A Dangerous Engagement

by Ashley Weaver

  I didn’t know if I should mention that Tabitha had told me about his father, so I gave a simple answer. “I’m sorry.”

  “I suppose you’ve heard about my dad,” he said, looking up at me.

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “It was a tough time. I didn’t know things had gotten that bad. He hid it … from all of us.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said again.

  He glanced at me then, managing a smile. “I try not to think about it. Dad wasn’t the sort of man who would’ve wanted people crying over him. He would have told us to get on with our lives. That’s what I’ve tried to do.”

  “You’ve made quite a success of yourself, I understand.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve done all right. I enjoy what I do, so that’s something.”

  “I’m sure your father would be very proud of you.”

  He flushed a little and changed the subject back to the one that was foremost on all of our minds.

  “I suppose Grant’s death had something to do with De Lora,” he said.

  “It seems the most likely explanation,” I said. “I’ve heard a good deal about Mr. De Lora. Did you ever meet him?”

  He gave a quick shake of his head, smiling ruefully. “I always tried to steer clear of that part of Grant’s life, though he nearly pulled me in a time or two. But I’m not much of one for danger and excitement.”

  “But he enjoyed taking risks?”

  He nodded. “He was always like that. He did whatever he wanted, devil take the consequences. Although, lately, I think maybe he was having second thoughts.”

  This piqued my interest. “How so?”

  “He said something to me a few days back, about how maybe it was time for him to be on the side of law and order.”

  That was curious. He had said something similar to me that night at the Topaz Club, that he was finding it difficult to walk a tightrope. Had Grant decided to leave his criminal endeavors behind? Perhaps Mr. De Lora had decided he couldn’t allow this.

  I hoped this was the case, that Mr. Palmer’s death had nothing to do with anyone in this house, but I couldn’t leave that unsavory avenue unexplored.

  “I don’t suppose anyone else had a reason to kill him?” I asked Mr. Elliot.

  I expected a quick denial and was a bit surprised when none was forthcoming. If he thought my question was unusual, he gave no sign of it.

  “Those detectives came around asking questions today, almost as though they thought I might have had something to do with it. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, where were you at the time of the murder, Mr. Elliot?’ The swarthy one was especially pushy.” Mr. Elliot said this lightly and appeared perfectly at ease. It was difficult for me to believe that he might have had something to do with the cold-blooded murder of Grant Palmer. He just didn’t seem the type to me that would want to kill a man over petty jealousies. I remembered the good-natured way he had accepted Mr. Palmer’s teasing that first night at the dinner table. There had been no anger in his eyes, no sense that he resented his friend’s casual insults.

  What was more, I could tell that much of his calm tonight was an act. He seemed to me as though he was genuinely distressed and trying hard not to appear so. His foot was tapping on the carpet, his fingers drumming against his leg in a frantic rhythm. It was never easy to lose a friend, and I suspected his grief was still raw.

  This assumption was proved with his next words. “I don’t know why the police might have assumed that I might have wanted to kill Grant,” he said, and this time his words were addressed to the whole room. “I know we didn’t always get along, but I didn’t want him dead. He was my best friend.”

  “Oh, I know, Rudy. I know,” Tabitha said gently. “I don’t think any of us think that you might have done it.”

  “We’ve been friends for years.” For a moment I wondered if he might cry. It seemed that his eyes glistened.

  “How did you meet?” I asked him as the others went back to their conversations.

  He smiled. “Grant had plans to rob my father’s bank.”

  My brows rose in surprise, and he laughed.

  “It wasn’t a well-thought-out plot. We were probably only twelve at the time, but he was running with some pretty tough kids. One of the older boys had convinced him that he should try to rob the bank alone with a toy pistol. I happened to be on my way to visit my father that day and spotted him at the corner as he was trying to build up his nerve. I don’t know what made me go and talk to him, but I did. For some reason we hit it off. He abandoned his plan to rob the bank and we went off to the soda shop instead.

  “After that, we never stopped being friends. I was always trying to talk him out of schemes, keep him from doing things he shouldn’t. It didn’t always work, and I think half the bad things he did he never told me about. There was a secretive side to Grant. But he never did anything as reckless as try to rob another bank.” He smiled. “As an adult, I even got him a job working for Dad. We had a good laugh about that, him earning money from that bank, after all, years later.”

  “I’m glad he had a good friend like you,” I said.

  “It doesn’t seem to have helped much in the end,” Mr. Elliot said softly. “It was still crime that brought about his downfall.”

  I lowered my voice. “Perhaps it wasn’t the bootleggers who killed him. You said the police were asking you for your whereabouts. Do they suspect it might have been someone other than Mr. De Lora, do you think?”

  “I suppose it’s possible.” His brow furrowed as he considered. “I’ve been thinking it over, trying to work out if anyone else might have had a reason to do it. Grant wasn’t always the most likable guy.” He looked up, stammering as he tried to amend this statement. “That is … I mean…” He sighed. “Well, that’s the truth of it. He rubbed people the wrong way sometimes.”

  “And you think that might have been a motive for murder?”

  He shrugged, then his shoulders sagged as he looked down at the coffee cup in his hand. “I don’t really know what to think.”

  This seemed a signal that I had pressed the matter far enough for the time being. He was clearly going to be mulling the topic over for some time, and I felt that I had created enough of a conversational opening that he might be willing to revisit the subject after he’d had more time to consider it.

  “Perhaps it’s best not to think about it anymore tonight,” I said. “Perhaps we might talk about other things.”

  He looked over at me, and I saw on his face the look of someone who had suddenly been given permission to do something they desperately wanted to do. He suddenly looked very young, like a child who wanted reassurance. “Do you think that’s insensitive? To just push it all away?”

  “No. In fact, I think that sometimes forgetting for a while is necessary.”

  An expression of powerful relief crossed his face, and he nodded. “I think you’re right. After all, Grant would have been the first one to go on with his life if something had happened to one of us.”

  Before I could comment on this assessment of his friend, Calvin came to the drawing room.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Alden, but Detective Andrews and Detective Bailey are here.”

  Silence descended over the room. None of us was quite sure how to respond to this unwelcome bit of news. No doubt they had more questions with which to pepper us, and I was sure I was not alone in feeling unequal to the task tonight.

  “Show them in, Calvin,” Mr. Alden said at last.

  A moment later the two detectives made their way into the drawing room. They were both wearing their trench coats, Detective Andrews looking slightly disheveled, Detective Bailey looking more composed.

  “Sorry to interrupt at this hour,” Detective Andrews said, “but we’ve been looking for Mr. Smith.”

  Tom rose from his seat, a frown on his handsome brow. “I’m here. What … why are you looking for me?”

  “We just wanted to talk to you,” Detective Bailey said mil
dly.

  “We’ve been looking for you all day, in fact,” Detective Andrews added, a hint of accusation in his voice.

  “Tabitha … Miss Alden and I spent the day together. Needless to say, we were both pretty shaken up about what happened to Grant and we needed some time alone.”

  “Sure, sure,” Detective Andrews said. “That’s fine. We just need to talk to you for a few minutes, if you don’t mind. Alone.”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Tom said, though I thought he didn’t look entirely at ease.

  “But I don’t see…” Tabitha began, an edge of worry in her voice.

  “It’s all right, Tabitha,” Mr. Alden said. “These men are only doing their job.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Alden,” Detective Andrews said. “We’re just all trying to be sure that justice gets done. We’re talking to everyone who was close to Mr. Palmer.” He nodded vaguely into the room. “We already spoke with Mr. Elliot and Miss Petrie.”

  I glanced at Jemma Petrie. She hadn’t mentioned that the police had called on her, but perhaps that wasn’t the sort of information one cared to share, especially if she had revealed her secret relationship with Mr. Palmer to them.

  “We’re just trying to sort everything out,” Detective Bailey said. There was something almost friendly in his manner. He was the calming, quiet complement to his partner’s forceful intensity.

  “Narrowing out the innocent so you can find the guilty,” Rudy Elliot said.

  “Yeah, something like that.” Detective Andrews scratched the dark growth of whiskers on his cheek. “When it comes right down to it, none of you have alibis.”

  There was a moment of stunned silence.

  “Except Mr. and Mrs. Ames, of course, who were seen coming down the stairs by Calvin the butler.”

  “I was at my office,” Mr. Alden said.

  “Sure, but it was late and no one saw you,” Detective Andrews said. “That’s not to say you’re a suspect, but it isn’t the same as if you were in a room full of people.”

  “I gave you my alibi,” Jemma Petrie said suddenly, her tone a bit too bright. “I was home in bed, as I told you.”

  “Alone, you said?”

  Jemma blinked, a flush spreading to her cheeks. “Of course.”

  “Not much of an alibi, then, is it? Not that I’m accusing anyone, mind you. But we like to get everything all straight so we spend our time the right way.”

  He smiled, which only seemed to add to the attitude of menace I was certain we were all feeling.

  “Well, then I’m eager to be cleared of wrongdoing,” Tom said lightly.

  “Right this way then,” Detective Andrews said, motioning toward the hallway with his hat in his hand. Tom followed him out, and Detective Bailey nodded at the room in general. “Good evening, everyone.”

  When they were gone, I excused myself from my seat beside Mr. Elliot and moved to where Tabitha and Jemma were sitting in a corner of the room, talking in quiet voices. As I approached, Tabitha held out her hand and pulled me onto the settee beside her.

  “What do you think they want?” she asked me, her eyes worried.

  “I’m sure they’re just looking for information on Mr. Palmer’s whereabouts before he died,” I said reassuringly. “As he said, they questioned Mr. Elliot and Miss Petrie as well.”

  “And were very insulting about it, too,” Jemma said with spirit. “Imagine! Asking me if I was alone! I should’ve said something scandalous and shocked him.”

  I smiled, wondering if she was protesting too much, but Tabitha was staring across the room, still lost in thought. “I just don’t know what they think Tom will be able to tell them. Surely they don’t think … I mean, Tom and Grant were great friends. He wouldn’t have had any reason to do something…”

  “No, no. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.”

  I wasn’t entirely sure, however. There was something about these detectives that made me uneasy.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I just need to powder my nose,” Jemma Petrie said suddenly. She rose and left the room. I wondered if she was more upset by the detective’s brusque questions than she let on.

  I turned to Tabitha, trying to draw her out of her doldrums. “Don’t fret, Tabitha. I’m sure it will all be all right.”

  She looked at me, frowning slightly, and lowered her voice. “It’s just that … I called Jemma last night before I left the house. She didn’t answer her phone.”

  “Oh, I see,” I said, pondering this interesting bit of information. So perhaps Jemma Petrie had not been home when Grant Palmer was killed after all.

  “Of course, she might have been sleeping soundly,” Tabitha said quickly.

  “Yes, that could be,” I agreed. But I wondered.

  I could see the strain all of this was putting on Tabitha, so I decided not to press the issue for the time being.

  “What were you girls talking about?” I asked lightly. “Before we were so rudely interrupted.”

  “We were talking about the wedding,” Tabitha said in a hushed voice, as though it was some sort of secret. I felt sad that such a happy occasion should have been so tainted with tragedy.

  “Then fill me in, won’t you?” I said, trying to draw some enthusiasm out of her.

  She nodded, seeming to return to the normal, cheery version of herself with great effort. “I was talking about the bouquets. The florist isn’t sure she’ll be able to get the exact arrangements I wanted now, though I suppose it doesn’t really matter as long as the colors are right.”

  She went on then, and I found my mind drifting slightly, thinking about what Detective Andrews had said. None of the group had an alibi. I had known, of course, that none of them had been in the house at the time, but this new information meant that any one of them might have had the opportunity to shoot Grant Palmer on the Aldens’ front steps. And now I had learned that it was possible Jemma Petrie had lied about her whereabouts.

  Tom came back into the room perhaps half an hour later, his face grim. I imagined that he had had a thorough going-over by Detective Andrews.

  “What did they want?” Tabitha asked at once.

  He smiled, almost managing to banish the strained expression from his face. “They just had a lot of questions. They … I suppose they’re just trying to do their job. They’re awfully stern about it, though. They almost made me want to think of something to confess.”

  Tabitha looked alarmed, and I wondered why. “What sort of things could you possibly want to confess?” she asked with a forced little laugh.

  “I … well, for some reason I told them that Grant and I had been arguing the night before he was killed.”

  I remembered the heated exchange I had witnessed between them in the foyer at the Topaz Club. Perhaps it was good that he had told the police before someone else had.

  “Tom! Why would you say that?” Tabitha said. “They’ll only think…”

  “Oh, I explained it,” he said. “I just didn’t want word to get back to them. They might think I was hiding something.”

  “But what were you arguing about?”

  “Oh, only a little money matter,” he said. “It was nothing serious.”

  What I had seen of their argument had not seemed to be a small matter. I remembered the heated expression on Tom’s face, as well as something he had said about not letting the past follow him anymore. Where, then, had money come into it?

  I pulled my attention back to what Tom was saying. “And, anyway, everything was fine between us. Grant was coming to see me. He had phoned me before I phoned you and said there was something he wanted to tell me.”

  “Did he say what it was?” I couldn’t resist asking.

  He shook his head. “It could’ve been anything.”

  “Was that why Grant was coming here at that time of night?” Tabitha asked.

  “Yes, I … I’m afraid that’s my fault,” Tom said. “He was going to come to the nightclub with us. He said he had something he w
anted to talk to me about, but I forgot to phone him to meet us at the club instead. I suppose if I had remembered to call him things might have … ended differently.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Tabitha said quickly. “After all, whoever did this to Grant could have done it anywhere.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Well, now that the police are gone, I say we have some fun,” said Jemma, coming back into the room. She seemed in high spirits, as though a weight had lifted off of her now that the detectives had left. “Does anyone want to go dancing?”

  But the energy seemed to have gone out of the rest of us, and we could no longer sustain the pretense of cheeriness for which we had all been fighting valiantly for most of the evening. Something in the atmosphere had changed with the detectives’ visit, and I felt more uneasy now than ever.

  * * *

  BACK IN OUR room, I began to prepare for bed as Milo, who was waiting to go out until after the household had retired, took a seat and smoked a cigarette as he watched me undress. His gaze was passively appreciative, and I knew that he had set his sights on other amusements this evening.

  “I’m a bit uneasy about you going out tonight,” I said as I pulled a dressing gown of rose-colored satin over the matching nightgown.

  “Darling, there’s nothing to be concerned about; it’s not as though I’m going to march into De Lora’s and start demanding of assorted criminals which of them killed Grant Palmer.”

  “I know, but what if someone recognizes you? There was a notice in the society columns about our arrival.”

  “I somehow doubt that De Lora reads the society columns.”

  I knew that, no matter what my objections, I was not going to dissuade him from going to the speakeasy tonight. It was not so much the mystery that interested him as the prospect of spending the evening in some sort of illicit establishment. Milo thrived on behaving badly.

  He rose from his seat and came to me, sliding his arms around me. “Don’t look so glum, darling. I daresay I’ve spent nights in much more dangerous circumstances than this one.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”