Sarah Slade had been—for a brief time—a celebrity of sorts. For two weeks following her twenty-first birthday, her face had been on the front pages of newspapers all over the country. She had disappeared, and was wanted for murder. Love had been involved, and money, and important families. Boston Debutante Wanted for Murder. Case of the Disappearing Deb. Slade Family Mourns. There were sensational details, never mentioned in print. And then suddenly she reappeared, turned herself in to police, ready to be tried. Nothing happened.
The newspapers reported that she was sick, perhaps dying. She was being held in a prison hospital, they said, or a private hospital, or a rest home. She was unable at the time to stand trial.
Her parents had long since disappeared from the picture; her mother was remarried to a Polish count; her father had been killed in a fishy shooting accident at a casino in Nice. A sister, Cassandra, had died a year earlier; O.D., heroin. Of the family, there remained only her brother and her grandmother. Then shortly after the murder, the grandmother was hospitalized with a stroke. The brother, Porter Slade—vice president of Slade, Winthrop, and Slade—requested a news blackout. The family had suffered enough, he said.
Sarah's picture appeared less frequently in the newspapers and soon even her name appeared scarcely at all. There was other news. There were other murders. When at last a hearing was held, and the press was barred from it, an attempt on the President's life buried the Slade murder deep inside the newspaper.
At her hearing—there was never a trial—Sarah's counsel argued that she had committed a crime of passion while temporarily deranged, that she was no threat to the community, that a public trial and a public sentencing would do irreparable damage to an unfortunate young woman, to her distinguished family, and to society at large.
Counsel's arguments were effective, and so were the large cash gifts disbursed by Sarah's grandmother to the judge's wife, to the Chief of Police, to select members of the District Attorney's office. Sarah was spared a trial; she was sentenced to a minimum of three years' psychiatric custody and ten years' psychiatric parole.
Grandmother Slade, having once more seen the unique power of a family fortune, decided—despite her loathing for anything mercenary—that the time had come to give money her closest attention. She had long known that the family finances were in disarray, but when she sat down with her lawyers and discovered the full extent of that disarray, she was stunned. There was nothing left, or nearly nothing. She was down to her last few hundred thousand.
Provisions must be made for Sarah, since nobody would marry her now. Sarah had a tiny income from her father's estate, and apart from that, nothing. And there were only three years left to arrange everything.
Grandmother Slade went into action. She sold the summer house in Pride's Crossing. She sold the family house in Back Bay where the Incident had taken place; there could be no question of Sarah's returning to live there. She cashed in all her securities.
The family business, Slade, Winthrop, and Slade, had long since been sold, share by share, to the Tallino family. And Porter, she reflected, had been sold to them, share by share, as well. At any rate, married as he was to the only Tallino daughter, he was well taken care of. She did not have to make provisions for him.
With her new supply of cash, she bought the house in Louisburg Square and moved into the top floor with Cora, her housekeeper. She reserved the first and second floors for Sarah. The basement was for Angelo, who would act officially as chauffeur, unofficially as watchdog.
The Tallino family had purchased Slade, Winthrop, and Slade to serve as a respectable Brahmin front for some of their less respectable North End operations, and they were relieved at this turn of events. Of all things on earth, the last thing they wanted was publicity. From their viewpoint, marriage to the Slades had been a business deal: Tallino money for the Slade family name. Porter Slade was handsome and blond and a good husband to their Maria; he was the father of her three small children. But Sarah Slade had brought them all a great deal of unwanted attention. As would their own Angelo, if he were not kept under control.
And so the Tallinos were pleased with the grandmother's plan. They were pleased and they wanted to help. Sarah had to be watched; Angelo had to be kept occupied; they could both be taken care of by taking care of each other. The Tallinos put Angelo on salary.
Sarah came home to the house in Louisburg Square where Angelo had been in residence for some time. Her brother, Porter, came as often as he could to see how she was doing. She was doing well. Once a week she taught art at Pine Hill Day School, which her grandmother had endowed; twice a week she saw her psychiatrist. Angelo looked after her and, more discreetly than before, continued to live his private life. There was no further scandal.
The grandmother died and left Sarah everything, though everything translated to no more than the house and a good monthly income.
Things went on as they had been. Porter continued to make his visits. Angelo continued to read and to cruise and to look after Sarah. But Sarah had once again begun to shoplift. She had taken three handbags from three different stores, and there was no telling where this might end.
