The Big Brush-off Page 12

  His voice rose with irritation. “She likes playing second base.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Second base, huh?”

  Freddy blushed until I could barely see his freckles.

  “If you’re both fourteen, you’re too young for either of you to be getting to second base.”

  “Don’t tell my old man.”

  I watched her throw the ball to the other boy. “I do believe under that hat, she’s quite a looker.”

  “A looker!” Freddy lowered his voice. “She’s not supposed to be a looker.”

  “Hey, Freddy, you playing ball or not?” The girl fired the ball in our direction.

  Freddy speared the ball with his mitt. “Just a second!”

  He nodded toward the town square. “I saw you and Mr. Hanson earlier. Tell me you’re not friends.”

  “We’re not friends.”

  He blew a sigh of relief. “He’s always flirting with pretty teachers and students. He married one, you know.”

  “He married a student?”

  “No, a teacher, a widow lady about ten years younger than him and loaded. Wait till you see her, a real looker. Ring-a-ding-ding. You get where I’m coming from?”

  “He likes young girls?”

  “Exactly. Gotta go, Mr. Donovan. Thanks for listening.”

  I chuckled and waved. “Be careful…around second base.”

  Chapter 17

  Jake the Hairdresser

  When I stepped into the room, Laura swept her arms around me. She squeezed tightly before letting go. “Oh, darling, this is a great beginning. Mildred’s going to love the chapter.”

  I hoped she was right. She might be my wife, but she’d always been blunt when it came to my writing and didn’t always tell me what I wanted to hear. “It’ll take more than one to please Mildred.”

  A smile swept over Laura’s face. “So you decided to give my idea a try and become Blackie Doyle as you wrote.”

  “I gave it a shot.” I didn’t want to level with her just yet, but I gave her the once-over like Blackie would. “A swell-looking dame like you deserves some respect.”

  She patted her hair, and her Southern accent returned. “Oh, Blackie, you make a girl blush.”

  Maybe she’d reward my efforts with an afternoon of passion. I closed the drapes.

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” She opened the curtains and set the chapter on the desk beside the typewriter. “Blackie just got a glimpse of the man in the alley when he got whacked over the head. I want to know what happens next. How could you stop?”

  So much for my reward. “The deck’s on the west side and the shade disappeared as I finished the chapter. It got pretty toasty.”

  “While you get to writing chapter two, I’ll go downstairs and grab a bite before heading to Founder’s Day rehearsal. I’ll be fashionably late, something they’ll probably expect.” She grabbed her purse. “You know what’s going to happen to Blackie next, right?”

  I knew exactly how the novel was going to play out. “Before you go…” I stared at the frizzy curls on her head. The freshly-spun-cotton-candy look might be the rage in Hanover, but she had to do something before meeting Selznick. “Why did you go to the beauty parlor?”

  She glanced at her hair in the mirror and shuddered. “I wanted to look less Hollywood and more Hanover. But the real reason I spent a couple of hours at the local beauty parlor was to get a feel of Hanover.”

  I cocked my head. “Was it worth it?”

  Laura stared in the mirror, fluffing her hair, trying to make some sense out of the new look. “After everyone got over recognizing me and asking what Hollywood actors I’ve…dated…”

  “Did you mention your nights of dinner and dancing with William Powell?”

  “His name did come up. They were impressed I call him Bill. They were almost as inquisitive about Bill and me as you seem to be.”

  “Touché.”

  She shook her hair and groaned, dropping down into a chair beside the desk. “What have I done?”

  I might’ve found her appearance amusing if not for the tears dancing in her eyes. “Wait here.”

  I went into the bedroom and retrieved one of Laura’s long combs and a handheld mirror. “Sorry it took so long. I couldn’t find the brush you threw at me. Your behavior is becoming so Hollywood.”

  I handed her the mirror and stood behind her. I gently ran the tines through her hair, trying not to cause tangles and make things worse.

  She smiled at me in the mirror. “You used to do this when we first moved in together. Did I tell you how wonderful you are?”

  Blackie Doyle would never comb a woman’s hair. “Pipe down, dollface. I ain’t takin’ you out lookin’ like that.”

  Laura giggled.

  “Hold still.”

  Laura held the mirror just so and watched. “Anyway, a beauty parlor or barbershop is the perfect place to find out a town’s secrets. Blackie Doyle mentioned that in your second novel. Blackie sure was right about beauty parlors. There were plenty of opinions. Half the ladies think the schoolteacher did it, the other half vote for the boyfriend.”

  “Any of them mention Father Ryan?”

  “They sure did. My hairdresser made bawdy comments about his rugged good looks. I think he received even more praise than Bill Powell. I heard all about the nun and the married woman.”

  The comb helped a little so I continued combing. “Of course, they’ve never seen your favorite priest, Father Michael in Queens, doll.”

  Laura playfully slapped my arm. “Okay, you can drop the Blackie Doyle shtick. I find Jake Donovan far more charming.”

  I wasn’t so sure.

  “I was surprised they barely mentioned George Hanson.”

  “He’s Principal Hanson now.”

  “The girls loosened up after I let the hairdresser experiment on me. In the past few years, George’s become quite the mover and shaker in this town. He married money, the daughter of a man who ran the tractor factory. It closed a year after the stock market crashed, but the old man had the foresight to stuff cash into his mattresses. He apparently had plenty of mattresses.”

  So, in spite of people’s suspicions about him, Hanson spread some of his wealth around the community, buying friends and favors. “According to Freddy, Hanson’s wife is ten years younger, used to be a teacher, and is quite a looker.”

  I stepped back and handed her the comb.

  “My hair looks much better, thanks.”

  I held out one hand. “Where’s my tip?”

  “I’ll show my appreciation tonight. I have a rehearsal to get to.” She kissed my cheek and went into the bedroom.

  I sat in front of the typewriter and rolled in a sheet of paper. As she ran water in the bathroom sink, I thought about her opportunity with Selznick. I was relieved her inquiry into Katie’s murder involved just a trip to the beauty parlor, but once word got out she was interested in the ten-year-old murder, who knew what Sheriff Bishop and others who objected to our appearance in town might do. I couldn’t let her put her pretty neck on the line.

  Sheriff Bishop’s less than friendly chat surprised me. Ten years ago he was someone I thought wanted to get to the truth. Now he was acting like someone who wanted to bury the past.

  Laura had changed into trousers and a white blouse. She checked her look in the mirror. “Oh, darling. How can I ever thank you?”

  I answered with a wink.

  Chapter 18

  The Teacher, the Priest, and the Cop

  I shook off my growing suspicion of Sheriff Bishop and focused on the chambermaid breaking into the hotel room. She stepped over Blackie’s unconscious body and rifled through the desk until she found the map she’d come for.

  When I finished with the second chapter, I liked it as much as I did the first.

  The sun was setting. While waiting for Laura, I reread both chapters.

  Laura came in and blew out a breath. “The Hansons would do well in Hollywood. Both are controlling. Poor Ging
er.”

  “You think he might have killed a teenage girl ten years ago?”

  “I found myself wanting him to be guilty because he’s so arrogant.”

  I handed Laura the second chapter.

  Laura’s eyes widened. She took the chapters to the balcony, curled up in a chair, and read.

  I went into the bedroom to avoid seeing her react to what she read. I gazed out the window.

  Edwin Conrad was sweeping the front steps. I ran a hand over the back of my neck. I paced the room. Edwin balanced raising two children on his own and doing whatever was necessary to keep the inn going. Balance, that was what I needed in my life. I didn’t have to forget about Mary Caldwell to write the next Blackie Doyle novel. What was wrong with me?

  I’d made a good start with my novel, enough that I could spend time thinking about Katie.

  I yanked open the nightstand and found a flashlight. I reached under the bed and pulled out a suitcase I’d unpacked. I set it on the bed and unsnapped the latches. I reached inside and unzipped a side compartment and pulled out my Smith & Wesson .38.

  I slid the case under the bed and stuffed the gun in the back of my trousers. I pulled my shirttail over it as Laura walked into the room holding the chapters.

  She wrapped her arms around me and kissed me. “This might be your best novel yet. Mildred will love it. Blackie gives a damn. He’s going to fall in love with the bartender’s daughter, isn’t he? Don’t tell me.”

  I smiled. “It’s getting late. Why don’t we go out?”

  “Out? That sounds wonderful.” She glanced at the flashlight on the bed and raised an eyebrow. “Why do you have a flashlight?”

  “Where we’re going, there isn’t any electricity.”

  —

  We sat in front of a dark house, across the street from the place where Katie Caldwell had been murdered.

  Laura smiled. “I thought we were going to dinner.”

  I chuckled. “No, you didn’t.”

  She stared at the house and shivered. “It still looks like a haunted house.”

  “It’s neglected, that’s all, just like the rest of Hanover.”

  The two-story wasn’t always neglected. Back then, its rooms contained a mix of Mary’s furnishings and Katie’s high-school possessions. Before the murder, like the town, the house was full of happy times. I drove around the corner.

  I parked on a side street and we climbed out of the Ford. Laura had worked with me on a couple dozen cases after Mickey O’Brien and I opened our agency in Queens. This was different. As the wind whistled through the trees, my eyes swept the shadows. I had to keep my senses sharp in case Katie’s killer had followed or was lurking in the darkness.

  I grabbed the flashlight, making sure she didn’t see the gun beneath my shirt. I didn’t have to be Blackie Doyle for this caper. I’d broken into plenty of places as Jake Donovan.

  We sneaked across the street and made our way down the alley to the back of the house. A dog barked in the distance, but we slipped through a broken back gate. In the yard, the weeds were knee high.

  Laura grabbed my arm. “This looks like a perfect home for snakes.”

  I swept the light around the yard. “Don’t let your imagination get ahold of you.”

  The house had been abandoned for quite a while, with a handful of shattered windows. As we stepped onto the rear deck, broken glass crunched underfoot.

  I took Laura’s hand, and we went to the back door. I shined the light in her hair. “Do you have something I could use to pick the lock?”

  Laura turned the knob and opened the door. The hinges squealed like a mouse caught in a trap.

  We stood inside the kitchen. Laura sucked in a gulp of air as something scurried past us and disappeared around the corner.

  I stumbled and kicked over a bottle that clattered in the corner. I shined the light. A whiskey bottle that didn’t look ten years old.

  Laura grabbed my arm and whispered, “Maybe you should draw that gun you brought.”

  “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

  “Darling, I see everything.”

  I handed the flashlight to Laura and pulled out the gun. I led her into the living room. As I’d taught her years ago, she kept the beam of the light low so it couldn’t be seen from the street. The light stopped and illuminated a blanket, wrinkled as if someone had spent the night recently. The whiskey drinker.

  Laura whispered, “You think a hobo’s been staying here?”

  “They have to sleep somewhere.”

  The stairs were off to the left. As we climbed, they squeaked even louder than the hinges. On the landing, I turned to Katie’s room and pushed open the door with my foot.

  In the corner was an empty space where Katie’s bed once sat, where Mary had found her when she returned home from work.

  I flinched when Laura placed her hand on my shoulder. I told her what I thought happened. “Some people think Katie might have been killed by someone from out of town, but there was no sign of a break-in. Katie knew her killer. She either invited him or her to her bedroom or the killer forced her there. There was a struggle and the killer hit Katie over the head with a trophy Alan had given her. The medical examiner said she died almost instantly. The killer panicked and tried to make it look like a robbery, so he shot her in the head after she was dead. The killer used a .32. Not much power unless you’re close to the victim.”

  Laura shined the light to reveal a bloodstain on the hardwood floor. “No one heard anything?”

  “Not a thing. Most were at the Founder’s Day celebration.”

  “What kind of person could do that to such a beautiful young girl?”

  “The boyfriend, most likely.” Or a teacher, a priest, or a cop.

  “The boyfriend had an alibi.”

  “They all had alibis.” I blinked away an image of the bloodstained trophy.

  I made my way to the window and looked at the house next door. “Mary worked at a café down the street from our hotel. She returned early the next morning and found Katie.”

  “How awful.”

  In the army I learned to sleep on my back, with one eye open. I didn’t sleep well, but it helped me make it to morning alive.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I hadn’t told Laura everything about my war experiences, especially what a seventeen-year-old kid does with a rifle and bayonet, or with a twenty-five-year-old showgirl in a Paris loft.

  She whispered, “I hate the word nothing.”

  I sometimes forgot how smart Laura was. You’d think I would have learned my lesson by now.

  Downstairs, door hinges squeaked.

  Laura spun and aimed the flashlight on the landing. Someone had followed us inside, or they’d been inside when we arrived and just left.

  “Stay here.” I bolted from the room and bounded down the darkened stairs. The front door was open. It hadn’t been a minute earlier.

  I stepped outside then heard footsteps behind me. I spun and faced Laura. “I thought I told you to stay where you were.”

  “I don’t always do what I’m told. You should know that by now.”

  I took the light from Laura and shined it near the entryway. Whoever had opened the door hadn’t left footprints.

  It might have been a curious neighbor who heard us inside or saw the beam from the flashlight. I led Laura back to Katie’s old house. “It was probably the hobo returning to spend the night. He took off when he heard us upstairs.”

  Laura didn’t look like she believed it for a minute. “Right, and then he went next door. We have to find out who lives there.”

  “Not tonight.” I wanted to discover who lived next door before knocking and asking why they’d followed us into Katie’s old house.

  We eased the front door closed then went through the side yard into the backyard and stepped into the alley.

  Laura let out a deep breath. “You really know how to show a girl a good time. I think you owe me dinner.”

&n
bsp; “We have one more stop to make.”

  Chapter 19

  Seal of the Confessional

  As a boy, I always placed priests on a pedestal, and the older I got, many of them met my expectations. However, ten years ago, Father Ryan’s work with so many young people aroused my suspicions. The man led a weeknight group for teenagers. Katie had been in that group. The man was handsome and charismatic, the kind young girls got crushes on. Ten years later, he appeared to truly want to help discover Katie’s killer, but his cooperation could be masking his guilt.

  The police and Mary Caldwell dismissed my concerns about Father Ryan and scoffed at the suggestion Katie might have reached for her rosary to leave a clue about her assailant’s identity. They apparently concluded the priest, like George Hanson, enjoyed helping teens, but I wasn’t sure about either when I first met them. Now, ten years later, I still wasn’t sure.

  Father Ryan didn’t have to take Mary to New York to see me, but he had, and I wanted to know why.

  I parked in front of the church and locked the .38 in the glove compartment. As I reached for the door handle, Laura tugged on my arm. “You want to share what’s going on or would you prefer to keep me in the dark?”

  “I intend to send Mildred four chapters by the end of the week.” I let out a sigh. “But I can’t let this opportunity to find Katie’s killer slip away. I’d never forgive myself.”

  Her eyes glistened. “You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.”

  A plaque out front indicated the stone church with a white wooden steeple was more than a hundred years old. We went inside, where a half-dozen people prayed. We dipped our fingers into the holy water and each made the sign of the cross.

  We didn’t see a priest, so we sat in the back row. Laura knelt and closed her eyes and prayed, probably for the success of my novel. I wasn’t sure the Lord spent much time worrying about my writing future.

  Something about the inside of the church I’d never entered before reminded me of home. Like St. Timothy’s in Queens, this church smelled of burning candles and furniture polish. Rows of wooden pews led to the front of the church, where a large crucifix towered over a white linen-covered altar with unlit gold candelabras on both sides.