelligent take on notoriety."
-The Richmond Times Dispatch

“This story is at once an intricate tale of disparate but coexisting definitions of love and loyalty as well as a tale of what it meant to be a person of power in New York City in the early 20th century. Historical fiction and true crime readers will thoroughly enjoy this book.”
-         Library Journal

“In this tale of Jazz Age New York, Lawhon walks one of fiction’s trickiest tightropes, creating a novel that is both genuinely moving and full of pulpy fun.…The imagined events of the novel become even more poignant when the reader discovers that the story is based on the real-life disappearance of Joseph Crater and that most of the characters were real people, like the notorious madam Vivian Gordon and the vile gangster Owney Madden. It’s a great story, told with verve and feeling.”

“Ariel Lawhon has concocted a stylish homage to noir in The Wife, The Maid, and The Mistress.  This fun, fast-paced novel has it all: speakeasies, gangsters, show girls, and not one, not two, but three women scorned.  A real page turner.” 
—Melanie Benjamin, New York Times bestselling author of THE AVIATOR’S WIFE. 

“A gangster’s showgirl, a wounded wife, a rich man’s maid, and the true-life, never-solved disappearance of a New York City judge, all come brilliantly to life amidst the Boardwalk Empire-like strut of Prohibition, in Lawhon’s sparklingly imagined novel. Vivid and unsettling, with a finale as startling as the pop of a gun.”
—Caroline Leavitt, New York Times bestselling author of PICTURES OF YOU and IS THIS TOMORROW

"The 1930 disappearance of Judge Joseph Crater, one of New York City's most fascinating and enduring mysteries, is brilliantly explored in Lawhon’s novel. With its richly drawn cast of characters-ballsy showgirls, corrupt politicians, dirty cops, a scorned wife, an ambitious maid, a scheming mistress-and deftly conjured, twist-laden plot, Ariel Lawhon's sparkling and finely-researched novel will entrance fans of historical fiction and nonfiction alike."
—Karen Abbott, New York Times bestselling author of SIN IN THE SECOND CITY and AMERICAN ROSE

"In a setting most often viewed through the lens of mobster or police investigator, Ariel Lawhon's The Wife, the Maid, and the Mistress delves instead into the history of three women who understand their own power and use it to protect not only their personal interests, but at times their very lives. Lawhon's engaging style, both film noir-ish and intensely emotional, delivers an enticing peek into the political and criminal underbelly of 1930s New York."
— Julie Kibler, author of CALLING ME HOME

"Offers a vivid portrait of 1930s New York City and an engrossing mystery that will keep you turning the pages well past your bedtime. But at its heart, this novel is a story about forgiveness—who deserves it, who gets it, and how, either way, we go on."
—Kelly O'Connor McNees, author of IN NEED OF A GOOD WIFE
“A fun, fast book with lots of dark surprises! The Wife, The Maid, and The Mistress made the real world fall away, transporting me to another time and place, full of speakeasies, dancing girls, mobsters, and mayhem. Lawhon's great gift is in creating vibrant heroines to cheer for; the socialite, the starlet, the Spanish maid all instantly sparked my sympathies, and had me ripping through the book to find out how they would manage to survive the dark grip of the powerful men who populated their world. Enjoy this wild trip to dangerous 1930, and wrap your brain around an imaginative new solution to one of the mysteries of old New York.” 
—Lydia Netzer, author of SHINE, SHINE, SHINE

Kirkus Reviews
Lawhon (Eye of the God, 2009) offers a fictional solution to the never-solved disappearance of New York Supreme Court Judge Joseph Crater in 1930, a headline story in its day. For 38 years, the judge's widow, Stella, makes annual visits to toast him at Greenwich Village's Club Abbey, the mobster-owned speak-easy frequented by Joe Crater in 1930. Dying of cancer in 1969, she invites Jude Simon, the detective assigned the Crater case, to join her and tells him what really happened. Cut to 1930: Joe cuts short his visit to Stella at the couple's Maine cottage to return to NYC alone after receiving a mysterious phone call. The Craters' maid, Maria, coincidently married to Jude, is cleaning their Fifth Avenue apartment when she walks in on Joe's mistress, a showgirl everyone calls Ritzi, naked in the conjugal bed. Joe warns Maria to keep her mouth shut before he and Ritzi head out. After having dinner with pal William Klein, Joe and Ritzi end up in a Coney Island hotel. When there's a knock on the door, Ritzi hides in a cabinet under the bathroom sink while two men savagely beat Joe before taking him away. She and Klein claim they spent the night together to give each other alibis when questioned. Stella returns to NYC briefly and finds a stash of money and documents that Maria knows Jude, of all people, placed in the Craters' bureau (but he doesn't know she knows). Stella hides from the grand jury when it convenes. Ritzi, newly pregnant, tries to hide from the mobster who controls her. Maria and Jude hide their secrets from each other. An author's note at the end explains who was real and who is fictional in the labyrinth of what ifs, but only Ritzi's story (she was real, but her storyline is imagined) carries any dramatic weight. There is some cheesy fun to be had here with Prohibition mobsters and politicians, but the plot and prose are pedestrian.
Library Journal
In this fictional reimagining of the infamous disappearance of Justice Joseph Crater from a street in New York City on August 6, 1930, events are perceived through the perspectives of the three title characters, the women who knew him best. At the time of his disappearance, there was much speculation that Justice Crater had become involved with organized crime, which may have led him to become the "missingest man in New York," as one newspaper dubbed him at the time. The novel begins years after Crater's disappearance, with his widow sitting in a bar. She has called a meeting with the investigating officer of the case, and when he arrives, she has ordered two drinks, one for herself and one for her late husband. Crater's widow is finally ready to tell the truth about what happened that August day, but readers will be happy that the facts are not revealed until the final pages. VERDICT This story is at once an intricate tale of disparate but coexisting definitions of love and loyalty as well as a tale of what it meant to be a person of power in New York City in the early 20th century. Historical fiction and true crime readers will thoroughly enjoy this book. Although this novel is dubbed a debut, Lawhon has published previous fiction, including Eye of the God, under the pen name Ariel Allison. [See Prepub Alert, 7/29/13.]—Caitlin Bronner, MLIS, New York

Read More

Product Details

Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date:
Sales rank:
Product dimensions:
6.40(w) x 9.30(h) x 1.20(d)

Read an Excerpt



Club Abbey, Greenwich Village, August 6, 1969

WE BEGIN IN A BAR. We will end here as well but that is more than you need to know at the moment. For now, a woman sits in a corner booth waiting to give her confession. But her party is late, and without an audience she looks small and alone, like an invalid in an over-sized church pew. It’s not so easy for her, this truth telling, and she strains against it. A single strand of pearls—brittle and yellowed with age—rests against the flat plane of her chest. She rolls them between her fingers as though counting the beads on a rosary. Stella Crater has avoided this confession for thirty-nine years. The same number of years she has been coming to this bar.

Not long ago this meeting would have been a spectacle, splashed across the headlines of every paper in New York: Wife of Missing Judge Meets with Lead Investigator, Tells All! But the days of front-page spreads, interviews, and accusations are over, filed away in some distant archive. Tonight her stage is empty.
Stella looks at her watch. Nine-fifteen.

Club Abbey was once a speakeasy during the Jazz age, and is now another relic in Greenwich Village, peddling its former glory through the tourist guides. It sits one floor below street level, dark and subdued. Scuffed pine floors. Black and white photos line the walls. An aging jukebox has long since replaced the jazz quartet. The only remnant is Stan, the bartender. He was fifteen when hired by notorious gangster Owney Madden to sweep the floors at closing. Owney took a liking to the kid, as did the showgirls, and Stan’s been behind the bar ever since. He’s never missed Stella’s ritual. His part is small, but he plays it well.

Two lowball glasses. Twelve cubes of ice split between them. Crown Royal on the rocks. Stan arranges napkins on her table and sets the glasses down. Her eyes are slick with a watery film—the harbinger of age and death. 
“Good to see you again, Mrs. Crater.”

 Stella swats him away with an emaciated hand and he hangs back to watch, drying glasses with a dishtowel. It’s the same thing every year: she sits alone in her booth for a few minutes and then he brings the drinks. Straight whiskey, the way her husband liked it. She’ll raise one glass, saluting the empty place across from her, and say, “Good luck, Joe, wherever you are.” Stella will take her time with the drink, letting it burn, drawing out the moment until there’s nothing left in her glass. That is when she’ll rise and walk out, leaving the other drink untouched.

Except tonight she does none of these things.

 Fifteen minutes she sits there, rubbing the rim of her glass. Stan has no script for what to do next and he stares at her, confused. He doesn’t see the door swing open or the older gentleman enter. Doesn’t see the trench coat or the faded gray fedora. Sees none of it until Detective Jude Simon slides into the booth across from Stella. 
She lays her palm on the table, inches from a pack of cigarettes, and sits up straighter. The booth is hard against her back, walnut planks pressing against the knobs of her spine. “You’re late.”
“Stella.” Jude touches the brim of his hat in greeting. He takes stock of her shriveled body.  Tips his head to the side.

“It’s been years.”

“You were here the first time, makes sense that you’d be here the last.” Stella lifts her glass and takes a sip of whiskey. Shudders. “Call it a deathbed confession.”

Jude surveys the room through the weary smoke. The regular Thursday night crowd, a few women, mostly men are scattered around in groups of twos and threes drinking longnecks and griping about the stock market. “This isn’t exactly a church and I’m not much of a priest,” he says.

“Priest. Detective. What’s the difference? You both love a good confession.”

His shoulders twitch—a doubter’s shrug. “I’m retired.”

Stella pulls a cigarette from the pack and props it between her lips. She looks at him, expectant.

 He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a tarnished silver lighter. Something like a smile crosses his face and then melts away. He stares at it for a moment, cupped there in his palm before striking it with his thumb. Jude used to be handsome, decades ago when Stella first met him, and the traces are still there in the square line of his jaw and the steel-blue eyes. But now he looks tired and sad. A bit wilted. It takes three tries before a weak flame erupts from the lighter. Perhaps his hand trembles as he holds it toward her or it could be a trick of the light. 

Stella tips her cigarette into the flame and the end glows orange. “You would be here tonight even if I hadn’t asked you to come.” Her eyes shift toward the bar where Stan pretends not to eavesdrop. “You have your sources.”

 “Maybe.” Jude hangs his fedora on a peg beside the booth and pulls a pad and pen from inside his coat pocket. He waits for her to speak.

Stella lured him here with the promise of a story—the real version this time. He has been like a duck after breadcrumbs for thirty-nine years. Pecking. Relentless. Gobbling up every scrap she leaves for him. Yet the truth is not something she will rush tonight. He will get it one morsel at a time.

 Stella Crater picked her poison a long time ago—unfiltered Camels—and she takes a long drag now, sizing up her pet duck. Her cheeks collapse into the sharp angles of her face and she holds the smoke in her lungs for a long moment before blowing it from between her teeth. Oh, she’ll tell Detective Simon a story all right.

Chapter One

Belgrade Lakes, Maine, Saturday, August 2, 1930

Stella slept with the windows thrown open that summer, a breeze blowing back the curtains. The sounds of nature lulled her to sleep: frogs croaking in the shallow water beneath her window, the hum of a dragonfly outside the rusted screen, the call of a loon across the lake. She lay there, with one arm thrown across her face in resistance to the burgeoning sunlight, when she heard the Cadillac crunch up the long gravel driveway.


Stella sat up and threw her legs over the edge of the bed, toes resting against the cool floorboards. She pushed a tangle of pale curls away from her eyes with a fine-boned hand. Yawned. Then grabbed a blue cotton shift from the floor and pulled it over her tan shoulders. She hadn’t expected her husband to come—hadn’t wanted him to—but there was no mistaking the familiar rumble of that engine. She went out to meet him wearing yesterday’s dress and a contrived grin.

“You’re back.”

Joseph Crater leaned out the open window and drew her in for a kiss. “Drove all night. We beat the Bar Harbor Express by an hour!” He clapped their chauffeur on the back. “We’ll have to paint a racing stripe down the side of this old thing.”

Stella pulled the car door open and saw two things at once: he’d brought her flowers—white peonies, her favorite—and he wasn’t wearing his wedding band. Again. The sight of that naked finger stripped the grin from her face.

Joe climbed out and reached for her with one arm, but she took a small step backward and looked at his pants pocket. The imprint of his ring pressed round against his cotton trousers. The question that surfaced was not the one she really wanted to ask. “Did you have a pleasant trip?”

He nodded.

“Where did you go?”

Joe’s answer was cautious. “Atlantic City. With William Klein.”

Her voice was even, almost carefree. “Just the two of you?” Joe hesitated long enough for her to rephrase the question. “Were you and William alone?”

He glanced at Fred Kahler, stiff behind the wheel, eyes downcast, and responded with a single sharp word. “Stell.”

It took a moment to find her breath. All that fresh air and she couldn’t pull a stitch of it into her lungs. “Must you be so flagrant about it?”

“We’ll talk about this later.”

Stella heard the warning in his voice, but didn’t care. She rose up onto the balls of her feet, the gravel digging into her bare skin, as anger ripped through her voice. “We have nothing to talk about!”

His eyes went small and dark.

Stella grabbed the car door and, with a rage that startled them both, slammed it shut, crushing Joe’s hand in the frame. She heard the crunch before he screamed, and when he yanked his hand away, two fingers were bloody and mangled.

Stella waited for Joe on the deck of the Salt House. It was Belgrade Lakes’ only fine-dining establishment, and they’d been late, thanks to his difficulty dressing with one hand. She had refused to help him.

Joe hadn’t yelled at her after the incident. Hadn’t called her names or lifted a hand to strike her. All he said was, “I’ll need your help with this mess.” Almost polite. Then he soaked his hand in the kitchen sink and waited for her to gather ointment and gauze. She had wrapped the bandage tighter than necessary, angered anew by his cavalier attitude and the way he expected her to accept that a man of his position would have a mistress. As though some skirt on Broadway was the same thing as a membership in the City Club.

By the time they arrived at the restaurant, he’d created a plausible fiction for his injury. “Had a beastly run-in with a Studebaker,” Joe explained to their waiter, wiggling his fingers for effect. “Damn thing tried to eat my hand for lunch.” And then, shortly after being seated, he excused himself to make a phone call.

Stella ordered their meal from a menu of summer fare: grilled fish, steaks, roasted vegetables, and fruit. A pleasant breeze rolled off the lake, rocking the Chinese lanterns that were strung around the deck. The red-and-yellow globes sent dancing spheres of amber across the linen tablecloths. Only a handful of the tables were occupied, and the diners leaned close over the candles, lost in conversation or in silence as they enjoyed the view. The longer she waited for Joe to return, the more they sent sympathetic glances her way.

The meal arrived with wine and bread, and Stella shifted candles and silverware to make room for the ample dinner. She waited until their server departed with his tray before taking a long drink of merlot. Steam rose from the pan-seared trout with lemon-caper sauce on her plate, and she wondered what sort of mood Joe would be in when he finished his call.

Minutes later, the door banged open on loose hinges, and Stella forced a smile as Joe strode toward the table, shoulders rounded forward like an ox. It was a look Stella knew well. Fury and determination and arrogance.

He yanked his chair away from the table with his good hand. “I’m leaving in the morning.”


“I have to go back to the city tomorrow. Straighten a few things out. I’ll be back on Thursday, in plenty of time for your birthday.”


“Don’t snivel. It doesn’t become you.” Joe unfolded the crisp black napkin and spread it over his lap. “You shouldn’t have waited. Food’s getting cold.”

Stella stayed in bed when Joe pushed back the covers at six the next morning. She stayed there while he bathed—the water turning on with a groan of rusted pipes—and when his toothbrush tapped against the sink. Stella stayed curled around her pillow when he rattled through the dresser and yanked his clothes from the closet. Didn’t move when he nudged her shoulder or when he cursed or when he brushed dry lips against her temple—a rote farewell—his freshly shaved chin rubbing against her cheek. Not until she heard his footsteps on the stairs did she open her eyes. And only when the Cadillac roared to life outside did she sit up. Four steps brought her to the window. She wiped his kiss from her temple. “Goodbye.”

The last Stella Crater ever saw of her husband was a glimpse of his shirt collar through the rear window as Fred eased the Cadillac down the gravel driveway.

Read More

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Write a Review

and post it to your social network


Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews >