This Dame for Hire (28 page)

Brian Wayne was another story, and he still wasn’t off my list. Neither was Jim Duryea. I didn’t think Duryea could’ve been the father, but he might’ve murdered her for rejecting him. Nah. Besides, why would he kill Garfield? But I couldn’t know for sure so he stayed on my list.

Brian Wayne was my first choice as father and killer. I had to find out if he knew Garfield. How? I needed to check his alibi for the time of Garfield’s murder. Before I did that I needed to meet with Anne to give her the undershirt I’d taken from Garfield’s apartment.

When Anne opened her door she said, “Who’s Johnny Lake?”

“Ah, no. Is it written on my forehead?”

“In green.”

I thought back to her explanation of colors’ meanings. “So it’s sexual then?”

“Probably. So who’s Johnny Lake?”

“Can I come in?”

“Sorry.”

Today Anne was wearing a qipao, a mandarin dress made of blue silk with a brocade of flowers. She’d gotten it before the war when she’d been in China. Anne had done a lot of traveling. I hoped I could do that some day.

“Tea?”

“No. Nothin, thanks.” Whenever I could avoid that green tea, I did.

We sat down in the living room.

“Johnny Lake?”

“Just a cop on a case.”

“But you like him, don’t you?”

“I’m havin dinner with him tonight.”

“Are you sure?”

“What’s that mean?”

“I don’t know. I feel something blocking the date.”

“Is he married?”

“No.”

“Then why—”

“I’m not telling you anything else about your date. That would ruin all the fun.”

“But you don’t even think I’ll be havin the date. That’s not fair.”

“What’s fair have to do with it? So you have something for me?” she asked.

I reached in my pocketbook and pulled out the rolled-up bloody undershirt and handed it to her.

She shook it open. “Oh, nice. Is this what I think it is?”

“Far as I know.”

“You want me to tell you what type of person this belongs to or if there’s a trauma connected with it?”

“Both would be nice.”

“Well you know I can’t do one from column A, one from column B.”

“Why ask then?”

“My pitiful attempt at a joke.”

“Stick to bein psychic.”

She ran her hands over the shirt and soon she closed her eyes.

“It belongs to a violent man. He has blood on his hands.”

And his shirt, I thought. This could be Garfield, but I didn’t think so.

“I see an
M.
”

“Any other letter?”

“No. Books. Lots of books. And a gun.”

I knew there weren’t any books in Garfield’s place. I’d have to ask Johnny if he’d found a gun.

“The
M
is very strong. Flashing red.”

“What else?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “The damn battle scenes.” Her eyes opened. “I’m sorry, Faye. I think I’m going to have to give up this part of my gift. These war scenes are ruining everything.”

“Maybe when the war is over it’ll stop.” I tried not to show my disappointment.

“I hope so . . . although these were a little different.”

“How different?”

“I’m not sure I can explain, except to say these felt connected.”

“Connected?”

“To the shirt.”

“In what way?”

“That I don’t know.”

“You mean other times when this happens to ya, there’s no link, no hook?”

“Yes. The pictures of war are separate. Let’s just say it felt different this time. But that may not mean anything.”

I wasn’t so sure, even though I couldn’t put it together.

“Tell me whose shirt this is?” Anne asked.

“I don’t know. I found it in a guy’s apartment tucked in between some sofa cushions.”

She gave me a look.

“No. Nothin like that. There was a dead guy in the bathroom. I don’t know if it’s his shirt or somebody else’s.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help, Faye.”

“But ya did. At least now I have an initial.”

“That
M
could stand for anything.”

“But maybe it’s the initial of the killer.”

“Could be. There’s something else it could stand for though.”

“What’s that?”

“Murderer,” she said.

THIRTY-ONE

I went from Anne’s to Blondell’s to have a cup of joe, but when I got there the place was closed up like a clam. And then I saw the sign on the door:
CLOSED DUE TO A DEATH IN THE FAMILY.

My stomach flip-flopped. I think I knew right away, but I couldn’t let myself take it in. I just kept staring at the words like they were gonna change if I eyeballed them long enough. But they didn’t. They stayed the same in big black letters.

I don’t know how long I stood there like that before a tap on my shoulder made me jump.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

It was Mickey, who owned the stationery store down the block.

“That’s okay.” He’d know who’d died, but I couldn’t ask.

“You okay, Faye? Ya look pretty pale.”

“I’m all right.”

“Ya didn’t know, huh?”

I shook my head. I was waiting for his words to fall on me like bricks.

“Yeah. They heard yesterday.”

Heard.
So it had to be Fred. I couldn’t say his name out loud. It was like I’d keep him alive as long as my lips stayed buttoned.

“Why don’tcha come on down to my store for a minute?”

Like a robot I matched my steps with his, ordering my feet to move. The door was open, but the place was empty. From behind the counter Mickey brought out a folding chair and set it up for me. I sat.

“Skip took it pretty hard.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t he?” Mickey said. “He loved that kid like he was his son . . . more than a brother.”

“How’s Joanne holdin up?”

“I ain’t seen her, but I guess she’s pretty broken up.”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t she be?”

“Yeah.”

“No mistake, huh? No missin in action or anythin like that?”

“No.”

“It’s an ordinary name, maybe . . .”

“Faye. It was him.”

“Yeah.”

I stood up. “Guess I’d better be goin.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks, Mickey.”

“It’s okay.”

“See ya.”

“Yeah.”

I left the store and started walking east. I had no idea where I was going, I just knew I needed to walk. Until I hit Washington Square Park, and then I knew I had to sit and landed on a bench facing the fountain. But I coulda still been staring at the shelves in Mickey’s store for all I saw. Neither one of us, I realized, had said Fred’s name. But that wasn’t gonna bring him back to life.

“Fred.” I kept my voice down. Saying his name was the least he deserved. I felt like a louse for waiting so long.

I wondered how Skip was, and if he’d ever be the same. Joanne, too. I’d lost my brother, but I was only a baby. And Don McCallister, the guy I’d been writing to and barely knew, had been killed. Claudette was the first dead person I’d ever seen. Firsthand, I knew beans about death. And I didn’t know diddly-squat about losing someone ya loved.

What if something happened to Woody? I guessed he was the only person I loved besides Anne. Maybe my pop. But Woody was different. I chose him, not in a romantic way, but I loved him like I mighta loved my brother. And if Woody got killed over there? Just having the thought made me feel like bawling. If I hung on to it, I’d start.

I speedily switched over to the A agency he’d left in my hands. And the case I’d put on the front burner.

What was that letter
M
Anne saw? She said it was flashing, so it must’ve been important. I was convinced it was an initial, but the only
M
people connected with the case, who I could think of, were Marlene and Myrna. I couldn’t see either one of them killing Claudette. Marlene had no motive, and Myrna was her mother.

Not that mothers never killed their kids. It was rare, but it happened. Still, Myrna West was not a killer. Especially of her daughter. But maybe Myrna knew something she wasn’t telling. Maybe she didn’t even know she knew it.

Porter tried to keep her under lock and key, and even though I’d seen her show a bit of spunk, I wasn’t sure how often that would happen. I was sure Porter didn’t fill her in on everything that I told him. Maybe I could jar something loose if I gave her a complete report. But how was I gonna get to her?

The West apartment was out. If Porter wasn’t there, her brother might be. Or the maid might let something slip later. I had to get Myrna out of the house. But would she meet me somewhere or would she be too afraid?

Gladys Wright! Myrna’s stepsister. True, these two didn’t seem to have much use for each other, but maybe in this case the relationship could be useful.

I got up and started walking toward the phone booth on Thompson, flipping through the pages of my notebook until I found the number. Gladys answered.

“He’s not here,” she said after I gave my name.

“I’m not interested in talkin to Leon. I wanna talk to you.”

“About?”

“Myrna.”

“Yuck.”

“Gladys, I need to talk to her, and I need to talk to her alone. I figured if you called her and asked her to meet ya, she would.”

“Then you think wrong. Myrna doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

“If ya told her it had somethin to do with Claudette, she’d see ya.”

“Hey, what is this?”

“A trick.”

“You want me to trick my stepsister into seeing you?”

“Right. Will ya do it?”

“It’s sort of amusing. All right, sure.”

“Tell her to meet you in the park by the Garibaldi statue in an hour and not to tell anybody where she’s goin. I’m in a phone booth, so ya can call me back here.”

I gave her the number, pushed down the button on the cradle, but held on to the receiver and made like I was still talking so nobody would try to get the booth. About five minutes later Gladys called me back.

“She’ll be there. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather. She was even nice to me. But when you turn up, I guess she’ll hate me again.”

“I’ll try to smooth things over.”

“Ah, who cares?”

She
did, I thought.

“Thanks, Gladys. I won’t forget this.”

“And that means?”

“It means if you’re ever in trouble, let me know.”

“Oh, goody.” She hung up.

When I stepped out of the booth, I remembered I hadn’t eaten and was hungry. Since I was near MacDougal Street, I thought I’d go to the Reggio. I had a little less than an hour for a cap and a bite and to get back to the park in time to ambush Myrna.

The place was pretty empty. Maria wasn’t on cause she worked nights. None of the regulars were there at this hour either. Along with my cap I ordered a plate of fruit and cheese.

I had a hard time swallowing cause I couldn’t stop thinking about Fred. He was only nineteen. And his wife, Joanne, about to have a baby. Nineteen years old. Sure he wanted to serve his country. They all did. But why did he have to die?

I drained my cup but left most of my food. After paying the tab I still had twenty minutes left till I met Myrna. I went back to the park and sat in a place where she wouldn’t see me, but I’d spot her standing by the statue.

Behind me and across the street was the building where Brian Wayne taught and had his trysts with young girls. A terrible realization hit me. I
wanted
Wayne to be the killer. It didn’t matter that he had an alibi. They can always be gotten around. No question . . . I hated this Casanova. But I couldn’t let that cloud my thinking. Stick with the facts, Quick, with the evidence, not by the outcome you think would be hunky-dory.

About five minutes to the hour Myrna West appeared at the right side of Garibaldi. Still not sure how I was gonna handle this, I got up and walked toward her. When I was almost there, she turned and saw me.

“Miss Quick?”

“Hello, Mrs. West.”

“I’m meeting my sister. I’m surprised to see you. . . .”

She got it then. Her expression was less angry than sad.

“I see,” she said. “I’m
not
meeting my sister.”

“No. Yer meetin me.”

“Why this subterfuge? It’s very annoying.”

“I’m sorry. Let me ask ya this: If I’d called and asked ya to meet me, would ya have done it?”

She looked down and fiddled with her brown handbag. “Porter has told me I’m not to talk to you alone.”

“That’s why the sham, Mrs. West.”

“You’re not married. You don’t understand.”

“I’m not married, but I
do
understand. I don’t think I could have a marriage that handcuffed me that way, but I accept your marriage is different from what I’d want.”

“Then why aren’t you respecting it?”

“I can’t. I’m on this case for ya, and what I might do in normal social circumstances just doesn’t apply. Ya see what I mean?”

She pouted like a little girl but finally nodded.

“Will ya talk to me?”

“I might as well. I’m here now. But I’ll get my head handed to me if Porter ever finds out.”

“There’s no way he’s gonna find out unless you tell him.”

She looked around like she was a hooligan on the lam. “I guess we shouldn’t stay here . . . out in the open. But I don’t know this area. You decide on some place discreet. Is that possible down here?”

I took her back to the Reggio, where she ordered an espresso and I had my usual.

“This seems pleasant enough,” she said. “It reminds me of cafés in Italy. Have you ever been abroad, Miss Quick?”

“No, I haven’t. Please call me Faye.”

“Well, now is no time to go, of course. Perhaps when the war is over. What did you want to talk about?”

She’d blindsided me, and I didn’t know what to say for a few secs. Then I hit the ground running.

“I’d like to tell ya everythin I know so far about the case, Claudette, everythin. And then I’d like to see if anythin new rings a bell. Do ya understand?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“So as I’m tellin ya this stuff, I want ya to interrupt me at any time yer reminded or hear of somethin we haven’t talked about before.”