A Dangerous Engagement

by Ashley Weaver

  It was a practical approach. And, really, I didn’t know why Jemma should be upset by Grant Palmer’s death. Except for the rumors that I had heard about the two of them.

  “Who do you think might have killed him?” I asked.

  She shrugged again. “I expect it was those gangsters he was running around with. Nothing good ever comes of that.”

  “Have you ever been to De Lora’s?” I asked the question casually, but it seemed as if she looked at me rather sharply.

  “Maybe once or twice,” she said at last. I had the feeling she was rather reluctant to admit it, but once she did she decided to brazen it out. “After all, a lot of people go there. I like a good time once in a while, and it’s one of the more popular speakeasies in the city.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that,” I said. “I understand Leon De Lora is considered very handsome and charming when he sets his mind to it.”

  I watched her carefully when I mentioned the man’s name, but I didn’t see any sign of guilt there. She only nodded, a small smile flickering across her mouth. “Yes, he’s very good-looking.”

  I again had the impression that, despite her confidence, there was something a bit guarded about Jemma Petrie. Of course, that might just be her natural way of going about things. I was much the same myself; I was friendly to a point, but there were few people I let see behind my carefully constructed poise.

  “But if it wasn’t gangsters,” I pressed, “who do you think it might have been?”

  She frowned, and I wondered if it was because I had asked the question or because the possibility that there might be another culprit had never occurred to her. “I don’t know.”

  She turned suddenly to her companions. “Why don’t you fellows go back to your table and let Mrs. Ames and I talk in peace for a while. Tabitha’s going to be here soon, and you’ll only be in the way.”

  Pete and Myron didn’t look especially pleased at being summarily dismissed, but neither of them protested. They both rose from their chairs, and I had suddenly the impression of two well-trained terriers following their mistress’s command. They made polite good-byes before going to another table in the corner. I wondered with vague interest what Jemma’s relationship with these men was, but I thought it in bad taste to ask when I was already trying to pry information from her.

  I thought for a moment she might doggedly stick to her original hypothesis that “those gangsters” must be the killers but, the gentlemen gone, Jemma leaned toward me. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of them. Neither of them can be trusted with a secret. But I did overhear Grant and Tom having an argument the night before Grant was killed.”

  I recalled how I had seen their terse exchange at the nightclub. Was this the same argument Miss Petrie had witnessed?

  “Really?” I asked eagerly. I thought to keep up the pretense that I was a woman who enjoyed gossip. Jemma didn’t know that I was trying to help solve the case, after all.

  She nodded. “I didn’t think much about it at the time, but I’ve wondered a couple of times since then if it might have meant more than I gave it credit for meaning.”

  “Surely you don’t think Tom…” I let the question trail off, hoping she would fill in the gap.

  She shrugged, but there was a flash of something in her eyes that looked like satisfaction at the suggestion.

  I didn’t have time to interpret this reaction before the waiter arrived then with my tea, and I was momentarily distracted by the steaming liquid.

  “Do you know what it was about?” I asked at last, setting aside the teaspoon. “The argument, I mean.”

  “I only heard a little of it, but I’m fairly sure they were talking about money.”

  “I suppose that can be an inflammatory subject,” I said lightly.

  “I think Grant was asking Tom for a loan. He did that more than once, actually.”

  I didn’t know if this was especially surprising. After all, Grant Palmer did not have a particularly stable form of employment, and Tom had mentioned that they had argued about money. I did wonder where Tom Smith was getting the money to loan to Grant Palmer. From all that Tabitha had said, Tom had very little money of his own. Maybe that was why he was trying to win at games of chance.

  “This time, it seemed like it made Tom angry,” Jemma went on.

  I found it interesting that, when beginning this story, she had barely been able to recall the details, but now they seemed to be returning to her with impressive speed.

  “Had they been friends for long?”

  “I think so,” Jemma said. “I know they knew each other before Tabitha came along. They were often out carousing together, from what I can tell.”

  I thought of Grant Palmer’s comment that Tom had come to the “straight and narrow.” Was that what he had meant?

  “I suppose they resolved whatever their argument was,” I said lightly.

  “I don’t know. Tom usually gave in and gave Grant money, so I imagine he did this time as well.”

  But why had he been angry at this particular request for money? I remembered the phrase that I had overheard, how Tom said he wouldn’t allow his past to follow him. Had Grant Palmer been demanding money to keep quiet about something? If so, perhaps that was why Tom had asked him to come to the Aldens’ house and then asked Tabitha to meet him at the nightclub. He might have killed Grant Palmer and hurried back to meet her, creating an alibi for himself. Only it turned out that Tabitha had still been trying to catch a taxi.

  All of these thoughts flashed through my mind in the space of an instant, and I was spared having to determine what to ask next as Jemma went on, leaning a bit closer.

  “Though, I will say, it almost sounded to me as though Grant was trying to get money out of Tom against his wishes.”

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know, of course, but it sounded almost as though Grant was threatening him in some way.”

  “Surely not,” I said, though the theory did coincide with my speculation that Grant might be demanding money to keep quiet about something in Tom’s past.

  “I could’ve heard wrong, of course. I didn’t linger to listen.”

  I wondered. It seemed to me that she had heard quite a good deal.

  The waiter came to our table then. “Mrs. Ames and Miss Petrie?”

  We looked up. “Yes?” Jemma asked.

  “Miss Alden has telephoned and said she was detained. She wishes you to dine without her.”

  We placed our orders. I selected the eggs Benedict at his recommendation, while Jemma chose a steak. Then she excused herself from the table for a few moments, and I was left alone to ponder these latest revelations. When she returned, I thought it prudent not to resume the conversation. If I pushed too far, Jemma might grow suspicious.

  Topics shifted as we ate lunch. The food was delicious, and I found, in contrast to the aloofness I had begun to expect from her, Jemma seemed in the mood to be a pleasant and lively conversationalist. More than once I laughed at one of her stories, and I could see how she and Tabitha might have become good friends.

  We finished the meal, and it was my turn to excuse myself to the powder room. As I was returning to the table, I saw that Jemma was speaking with the waiter. I was still out of her line of view, but I couldn’t help but overhear part of the conversation.

  “I’m afraid your credit has reached its limit, Miss Petrie,” the waiter was saying apologetically.

  “What?” Jemma was incredulous. “I’ve kept an account here for years.”

  “Yes, Miss Petrie, but … I … I’m afraid the bills have gone unpaid for quite some time.”

  I turned away then, not wanting to overhear any more of such a private conversation.

  I went back into the powder room to wait a few moments before making my reappearance. I had been overhearing a great number of things lately that might be better off left unaddressed.

  When I returned to the table, Jemma rose from her seat, taking a sil
ver compact from her purse. “Oh, there you are. Just let me run off and powder my nose, and then we’ll be off.”

  I pulled my own handbag from the chair beside me. “I do hope you’ll let me pay for lunch.”

  “You don’t need to do that,” she said, with a wave of her hand.

  “I’d be happy to.”

  “Oh, no.” She waved a hand. “Myron’s already paid for it. Sweet of him, wasn’t it?”

  It was indeed.

  * * *

  AS MY CAB pulled up before the Alden home, I saw the figure of a man standing on the front steps. I thought for a moment it might be a lone reporter, still holding out for some kind of story. I was surprised, then, to realize that it was Detective Bailey.

  “Hello,” I said when I reached the stairs.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Ames,” he said, tipping his hat at me.

  “Has no one come to let you in?” I asked, glancing at the door. I was surprised that Calvin had not answered the bell.

  “Oh, I’m not coming in,” he said. “I was just looking over the crime scene again.”

  I looked down at the bloodstains on the steps that had so far defied all efforts to remove them.

  “Is Detective Andrews here with you?” I asked.

  “No. This is an unofficial visit, so to speak. I wanted to check something out. I’ve been thinking.”

  “Oh?” I asked. I had the impression that he would be more receptive to my queries than his partner had been. “Do you have a theory?”

  “I’m working on one.”

  “Do you think Mr. Palmer’s death was connected to Leon De Lora?” I asked, confident he would not sneer at my suggestion as Detective Andrews had done.

  Instead, he answered me honestly, which was almost worse.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t think it has anything to do with De Lora.”

  “What about Frankie Earl?” I suggested, hoping to foist the crime off on someone who had not appeared in our little drama. “I heard Mr. Palmer had gone to work for him after he left Mr. De Lora’s employ. Perhaps he ran afoul of him in some way.”

  He was looking at me carefully, but he shook his head. “No. It wasn’t De Lora or Earl.”

  He said it with a confidence I found troubling. “Oh? Why not?”

  “For one thing, he was killed with a pistol. If gangsters want to kill you in the street, they usually use a car and tommy gun.”

  I was not much familiar with the weaponry of local criminals, but I had to acknowledge that Detective Bailey probably was. Besides, from what I had seen of American gangster films, he was right. A pistol seemed much less effective than mowing someone down in a hail of bullets from a passing automobile.

  “And they often shoot you in front of your own house instead of someone else’s. And the bullets often go in the back, not the front.”

  I looked up at him, the implication of this newest piece of information startling. “He was facing his killer.”

  He nodded. “He was shot multiple times in the chest before he fell facedown on the stairs.”

  I felt a bit sick at this description and at the idea of what it meant. If he had been facing his killer, it was likely someone whom he knew.

  I decided to take the offensive. “You think someone close to Mr. Palmer did it.”

  He looked at me intently. His pale green eyes were so cool and expressionless, but there was a glimmer of something in them—suppressed warmth or humor?—that kept them from being entirely fathomless.

  “Is that what you think?” he asked.

  “I don’t know what to think about any of this,” I said truthfully. “My husband and I came for a wedding. We never imagined that something like this might happen.”

  He nodded. “I’m sure this has all been pretty rough on you.”

  “It’s just that … I can’t believe any of these people would have had a good reason to kill Grant Palmer.”

  Those disquieting eyes met mine. “You just never know who might be a killer.”

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

  “I’d suggest you watch your back, Mrs. Ames.”

  I felt a little chill as he said the words.

  “I shall. Thank you.”

  Then I hurried into the house.

  17

  I CLOSED THE door behind me and drew in a deep breath, utterly exhausted in mind and body. I was upset by Detective Bailey’s quiet confidence that Grant Palmer’s death was not related to his bootlegging activities. While I had suspected this might be true, I still didn’t want to think that it might actually be someone whom I knew.

  I discarded my jacket and pulled off my hat and gloves. I couldn’t possibly go on thinking about it at the moment. I wanted nothing more than to take a long, cool bath and lie down before dinner. I climbed the stairs and met Tabitha as she was coming down.

  “Oh, hello, Amory. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to make it to lunch. I … I’m afraid something came up.”

  She seemed to avoid meeting my gaze as we spoke, and I looked more closely at her face. She looked uneasy, distracted.

  “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, fine. Did you and Jemma have a nice lunch?”

  “It was very nice. I met two friends of hers, Pete and Myron. I’m afraid I didn’t catch their surnames.”

  Tabitha frowned. “Not them again. I don’t think they’re a good influence on her.”

  “It seemed to me that she was the influence upon them,” I said dryly.

  “Yes, maybe…” she said vaguely, and I had the impression that her thoughts were already wandering from our conversation.

  “Is there something on your mind, Tabitha?” I asked.

  She looked up at me. “Oh, I was just thinking about the wedding. It’s all happened so fast that sometimes it catches me by surprise to realize that I’ll be a married woman in only two more weeks.”

  This confession made me a bit uneasy. I hoped that she wasn’t having second thoughts. Had something happened this afternoon that was making her want to reconsider?

  “You don’t feel as though you’re rushing into things?” I asked carefully.

  “Oh, no. Not at all. I feel as though I’ve known Tom forever.”

  I hesitated, wondering if I should tell her that feeling as though you knew someone and actually knowing them were two entirely different things.

  “You know that Milo and I married rather quickly after meeting,” I ventured.

  She smiled brightly. “And look how well it turned out for you.”

  “It hasn’t all been a bed of roses,” I said. That was putting it mildly. I didn’t know how to go about telling her what a disaster a good portion of my marriage had been. All was well that ended well, I supposed, but I wanted her to pay attention to what she was doing.

  “Oh, I know marriage isn’t going to be perfect,” she said. “Tom and I have our share of disagreements. It’s just that I … I … oh, well. Never mind.”

  I didn’t want to press her, but it seemed that there was hesitation now when she spoke of Tom. Had they argued? I didn’t like to press her about her private affairs, but I also knew that she might need someone in whom she could confide.

  “I hope you know that you can talk to me if you need to.”

  She nodded and gave a smile that was fairly convincing. “Everything’s all right. Really. But thank you.”

  She moved past me then and I retreated to my bedroom.

  I still had the uneasy feeling that there was something amiss. I did hope it wasn’t Tom who was getting cold feet. That would be heartbreaking for Tabitha. I thought back to the days before my own wedding. In the midst of my desperate love for Milo, there had been a hint of caution, the feeling that I should not put every bit of my heart into the idea of our marriage in case he was to change his mind.

  Was that what was happening with Tabitha and Tom? Somehow I doubted it. Tom seemed to have a different personality from Milo. Whatever secrets his past might hold, I didn’t sense
the same undercurrent of reckless energy about him. Besides, happily, Milo had been there waiting at the altar for me. It wasn’t until our conversation as we arrived in the harbor that I had realized he had been feeling the same thing about me. How very vexing love was at times.

  I went into the bathroom and ran a bath in the claw-foot tub, adding a liberal amount of rose-scented soap beneath the running water. When at last I sank into the warm, fragrant water, I breathed a sigh. It felt wonderful to have a moment of escape from everything that had been happening.

  Even as I luxuriated in the bubbles, however, my mind wouldn’t rest. I was still thinking about the aspects of the case. What had I learned so far? I had been told that Grant Palmer and Rudy Elliot had quarreled over a woman. I needed to find a way to subtly ask Mr. Elliot about the woman in question.

  I also knew that Grant Palmer had been asking, perhaps even demanding, money from Tom Smith, perhaps to conceal something that had happened in the past.

  Furthermore, Mr. Palmer and Jemma Petrie had gone to the warehouse together one evening, trying to gain access. They were denied and, coincidentally or not, the warehouse had been broken into later that evening. Mr. Alden had been made aware of it, and I couldn’t help but wonder if this had brought things to a head between himself and Mr. Palmer.

  It seemed that there was a great deal of information, but I didn’t exactly know what to make of it.

  “Oh, there you are, darling,” Milo said, coming into the bathroom. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “I’m trying to relax,” I said. “It’s been an exhausting day, and I am having a bath, then a nap.”

  “Good. You weren’t looking at all well at the warehouse.”

  I had meant to give him the impression that he should leave, but he didn’t seem inclined to do so. Instead, he sat on the edge of the tub.