Don't Dare a Dame Page 3

  “I can’t. I already promised to go with one of the girls.”

  The advantage to rooming in a house with nine other women was you always sounded plausible if you claimed other plans. It would hardly even qualify as a lie if you found somebody to go with when you got home. That was nearly always possible, but mostly I didn’t bother.

  Connelly closed one eye and gave me a look.

  “That scared, are you?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” But I was scared, because he was the first man I knew I could fall for.

  He drained his glass and stood. “Tells me that kiss on the Fourth of July affected you more than I realized.”

  Bursting into a cheery whistle, he turned and walked out, spinning his hat on one finger. He’d gone half a dozen steps before the words sank in enough that I sprang to my feet.

  “I did not kiss you on the Fourth of July!”

  Indignation raised my voice more than was prudent. Several at the bar turned to look. Without so much as a backward glance, still whistling, Connelly strolled out.

  Five

  I got to McCrory’s lunch counter early enough the next morning to nab a stool on the end. As far as I was concerned, that was the prime spot. Sitting at the end meant getting cigarette smoke from only one direction.

  “Thanks, Izzy,” I said as a scrawny little waitress slid a mug of tea in front of me. She set off to get me some oatmeal without even asking. On those rare occasions when I wanted something different, I had to tell her fast.

  The rest of the dime store was still roped off, not yet open for business, but footsteps to and from the lunch counter beat a steady tattoo on the wooden floor. The familiar sound soothed me.

  Had I kissed Connelly at that rollicking party we’d both attended on the Fourth? Parts toward the end were fuzzy, and the question had kept me tossing and turning all night. Irked that it had resurfaced, I sipped my tea and focused attention on how I intended to approach Alf Maguire.

  As shaken as the Vanhorn sisters had been when I left them, I wasn’t quite clear on some of the details, but they’d seemed certain their stepfather could be found at a place on Haynes. An apartment, or maybe a duplex. There’d been something about a girlfriend. Whether she’d taken him in or whether he rented the love nest was one of the details that hadn’t been clear, but I had the address.

  My theory was that Maguire would find it harder to give me the brush-off if I caught him at home with his paramour. He’d talk in front of her rather than face her questions later about why he hadn’t. He might lie through his teeth, but even lies yield grains of something useful if you sift them carefully enough. I made short work of my breakfast, eager to start.

  As soon as I turned onto Haynes I began to get a bad feeling. I saw two police cars, another that I knew belonged to a hack from the morning paper, and Black Mariah, the city ambulance, which mostly arrived to find its intended passengers had died waiting. Sure enough, all the activity centered around the address I was hunting. I parked far enough back to be out of the way and walked up the street.

  “What’s the excitement?” I asked a uniform.

  “Morning, Miss Sullivan. Looks like some fellow turned on the gas.”

  “Dead?”

  He nodded.

  “The guy have a name?”

  He shrugged. It might mean he didn’t know. It might also mean he had the name but knew enough not to tell anyone.

  I didn’t figure I’d get inside, but I started up the walk anyway. No harm in trying. The place was a duplex, light brick. Both front doors stood open. When I got about halfway there, Boike came out the door on the left and closed it behind him. There wasn’t much of a stoop to come down, just four or five steps. He reached the bottom before he spotted me. For a second or two he hesitated, gearing himself up before we met

  “Alf Maguire, huh?” I said.

  From the look he shot the uniformed cop, I knew I was right.

  “Don’t worry, your boy at the curb didn’t spill anything. I was coming to see Maguire to ask him some questions.”

  “My guess is he’s not going to be very chatty.”

  “Stiffs are like that.”

  Boike was casting a curious eye at the artificial flower pinned to my lapel. I didn’t usually bother with such things, but a girl never knows when a decorative touch may come in handy.

  “Questions on what?” he asked.

  “This and that.”

  Before he could press me, the door he’d just closed opened again, flung back in anger. Two men clattered down the steps. One was Neal Vanhorn. His pal was a shorter man of similar age with a wee pointed chin like a Kewpie doll.

  “...no business treating us like....” Neal was spewing. He broke off as he noticed me. “You!” he snapped. “You’re to blame! It’s your fault he’s dead — yours and those self-righteous sisters of mine. Driving him to despair—”

  I slapped aside the finger he’d thrust in my face. Boike was watching intently. Both newcomers seemed unaware of the cop’s presence.

  Neal’s companion was working himself to a question.

  “Who are—?”

  “She’s their private detective.” Neal managed to squeeze in plenty of scorn. “God knows what my dear sisters are trying to dig up now that they’ve dragged Alf through court. Infidelity? With his wife dead almost a year?” He laughed unpleasantly.

  The eyes of the men looked damp, as though they’d been struggling with tears.

  “Are you one of Alf’s sons?” I guessed.

  “Yeah, he is,” Neal cut in. “And you’ve done enough damage. Clear out. You’re not welcome.”

  “Gee, Neal, do you talk for everybody?” I’d used up what little patience I had sometime yesterday. “Maybe you should be a ventriloquist, get yourself a little Charlie McCarthy doll.”

  Behind them, Lt. Freeze, the homicide chief, was approaching.

  “Miss Sullivan,” he said.

  As greetings went it was on the chilly side, but it was enough to make Neal spin around.

  “If you gentlemen could get to the station without delay, there’s an officer waiting to take your statements,” he said. Neal and his pal had sense enough not to argue. They took their leave with hands shoved in their pockets. “Boike, get one of the uniforms and start talking to neighbors. We’ll meet you downtown,” Freeze continued.

  I noticed a man trailing him the way his assistants tended to do. Mercifully, it wasn’t Fuller. This guy had olive skin and curly black hair.

  “I don’t suppose you’d care to explain how you happened to turn up at the scene of a death I’m investigating?” Freeze’s gaze bored into me.

  “Sure,” I said. “His step-daughters hired me yesterday. One’s the blind woman Fuller pushed around. Their own dad disappeared when they were kids. They wanted me to find out something about him. I was hoping Maguire might give me some names to start with. He and the father were shirttail relatives; spent time together.”

  It was the last thing he’d expected from me, a straightforward answer. Detailed, too. Freeze frowned suspiciously.

  “By you being here, I’m guessing he didn’t turn on the gas himself,” I said.

  “How did—?” His eyes shot toward Boike’s retreating figure.

  “Not from Boike.” I gave my sunniest smile. “I caught a whiff of it.”

  He probably thought I meant I’d smelled gas. His nose twitched.

  “You have five minutes to be on your way, Miss Sullivan.”

  He hadn’t answered my question. He usually didn’t. As I sauntered my way toward the curb the hack from The Journal nearly sprained an ankle reaching my side.

  “What’d he tell you?” he asked. “Two bucks if you know anything useful.”

  “You have bad breath. Where’s my two bucks?”

  He didn’t cross my outstretched hand with silver as I brushed past him.

  ***

  It wasn’t the first time I’d wished cars had phones in them like they did heaters.
I needed to call the Vanhorn sisters to tell them Maguire was dead and the cops would most likely come calling. Going back to the office was faster than hunting a pay phone. I played dumb in the face of Isobel’s request for details, knowing the women would come off better in the cops’ assessment if they were genuinely shocked by anything they were told.

  Once I’d hung up, I went across the street to a postage stamp-sized coffee shop just big enough for eight stools at the counter and a table for two at the back. With a mug of joe to make me smarter, I sat at the table and used a fresh page on the tablet I’d brought over to start a list of what I’d learned so far.

  The list wasn’t long.

  – Alf had married a reasonably well-off widow, but to hear her daughters tell it, had lost a big part of her money.

  – He’d had designs on the woman when she was still married to someone else.

  – Yesterday her daughters had hired me and told me about an overheard conversation which might indicate he had murdered their father.

  – Someone had been listening when they told me about that conversation.

  – Bright and early today, when I’d gone to see Alf, he already was dead — an apparent suicide.

  Was it guilt because he’d been the eavesdropper yesterday? Possibly. One thing seemed inescapable: Yesterday’s incident had something to do with his death.

  Despite lingering expectations this case would go anywhere, I returned to my office to type up my notes and start a list of things I wanted to check. The office work would allow extra time for the boys in blue to finish talking to Corrine and Isobel. No sense irking Freeze by getting under his feet twice in one day, even though the first time hadn’t been my fault. I cranked a carbon set into my Remington and was typing away when the telephone rang.

  “Miss Sullivan?” a crisp voice inquired.

  “Yes?”

  “Please hold for Chief Wurstner.”

  Before I could even contemplate a reply, the phone on the other end clacked down. I sat and tried to breathe slowly. What had I done to attract the attention of the chief of police?

  The next voice I heard was stern. Uncompromising.

  “Miss Sullivan? This is Chief Wurstner. You have exactly ten minutes to be in my office and give me very good reasons why I shouldn’t cancel your license.”

  Six

  Private investigators received their authorization to practice solely at the discretion of the chief of police. If Wurstner cancelled my license, I’d be out of a job. Getting hit in the head with a hammer couldn’t have stunned me much more than his phone call.

  I scarcely noticed buildings or people as I walked the few, not overly long, blocks from my place to the three-story gingerbread structure known as Market House. It was home to several of the police department’s special units as well as the chief’s office, and the closer I got, the more baffled I was. Admittedly, I sometimes didn’t worry as much as I should about stepping on toes. And yes, when getting evidence or information seemed to warrant it, I’d sometimes opened a lock with a crochet hook instead of a key. Since I didn’t remember any toes lately, nor had I indulged in any hanky panky the law might frown on, the threat from the chief was a bolt from the blue.

  Determined to show more confidence than I felt, I hopped up the stairs to the second floor. Wearing what I hoped was a pleasant expression, I presented myself in the anteroom to the chief’s office.

  “I’m Maggie Sullivan. The chief wanted to see me.”

  “I’ll tell him you’re here.” The man in the anteroom was a civilian, and his voice was just as crisp in person. He rose and tapped on the door behind him, stepping through for just a moment before reappearing. “You can go in.”

  Chief Rudolph Wurstner was a nice-looking man, trim with deceptively mild eyes and the straightest, firmest mouth I’d ever seen. Its faintly downturned corners suggested forbearance as well as stubbornness. He’d probably needed a good supply of both. He’d been chief since I was ten or so, orchestrating everything from raids on bootleg joints to capture of the notorious John Dillinger. His hands were folded on his desk. He didn’t get up. He didn’t move so much as a finger.

  “Sit down.”

  It was an order, not an invitation. For once I felt no urge to smart off, whether out of respect for his position or because of something in the man himself. I did as instructed.

  “I’ve heard good things about you, Miss Sullivan. Unfortunately I’ve also heard you disregard rules at the drop of a hat. Would you care to explain why you’ve been harassing not only a law-abiding citizen, but his grieving family, less than twelve hours after his death?”

  I filed the twelve hours bit away to think about later.

  “I have not been harassing anyone,” I said carefully. “I’d like very much to know who claims I have.”

  The hardening of his expression told me he didn’t like my answer. When it became clear he wasn’t going to tell me who was grousing, I picked my way ahead.

  “I’m guessing it’s Alf Maguire you’re talking about, since he’s recently dead and I turned up there. There’s not much ground to say I harassed him, though, since we’d never met. I’d never heard of the man until yesterday.”

  Wurstner frowned. That had caught his attention.

  “Nor did I know he was dead,” I continued. “I’d come to talk to him. His stepdaughters hired me to look into something involving their late father. Their dad and Maguire were cousins of some sort. I was hoping Maguire could give me names of acquaintances, that kind of thing.

  “As to harassing his family, I’d never met his son either, until this morning. His stepson Neal and I had a run-in yesterday because Neal was shoving one of his sisters around. When I ask him to quit, he tried to get tough with me, too. I gave him a bloody nose.”

  Wurstner unfolded his hands and leaned back. The front of his thin lower lip sucked in a little, which I thought might signal amusement. His manner remained stern.

  “If we check thoroughly, I assume we’ll fine no discrepancy in what you’ve told me?” he said after he’d considered the matter.

  “You will not.”

  “And there’s nothing you’ve omitted telling me?”

  I almost smiled. It was one of my favorite ploys, though he couldn’t be aware of it.

  “No.”

  He frowned to himself.

  “I realize people who hire you do so expecting privacy,” he said slowly. “Nevertheless, in deaths like this we like to make certain the circumstances were exactly as they appear. Can you tell me, in general terms, what his stepdaughters wanted you to look into? Something to do with their father, you said?”

  Despite his casual words, my interest sharpened. I knew very well the force didn’t automatically investigate every suicide. And what, if anything, did his question have to do with someone kicking up a stink about me?

  “He disappeared back during the flood. His daughters know the odds are against them, but they want me to see if I can learn anything about what happened.”

  The chief of police stared at me.

  “Do you mean the Great Flood?” he asked slowly. “Nineteen-thirteen?”

  “Yep.”

  His head shook slowly.

  “Merciful .... A hundred, maybe a hundred twenty, died that we know of. Swept away. Drowned. I saw. I was in the middle of it. God knows there must have been more, unaccounted for. But after all this time—”

  “Exactly. I’ve told them they’re most likely wasting their money, but apparently they’ve got it to spend.”

  His question about whether I’d omitted anything had come earlier. As I saw it, that meant it only applied to things we’d talked about earlier. Since I’d just now given him details of why I was hired, the possibility of Alf’s involvement didn’t count. Even if Alf had been involved, why would anyone make a complaint about me now that he was dead?

  “That will be all, Miss Sullivan. Thank you for coming in,” Wurstner said in dismissal.

  I stood.
<
br />   “So what’s my status?” My throat felt tighter than usual.

  Already reaching for a folder on his desk, he looked up, irritably.

  “What?”

  “My license?” I prompted.

  “Ah.” He didn’t fold his hands again, and he didn’t look quite as put out as when I’d entered. His mouth made a formidable line. “I don’t appreciate people above me pressuring me with no more proof than I’ve received so far. As far as I’m concerned you’re in the clear.” His index finger pointed a warning. “Keep your nose clean, Miss Sullivan.”

  ***

  “They were very polite this time,” said Isobel. “Much nicer than the ones who came yesterday.”

  “Polite!” Corrine’s huff gave her own opinion. “They asked us where we were last night!”

  The Vanhorn sisters were seated across from me. We each occupied the exact same spots on the needlepoint sofas where we’d been yesterday. I’d gone to their place as soon as I left Chief Wurstner and picked up my car. I wanted to hear what the police had asked them about while it was still fresh in their minds. Noting down bits of information and sifting as I went along would help me regain my focus as well. I’d been more rattled over the close call about my license than I’d been over anything in a long time.

  “It — their asking about last night — made us think they may not believe Alf committed suicide.” Isobel swallowed. She looked at me, awaiting confirmation.

  “They always ask questions in something like this,” I hedged. “It’s routine. What did you tell them? About where you were?” I held my breath, braced for them to say they’d been right here. It would mean no alibi if homicide decided to take an interest in this.

  “We ... went to our music club.” Isobel looked embarrassed. “Down at the Y. We go on the first and third Thursdays. There was a guest pianist scheduled — who wasn’t very good, as it turned out — and I thought - I thought it might be good for us to get out.”