Don't Dare a Dame (16 page)

   
“Franklin was nicer than his brother and Alf,” she said at the door. “He came back to see Mama a few times when he knew Alf wouldn’t be here. When her illness got worse and we knew she didn’t have long, we called him. He came that very evening.”

***

   
It was only half-past nine, too early to call on the woman who’d given me concertina lessons all those years ago. I had other tasks to fill out the time. Too many to fit in the morning, in fact. At the top of the list was talking to Heebs.

   
He was at his usual corner hawking papers. By the lightness of his bag he’d had a good morning. His worn out shoes had been replaced by a sturdy second hand pair.

   
“Saving a paper for the girl with the best-looking legs in town,” he called when he saw me.

   
When I got close enough I took one and slipped him money enough to cover the job he was going to be doing for me. I spoke quickly, my voice low.

   
“If I’m not in my office when you get finished here, stop in the sock wholesaler down the hall from me. The young clerk there’s named Evelyn. She’ll have an envelope for you. Sit out in the hall where her sourpuss mother-in-law can’t see you and look at the pictures. I want you to keep an eye out to see if any of the men in the pictures go into Cy Warren’s place. When you’ve had enough of a look at the pictures, slide them under my door.”

   
“You behave yourself, now, Sis,” Heebs said loudly enough for passers-by. He gave me a fresh-guy wink.

   
I walked off grinning at the kid’s moxie. When I reached my building and started across the small lobby, the elevator door folded open and Boike’s blunt shape stepped out.

   
“I was just up looking for you,” the detective said in greeting. “Chief Wurstner told me to bring you this.”

   
He handed me a slim business envelope.

   
Curious, but with no intention of opening it until I went upstairs, I took it.

   
“Thanks.”

   
Boike cleared his throat.

   
“Chief says I’m to wait while you read it. Make sure you understand.” He looked down at his shoes. “It’s, uh, your official letter of warning.”

   
My mouth opened but I managed not to say anything. I’d thought everything was okay between me and the chief.

   
“Yeah, fine.”

   
I ripped the envelope open. The single folded sheet inside contained only one line. It was handwritten. I read it and blinked. It wasn’t what I’d expected. I read it again:

My wife would like you to stop by at eight this evening.

   
What the devil did this mean?

   
Boike, whose stolid manner seldom hinted at what he was thinking — or even noticing — wore an expression suggesting he’d rather be anywhere else.

   
“Tell the Chief I understand perfectly, and I’ll do as instructed,” I said. “And Boike — if you could find it in you not to mention this to anyone else, I’d be grateful.”

   
What Chief Wurstner was setting in motion by sending him here was unusual, to say the least. I had a pretty good idea the message he’d sent had nothing to do with meeting his wife. Whether it did or not, the fewer who knew about this communication, the better, lest he appear to grant favors, or worse still lest it prompt tawdry speculation. If Boike believed his discretion might spare me embarrassment, he’d be less likely to mention this errand.

   
Boike mumbled he would and headed for the street as fast as decency allowed.

   
I felt bad for Boike. He was a good guy. I thought about how he’d tried to make amends for Fuller’s obnoxious behavior over the dead dog, and the sadness on his face as he’d looked down at the unlucky animal. The memory suddenly hooked in to something I’d been contemplating, and I ran out after him.

   
“Boike!”

   
He turned at the sound of my voice. I caught up.

   
“Did one of the cops tell me once that you like dogs?”

   
“Crazy about them. Guess I’d have three or four if I could. Why?”

   
I didn’t blame him for the note of caution in his voice. He’d just brought me a missive that he believed would upset me.

   
“I’ll walk with you so you’re not late getting back,” I said. We fell into step. “That dog that got its throat slit the other day?”

   
“Yeah?”

   
“The woman who owned him’s lost without him. It’s not just that he was her eyes and helped her cross streets and that, it’s that he ... I don’t know. Gave her confidence too. Maybe just being there with her. I thought maybe you knew somebody had a nice one they needed a place for temporarily. Even permanently. Their yard’s plenty big to have two dogs. I just thought it would be company for her, make her feel better until she gets the kind you can train.”

   
He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at me.

   
“Are you telling me that pretty woman was
blind
?”

   
Pretty?

   
Either Boike had been married a very long time or he didn’t date much.

   
“Well, yes,” I said. “That’s just what I’m saying.”

   
Boike removed the olive green fedora that was the only one I’d ever seen him wear. He pushed one hand through his pale hair as though to regain equilibrium and set the hat carefully back on his head.

   
“I never noticed that,” he said glumly.

   
“Hey, I’m a detective too, and I didn’t know till she told me.”

   
That seemed to make him feel better.

   
“There’s this old lady who takes in strays,” he said as we began to walk toward Market House again. “Lives just outside of town. I go out on weekends and help her since I can’t keep a mutt where I am, and working my hours. I’ll see what I can do.”

   
I said thanks and turned back toward my office to update my notes and get the photographs ready for Heebs. My mind, however, wasn’t on Heebs or photographs or even getting a dog for Corrine. It was on the message from the chief of police. I didn’t for a minute believe it had anything to do with his wife. I thought it meant he’d decided to share some sort of information.

Twenty

   
Every minute until eight o’clock that night was going to be torture. Returning to the neighborhood where I’d grown up helped pass the time. I couldn’t bring myself to drive past the house we’d lived in. The loss of it was still too acute. From a few blocks over it was no trick at all to trace the route I’d once walked to a wee little white frame cottage where Mrs. Brennan had made valiant attempts to teach me the basics of playing the concertina. Not the English kind where you got the same note regardless of whether you pushed the two sides together or pulled them apart. Her students, as might be expected, played the Irish concertina, where every button pressed could give two different notes, depending on whether the bellows were pushed or pulled.

   
I hadn’t wanted the lessons.

   
I had no innate talent.

   
Truth be told, I wasn’t that crazy about Irish music.

   
The lessons were my dad’s idea. I liked to think it was the only time I’d disappointed him.

   
Going up the walk, my steps seemed to slow, just as they had when I was nine. The middle two sections of sidewalk still heaved up in a little hillock. I stepped onto the narrow stoop and turned the wings of a doorbell mounted in the center of the door. It jangled inside, and a minute later I heard footsteps.

   
The door opened. A stout, short woman with gray hair pulled up in a bun peered at me for several seconds. Her eyes brightened.

   
“Maggie Sullivan. It is you, isn’t it?”

   
“Hello, Mrs. Brennan.”

   
“Land’s sake. Well, you’d better come in, hadn’t you?” She swung the door wide, smiling.

   
Her front room wasn’t much changed, only now I was old enough to recognize it reflected a woman who lived life to the fullest. It was chock-full of potted plants, an overflowing knitting basket between two comfortable chairs, and two straight-backed chairs suggesting she still gave lessons. In a row on top of her scarred upright piano perched four of the dainty hexagonal squeezeboxes which she played.

   
“You’re looking well,” I said.

   
She brushed the words aside as nonsense, but she did look nice in her house dress and bibbed apron. Like she had some fizz to her, although she was bandy-legged and tended to list as she walked. Maybe she hadn’t been quite as old as I thought when I was a kid.

   
“Will you have some tea?” she asked, waving me to one of the easy chairs.

   
“Thank you, no. I can’t stay.”

   
“Are you here because you’re wanting to have a go at lessons again?” she asked with a twinkle.

   
I laughed.

   
“It’s a wonder you didn’t pinch my head off the first time around. I don’t think I’d better press my luck. I looked you up because a fellow I know is hunting up people who like to play some of the old tunes. Wants to get them together in the back room at Finn’s pub — you know where that is? — on Thursday nights. Just for fun.”

   
“You mean a
seisiún
?”

   
“Well, I suppose.”

   
“Land, I haven’t played with other people in I don’t know when.”

   
“It’s just Mick — that’s the fellow organizing it, Mick Connelly — and a couple of others. Finn hadn’t played his fiddle in years. I don’t know who else. When I mentioned you, Mick went wild.” I wasn’t sure why I was trying to sell his venture, but I was.

   
“Oh, child. My fingers are so crooked now, not half as nimble as they used to be.”

   
“That would still be nimble enough for any two people,” I said.

   
She made her dismissive gesture again, and I saw that her hands had, indeed, fallen prey to the swollen knuckles that went with aging. Her gaze slid toward the row of concertinas on her piano. Despite her protestations, her cheeks were as pink as a girl’s.

   
“I’d muck it all up,” she said. “But I have a girl coming to me for lessons. Twelve now, she is, and been coming since she was six. Plays like a demon. Maybe I could bring her. See how she got on. I think she might fancy it, and I know her Ma and Da wouldn’t object. You’ll have to write the address, though. Thursdays, yeh? So they’ll be there tomorrow.”

***

   
Checking property records, which was where I wanted to dig around next, would take more time than was left of the morning. Instead I went back to the office to learn what I could about Alf’s son Franklin. Heebs had picked up the photos as scheduled and slipped them back under my door. I studied the one I’d gotten that morning.

   
Franklin Maguire was lots better looking than his brother, starting with a nice square chin. Most of the time you couldn’t tell hair color in pictures, but I’d guess his was light brown. His gaze was level and on the serious side, or it had been when the shutter clicked. I put the picture back with the others and looked at the phone number Isobel had provided.

   
She hadn’t listed an address, and when I asked Corrine that morning, she hadn’t even known what street. From the things the sisters had said, they might not have been there. Franklin appeared to be on better terms with them than the rest of his family was, though. Maybe better than their own brother.

   
I stuck my unsharpened pencil into one of the holes on the front of the phone and dialed the number from Isobel.

   
“My name’s Maggie Sullivan,” I said when a woman answered. “I’m trying to reach Franklin Maguire?”

   
“Yes?”