Don't Dare a Dame Page 14

  “Try Ray Marsh, at the dime store,” he suggested. “He was a few years older than me and might have paid more attention to things. And there’s a woman who helps over there — oh, even better, talk to Cy Warren. His dad owned a clothing store up where the bank is. They had dummies. Cy’s still in town. Owns a real estate firm and was on City Council.”

  “And owns a lot of the buildings around here.”

  He nodded.

  “But not yours.”

  “No.”

  I thanked him and crossed the street. From my first visit, I knew the woman who ran the corner café hadn’t been here at the time of the flood. The grouchy old cobbler had, and Swallowtail owned his building, but I had something special planned for him. Before that, I was going to have some fun with Marsh at the dime store.

  “Hi, remember me?” I sang as I marched up to him at the cash register.

  He looked up from entering numbers on what appeared to be an order or inventory sheet. After a second his helpful expression gave way to a hard look. Before he could speak, I continued merrily.

  “I was here last week asking about the flood in 1913, the one you weren’t here for and don’t know anything about.”

  “I never—”

  “You must have been, what ... eighteen? Twenty? Funny you can’t remember. Cy Warren can’t be much older, and he remembers plenty.”

  Marsh’s mouth opened and closed so many times he looked like a fish.

  “You’ve talked—”

  “Now I’m hoping that the shoes you’re wearing today don’t pinch quite as much as the ones you had on last time, and you’ll remember better.” I propped my elbow on the counter so we were cozy as sweethearts. “What can you tell me about the day of the fire? Or about the little girl who talked about the clothing dummy?”

  He’d jerked away as if I had a disease.

  “I already told you. I don’t remember. I was in back, on the attic stairs, hauling stuff up as fast as my father handed it to me. That’s—” His blink told me his brain had just now registered something bewildering. “Little girl? What little girl?”

  I waited.

  “Did you say something about a dummy? What are you talking about?”

  “Actually, she called it a ‘store dolly’,” I said carefully.

  A customer came in. Emily, bless her, scurried to greet them. Marsh seemed unaware of it. He frowned in confusion.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  If the little girl’s family had been forced to relocate after the flood, it was possible no one on Percy had heard her story except for the cop on the beat, I realized slowly.

  “There was a little girl who told people she saw men put a dummy out in the rain.”

  I was watching his eyes. They flared with curiosity.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Cy that you talked to me,” I said before he could speak. “You won’t get kicked out of this building, or that men’s group you’re both in.”

  The part about the men’s group was a guess, but something in what I’d just said made Marsh redden.

  “How dare you suggest Cy Warren is - is coercing me!” He gave his vest an affronted tug. “I don’t have time to waste on greedy relatives trying to stir up a lawsuit over a building I barely remember. I can’t even recall if we were still here moving things when it caught fire.”

  So that was how Cy had explained my questions on Percy Street; greedy relatives.

  “I’ll tell you something else.” Marsh took a leather-bound ledger from under the counter and smacked it down, preparing to work. “Cy’s a good man to know. He has influence.”

  ***

  My parking spot in the shade of a building had kept the big bag of grapes I’d left in my car reasonably cool. When I left the dime store, I retrieved them. Then I opened the trunk and took out a pair of shoes I kept for emergencies. The leather on the back of them was scarred and scraped from when I’d been dragged behind a car. I kept them handy in case I needed to change a flat or walk through muck. With the bag of grapes in one hand and shoes in the other. I walked back to the cobbler’s shop.

  The wiry old guy who owned the place was tapping away on a bench in back when I came in. Still holding a hammer, he got up and came toward me. His eyes narrowed. He remembered me. And I remembered he’d told me if I wasn’t a customer, he didn’t have time for my questions.

  I set my battered shoes firmly on the counter between us.

  “I have shoes that need fixing.”

  Twenty-seven

  “You’re that woman was sticking her nose in asking questions,” he said, ignoring my shoes. “Put people’s backs up.”

  “Gee, the only ones who seemed to mind my questions were you and Marsh at the five-and-dime,” I said with a grin. “You said you were busy and only had time for paying customers. I’m kind of hoping you might have a little more time today.”

  I set the bag of grapes on the counter. These weren’t your thick-skinned blue-black Concords. These skins were more pink than purple, and the globes were big and sweet.

  “Happened to be in the produce market on my way here,” I said. These looked so nice, I thought you might enjoy a sack.”

  He grunted.

  “Still don’t have time for lollygagging.” He eyed the grapes. “Closing for lunch so I can go in back and relax, open the door a crack for some air.” He gave me a hard look. “Go on. Clear out.”

  He came around the counter with energy enough to make me think he intended to shove me out if he had to. I retreated. Had he been sending me a message or was he merely closing for lunch? With a shooing motion he herded me out the door.

  It slammed behind me so quickly I wondered if the hem of my skirt would be trapped. I heard the sound of a key. By the time I turned, a placard that read CLOSED FOR LUNCH was swinging back and forth in the window next to the door. The surly old codger was hotfooting toward a partition in back.

  For a good thirty seconds I stood staring, still unsure whether his talk about going in back had been a cue. It didn’t require much pretending to act peeved. I crossed my arms. Finally I stalked up the street to my car.

  I drove away, vaguely toward downtown. It gave me time to think. If I was right, the cobbler didn’t want to be seen talking to me, which meant he was willing to talk, but was wary of some kind of consequences if he did. I doubled back to a residential street a block behind his shop.

  The alley behind the shop was deserted when I got there, and the door of the shop was ajar. I walked quickly. The cobbler sat facing the door. His feet were propped comfortably on a footstool and he was eating a sandwich. The bag of grapes sat on an unused bench next to his elbow.

  “Whose back was it that I put up?” I asked without preliminaries. I didn’t figure he was one for small talk, just as I’d figured dangling money wouldn’t loosen his tongue.

  He sniffed, dismissing the question.

  “Grow my own grapes,” he said. “In the back yard.”

  He was letting me know he couldn’t be softened up with a bag of grapes, but I also thought the contrary old coot might reward me with a tidbit or two if I passed some sort of test.

  “Grow your own, huh? Concords?”

  He nodded. I looked around and found a wooden stool that wobbled when I sat on it.

  “Can’t beat a Concord,” I said. “But these aren’t bad either. Anyway, I got a bag for myself, and since I was coming here, I thought you might enjoy some for the vitamins and that. You not being a believer in pills and doctors.”

  He took a single grape and chewed it. He grunted.

  “Guess they’re okay. What makes you so interested in Dillon’s Drugs?”

  “A man named John Vanhorn was headed there the day it burned. He never was seen again.”

  The cobbler shrugged. He shoved three grapes into his mouth and talked around them.

  “Lots of people got swept away in the water. Name’s not familiar.”

  “Anybody question whether
the body they found in the store was really the owner?”

  “It was him alright. We were clearing debris when we found him. Burned down to nearly a skeleton. I saw the crooked bone in his leg. Got broke when he was a kid and wasn’t set right. Gave him an awful limp. Had to lift what was left of some steel shelves to get to what was left of him.”

  He popped more grapes in his mouth and followed them with a bite of sandwich.

  “Any other bodies turn up?”

  “Any others?” He looked startled. “Not around here. Why?”

  “A little girl who lived around here told a policeman she’d seen two men carry a clothing dummy outside and leave it just before the fire started.”

  He chewed complacently.

  “All kinds of gossip. Rumors. Me, I don’t listen. Mind my own business.”

  His helpful streak was running out. I stood up.

  “You never said whose back I’d put up asking questions.”

  “No point. Like I told you, I mind my own business.”

  “And since Cy Warren’s your landlord, he could kick you out if you got on his bad side.”

  That won me a truculent look.

  “I don’t kowtow like some.”

  “Like Marsh at the dime store?” When he didn’t respond, I switched tactics. “The other day you told me you’d owned your place across the street.”

  “I did. And when Warren and Maguire were crazy to buy up lots around here, I saw a chance to make a smart deal.” The old codger cackled. “Saved what I would have spent on rebuilding. Money in the bank drawing interest for my old age, and a lifetime lease.”

  “If you crossed him, though, he could double your rent.”

  “Nope. Can’t raise it more than two percent a year, written into the contract.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Cy Warren wasn’t as smart about real estate then as he is now.”

  A man’s vanity regarding his cleverness yields information questions won’t. So does giving him an opportunity to correct you.

  “Huh,” I said. “The way I heard it, Alf Maguire was the smart one.”

  He snorted.

  “About as full of brains as he was ambition. Cy’s the one who called the tunes.” His mouth clamped shut, not because he’d told me anything unwise, but because he’d been more helpful — or maybe agreeable — than was his habit. “Now clear out,” he said, my gift of grapes forgotten. “Come in the front in fifteen minutes and pick up your shoes.”

  ***

  When I came in the front, my shoes were no longer on the counter where I’d left them. The cobbler wore his leather apron again, and was standing at some sort of machine. He left it whining as he came to help me.

  “Shoes weren’t worth fixing,” he said, slamming them on the counter.

  I don’t know if he intended for me to stalk out in a huff, but I did.

  ***

  I found a pay phone and called to make sure Corrine was okay. I had lunch, then caught up at the office. Well before quitting time, I was parked where I could watch men leave the factory where Neal had worked. His pal with the coal black hair was half a head taller than most of the others, making him easy to spot. I got out of my car and started toward him with a wave.

  One of his buddies saw me first and gave him a nudge. The big guy dodged a couple of cars as he crossed the street. His steps slowed as he drew near.

  “You still hunting Neal?” he asked awkwardly. He was leery of being the bearer of bad news.

  “Yeah, I am. And I already know he hasn’t been in all week, and that he got fired.”

  He frowned.

  “Why are you here then?”

  I gave him a card. He read it slowly, his lips working silently over the word ‘investigator’. Finally he looked up.

  “You’re a cop.”

  “Detective. Private. Not a cop.”

  His handsome head was starting to shake.

  “I don’t rat. Don’t know any more than what I’ve already told you anyway.”

  “Listen. Neal’s family’s been having some trouble. I’m worried about him. A week ago he talked as if he was glad to have this job. Doesn’t seem like he’d just up and vanish.”

  The big guy talking to me wiped a hand across his mouth, thinking.

  “It’s Friday,” I coaxed. “End of the week. I’ve got a thirst for a beer. I’d buy you one too.”

  The high-voltage grin split his face

  “Can’t say other girls haven’t been eager enough for my company they did the inviting, but I never expected an offer from a classy tomato like you.”

  I put out my hand. “You know my name from the card. What’s yours?”

  “Donnie. Donnie Williams.” He started to shake the hand I’d offered, then hesitated. “I guess you made that up, what you said when I first met you? That you had a disease?”

  Twenty-eight

  Donnie vetoed the watering hole nearest the factory, saying it was sort of scruffy. He strutted a little as he led the way into another place farther up the street. From the greetings, it was clear he was both known and liked there. The place was crowded. Most of the men wore overalls or other rough work clothes. Besides me, there were three other women.

  In spite of his boast about women asking him out, I knew Donnie would probably dig in his heels if I tried to order, so I slid him a buck and asked would he get our beers. He’d persuaded a couple of acquaintances to give up their table in favor of spots at the bar. He brought back the beers and we made small talk until he began to relax.

  “About Neal,” he said, watching me over the rim of his glass. “He in bad with the law?”

  I shook my head. “Not as far as I know. As I told you, his family’s been having trouble. A couple of days ago somebody roughed up one of his sisters.”

  He’d just taken a mouthful of beer. He went still as a statue before he swallowed.

  “You think something happened to him?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he got scared and ran.”

  Donnie processed that for a minute. He wasn’t slow, just thoughtful. There was an openness about him which I liked.

  “Tuesday noon when we came out for lunch, a man was waiting for him.”

  “Someone he knew?”

  “I don’t think so. Anyway, it made Neal real jumpy.”

  “Tell me what you remember. What happened?”

  “This guy was waiting, and he called Neal by name. Started ambling over.”

  “Was the man alone?”

  “I guess. Didn’t see anybody else. Anyway, Neal told the rest of us to go, he’d catch up with us. And he did. But he drank a lot and he seemed real nervous.”

  I drank some beer, but it didn’t allay my growing uneasiness.

  “Any chance you can describe this man?”

  Donnie thought, then gave his head a rueful shake.

  “I didn’t pay attention, is the thing. I think he had dark hair, but his hat had a brim, so that could have been shadows.”

  “Build?”

  “Kind of boxy.” He brightened. “He was shorter than Neal. Does that help?”

  “Sure.” I felt like a fool, but I asked it anyway. “You know what an Eskimo is?”

  “Those people that live in little round houses out of ice?”

  “That’s it. Anything about him make you think of one of those?”

  He squinted at me.

  “I know it’s a screwy question,” I said. “But a woman who saw something else told me there was a man who looked like an Eskimo.”

  “Oh. Well he wasn’t wearing one of those coats with fur around the face. He was dressed like an American.”

  We’d run out of beer. Donnie got us replacements, and a couple of sandwiches to go along with them. Meanwhile I wondered whether what he described as a boxy build could be what the neighbor lady meant by Eskimo. It didn’t seem likely.

  The sandwiches turned out to be better than the beer, which was pale German stuff. I asked about the car Neal’s visitor had been driving, b
ut Donnie hadn’t noticed whether he’d even had one.

  “You think something’s happened to Neal?” he asked again after an interval.

  “I’m hoping he’s just lying low. When I leave here, I’m going to check where he lives.” I switched gears. “Anybody around here involved in politics?”

  “You mean union talk?”

  “No, city. State. That kind.”

  Donnie snickered. “Yeah, I kind of have my eye on running for governor.” He drank some beer and started to nod.

  “Okay, this isn’t nobody here, and it may not amount to a hill of beans, except that you asked, but Neal claimed his dad was.”

  “Involved in politics?”

  “Yeah. Well, not that his old man himself was, but that he had connections. Bragged about it a couple of times, but then Neal was always trying to sound important. It may not even be true.”

  My ears perked up.

  “Any idea if he meant his own father or his step-dad?”

  “Whichever one died last week.”

  I jumped up, not because what he’d told me was urgent, but because it had generated a thread of excitement. Thinner than that thread, but visible now, was one that maybe, just maybe, tied Neal’s disappearance to Cy Warren, or at least to one of the politician’s associates.

  “Hey, I’ve got to run,” I said. “Thanks for the help.

  “Wait,” said Donnie, overtaking me as I made for the door. “Do you like to dance? There’s a nice place I could take you tomorrow. Respectable—”

  “Thanks, Donnie. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

  “What about next week?”

  “The thing is, I’ve got a boyfriend.”

  “I’ve edged out a boyfriend or two.”

  We were already halfway back to my car. He kept just a fraction ahead of me, grinning down with a good-natured roguery almost guaranteed to make girls forget common sense. I laughed.

  “I’ll bet you have. But we’re practically engaged. Anyway, he’s not somebody you’d want to irritate. He’s a cop.”