Death at the Tavern

by Lee Strauss

  “I grew one today.” Haley filled Molly in over a lunch of tuna sandwiches, fresh strawberries, and hot tea. She found a measure of peace in her confession. “The only thing I can do now is find the killer, and then never cross paths with Mr. Marchesi again.”

  “Yes, well, if anyone can, it’s you,” Molly said. “But do be careful. The Marchesis are dangerous bedfellows.”

  “I will.” Haley rose from the table and took her dirty dishes to the sink. “Now, if you need me, I’ll be in my office.”

  Sitting at her desk, Haley removed a pad of paper from the top drawer, opened it to a blank page, and selected a sharpened pencil.

  What facts did she have so far? In smooth cursive she began to write:

  Stefano Marchesi - shot point blank from inside the Bell in Hand.

  Mike Tobin - possible witness, but denies seeing the shooter.

  The outside shooting spree a decoy. By whom? E. Marchesi’s henchmen?

  Stefano Marchesi frequent customer of Madame Mercier’s brothel. Death of Agnes O’Reilly, alias Snowflake, related somehow?

  Haley chewed on the end of her pencil. Who were the viable suspects and what were the possible motives?

  Edoardo Marchesi - betrayal

  Mike Tobin – misunderstanding over contraband?

  One of the prostitutes? - Scorned lover?

  Another “fisherman”?

  Haley realized with dismay that she hadn’t even visited the victim’s place of work. She really did have to raise the bar on her investigation if she was going to get to the bottom of this. Briefly, she thought about visiting Detective Cluney, but pushed the idea aside. He’d only chide her for getting in the way of police business—and rightly so. If he found out she’d agreed to work for Edoardo Marchesi, the detective might just put her behind bars!

  Gathering her purse, hat, and the keys to the DeSoto, Haley let Molly know she was leaving, and then headed to the docks.

  A big steamship had recently docked and the number of men scurrying about could populate a small town. Crates were being unloaded by large cranes, then loaded into delivery trucks.

  Obviously at the wrong wharf, Haley turned her DeSoto around in search of the fishing vessels. She hadn’t had a reason to frequent the wharves, and found herself at a loss. Boston Harbor housed many docks, but she finally drove down one that looked promising. Silver-backed fish piled on the deck of a fishing boat shimmered in the glare of the sun.

  In her haste, Haley had forgotten her sunglasses and she lowered the brim of her hat in an effort to cut the glare. Though clearly the only woman walking along the dock, her presence only triggered the odd cursory glance. She told herself it was because live fish needed to be moved on in a timely manner, but she couldn’t help but wonder if Miss Hawke would’ve gotten more attention.

  One man carried a square case off the boat—looking suspiciously like it contained bottles and nothing that resembled sea life. He startled when he noticed her, placed the box down on the dock, and stood in front of it.

  “You must be lost,” he said. He wore brown work pants held up by black suspenders. The sleeves of his dirty white shirt were rolled up as high as possible revealing strong arms. A flat cap sat on short, greasy hair. He was an average-looking fellow, except for the deformation of one ear, commonly known as cauliflower ear.

  Haley pulled out a photograph of Stefano Marchesi’s face she’d taken in the lab. “Do you recognize this man?”

  He turned his head to his good ear, indicating that he was hard of hearing. “What’s that?”

  Haley repeated her question. Recognition flashed behind the man’s eyes. “We already talked to the reporters.” He retrieved his box and stepped around her. Haley followed with long strides. “Do you know him?”

  “Everyone knows March. Idiot got himself killed.”

  “Did you work with him?”

  “Like I said, everyone knew him. No one much cares that he’s dead.”

  The man loaded his box into the back of a truck and drove away. Haley let out a frustrated breath. Other efforts to engage the workingman proved futile, and she had no choice but to admit defeat.

  She wondered if Miss Hawke knew who the reporters were, and what, if anything, they’d learned.

  On her way home Haley stopped at the Bell in Hand Tavern. She wasn’t interested in what was going on inside, but rather out. The windows had been repaired and patrons were coming and going, business as usual. She hoped to find “Ol Oscar,” as Mike Tobin had called the homeless man and, who was, potentially, the only witness to the killing. She walked up and down Union and Marshall, but failed to find a person who’d fit Oscar’s description. Enquiring as to his whereabouts produced shrugs and no information.

  Perhaps Detective Cluney’s men had been able to track him down, but she failed to imagine a compelling reason to ask the detective that wouldn’t arouse his ire, and she couldn’t afford to get on his bad side.

  12

  Samantha took a taxi to Franklin Street and tipped the driver fifty cents. She smoothed out her sleeveless silk dress made of Monet-blue georgette crepe. It draped from the right shoulder to the left and finished with an ornate row of tiny vertical-set rhinestone buttons. The picot-edged tiers of the skirt fell in layers from the hips with the hem landing just below the knee. She knew from her work on the women’s articles that the outfit was tired, on its way out of style: the waist a little too low and a little too loose, and the hem a little too high. She should’ve added a belt to cinch the waist, and maybe something sewn on as a fringe to give it more length—as women were known to do in these economically trying times. Samantha had written an article on tips for bringing a 1920’s outfit into the new decade. But the club would be dimly lit and all the clientele on their way to tipsy, so she thought she’d be all right.

  Johnny was waiting where he said he’d be, leaning up against a lamppost and smoking a cigarette. He dropped it to the ground and stepped on it when he spotted her.

  “I was worried you were going to stand me up.”

  “I said I would come, didn’t I?”

  Truth was, Samantha almost had bailed on her co-worker. Bina had griped about how much time Samantha spent away from home. Samantha had argued back that Talia was sleeping anyway.

  “What if I wasn’t here to watch her all the time,” Bina had said. “Then what would you do?”

  “I suppose I’d have to pay someone to look after her,” she’d snapped. “What would you do?”

  They’d had a stare-down where Samantha pursed her lips and Bina narrowed her watery brown eyes. Her mother-in-law would be on the streets if it weren’t for Samantha’s job, a job that included Samantha being away from home all the time. Where was her beloved son, huh? Left them all to rot! Bina should be thankful.

  As a child, Samantha had been taught manners and to respect her elders. She held her tongue.

  Besides, it wasn’t like she was meeting Johnny and sneaking into a club for the fun of it. It was to make connections, which in her line of work, proved to be very important.

  Johnny offered his arm, and Samantha linked her elbow with his.

  They came to a set of concrete steps that led to the basement of a three-story brownstone. Johnny knocked, and a small window opened. Samantha strained to hear what Johnny said to the set of dark eyes staring back.

  The real McCoy.

  It was a reference to Captain William Frederick McCoy, the famous, or some would say, infamous, Floridian rum runner.

  Inside, they were hit by loud, live music, raucous laughter, and a mix of smells, not entirely pleasant. Heavy perfume and cologne mixed with cigarette and cigar smoke, a waft of alcohol, along with the tang of sweat.

  The environment—rich with color, lights, and beautiful people—completely distracted Samantha from the smell, which in a short amount of time, had miraculously faded away.

  The room was cavernous, without windows, but with plenty of soft electric lights. Tables encircled a dance floor, ful
l of entwined couples moving to the beat of the live jazz band at the back of the room. The band members were the only black faces, and quite possibly the most talented. Samantha had never seen a live band like it. It was pure energy and quite contagious. She had the urge to drag Johnny to the floor and start swinging.

  Samantha played it cool, though. She didn’t want Johnny to guess that this was her first time at a speakeasy.

  Johnny removed his blazer, took Samantha’s shawl and disappeared with them, leaving Samantha standing alone. The dancers mesmerized her. Their feet floated and tapped along the floor, doing something like the foxtrot, but sped up to double speed.

  A skimpily dressed woman with a tray of drinks paused as she passed Samantha, and looked pointedly at Samantha’s empty hands.

  “Drink? I got French champagne or if you’re looking for something stronger, Canadian whiskey.”

  “Champagne, please.” Samantha opened the small purse that hung over her shoulder by a thin gold chain, looking for the dollar the waitress requested.

  “I’ll get that,” Johnny said, with a sudden reappearance. He held out a folded bill clutched between two fingers.

  “Don’t be silly,” Samantha said.

  Johnny insisted. “I don’t bring a dame to a club and then make her pay.”

  Samantha smiled, not wanting to make a scene, and waited for the woman and her tray to move on. She spoke into Johnny’s ear, loud enough so he could hear her over the band. “Remember, this is not a date. It’s business!”

  Johnny chuckled, grabbed her hand, and led her to a recently vacated table.

  Samantha sipped the champagne and took a moment to savor the quality. It was the real thing! She noticed that there were eyes on her, from both the men and women in the room. Despite her subpar clothing, Samantha knew that men found her attractive, and that some women found her threatening—a fact Samantha couldn’t control. Even so, she wasn’t above using her feminine wiles to get what she wanted.

  A tall man with dark hair and a handsome face watched from his position across the room. He leaned narrow hips against the bar and coddled a glass of amber liquid in one hand, but his dark eyes had settled on her. Samantha tipped her glass in his direction in acknowledgement.

  Johnny’s head turned sharply and followed her gaze. “Be careful, doll. That’s Edoardo Marchesi.”

  “Marchesi? As in the Mob family?” Samantha leaned in closer. “Are you telling me that gorgeous man is Stephen March’s brother?”

  Johnny grimaced, most likely at the use of the adjective “gorgeous” concerning Edoardo Marchesi.

  “Yes, and yes. He’s dangerous, Sam.”

  “He’s walking over here.”

  “If he asks you to dance, say no.”

  “Of course.”

  “Excuse me for interrupting.” Edoardo’s voice was smooth as silk and refined like an educated man’s. If Samantha hadn’t known better, she’d never have guessed that the man wearing an expensive and well-fitted pinstriped suit was related to the man who’d worked on the wharf.

  “I couldn’t help but notice you as you walked in. Could I buy you a drink?”

  Samantha nodded at her half-filled flute, though she doubted he hadn’t seen her sip from it.

  Johnny cleared his throat loudly. “I believe the lady is with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Edoardo said, not taking his eyes off Samantha. “I hadn’t guessed that by the lady’s behavior.”

  “My glass is still full,” Samantha said with a smile.

  “Perhaps I could interest you in a dance.”

  “I have two left feet.”

  “Perfect. I also have two left feet.”

  Edoardo Marchesi held out a hand, and Samantha found she couldn’t resist taking it. Sure, he was handsome and debonair, but this was part of her job. She’d said yes out of duty.

  The band played Body and Soul, a waltz that brought couples close. Holding Edoardo’s hand and with her other palm on his shoulder, she found his nearness intoxicating. How long had it been?

  She chided herself. Stay professional!

  It turned out that Edoardo Marchesi had undersold his dancing abilities, and Samantha had as well.

  “Now that we are properly acquainted,” he said, “perhaps an introduction is in order. “I’m Edoardo Marchesi.”

  “I’m Samantha Ro-”

  Samantha caught herself in time. She couldn’t believe she’d almost said Rosenbaum! She did that sometimes when she was nervous. “Hawke,” she added quickly.

  “It’s a pleasure, Miss Hawke.”

  “So, Mr. Marchesi?” she returned playfully. “I thought your work would keep you too busy for leisure pleasures such as this.”

  “Man cannot live by bread alone,” he said, quoting Jesus. “Besides, I own this place.”

  “Really?” Samantha wondered if Johnny had known this all along. Was that why he’d chosen this speakeasy? A glance in his direction confirmed that he hadn’t planned for this dance to happen. The scowl on his face was deeply grooved.

  Edoardo commanded her gaze, and she gave it to him. “Why have I not seen you before?” he asked.

  “Honestly? This is my first time. I’m a law-abiding citizen for the most part.”

  “What changed tonight?”

  Samantha risked another glance at Johnny. He was conferring with another gentleman Samantha didn’t recognize. The man was average height, muscular, with dirty-blond hair greased straight back from his forehead. He wore an ordinary blue suit.

  She batted her eyelashes as she answered, “I got lonely.”

  Edoardo’s grin widened. “Maybe I could help you out with that.”

  A cool thread of fear trickled down her spine. She was out of practice with men and had clearly sent the wrong signal.

  “I’m not—”

  They were interrupted by the man in the blue suit, the one who’d been in conference with Johnny.

  “Might I cut in?”

  Edoardo looked less than pleased, but Samantha grabbed on to the lifeline.

  “Sure,” Samantha said. To Edoardo, she added, “You don’t mind, Mr. Marchesi, do you?” She smiled her most charming smile.

  He bobbed his head. “Of course not. Until we meet again, Miss Hawke.”

  Johnny’s acquaintance offered his hand, and Samantha took it.

  “I’m assuming you know who I am,” Samantha said politely. “Who are you?”

  “The name’s Bell. Tom Bell.”

  “And how do you know Mr. Milwaukee?”

  “We have a friend in common.”

  “I see. Well, I didn’t need rescuing.” Despite the relief Samantha had originally felt, she would like to have thought she’d been capable of handling the situation on her own.

  The song ended after a short turn, and Samantha made it clear there’d not be a second song. “Thank you, Mr. Bell. My feet are tired, and I’m thirsty.”

  “Very well, Miss Hawke. Now don’t be mad at Johnny. He was only concerned for your safety.”

  Samantha snorted as delicately as a lady might. Mr. Bell soon disappeared into the crowd.

  “I can’t believe you said yes,” Johnny scolded. “You promised you’d say no to his offer.”

  “I promised no such thing,” Samantha returned. “It was an opportunity to investigate. I should think you’d be glad.”

  “You’re a wo—”

  Samantha put up a palm. “Stop, Mr. Milwaukee, before you say something you’ll regret.”

  13

  The next morning, Haley stood in Dr. Guthrie’s office with her arms folded. Though she could see through the glass wall that separated his office from the rest of the morgue, he also had a thorough view of Haley’s workspace, including her desk in the opposite corner. She couldn’t ignore him when he called her over.

  She was stunned by his announcement. “Are you saying that the Marchesi family refuses to claim the body?”

  Dr. Guthrie adjusted his glasses. “That’s what I said, di
dn’t I? You’re not hard of hearing, are you?”

  Haley narrowed her gaze disapprovingly. If there was a person in the room who was hearing-impaired, it certainly wasn’t her. She ignored his jibe and plowed on. “It’s bad enough that they created their wealth on the backs of the citizens of Boston, now they expect the taxpayers to pick up the tab to bury one of their own.”

  Stefano Marchesi wasn’t the only one abandoned and scheduled for a pauper’s field burial. Agnes O’Reilly’s family were farmers in Ohio and couldn’t afford to make a claim. They’d wondered if the rich family where their dear daughter, Agnes, had been employed would show mercy. Haley hadn’t had the heart to tell Mr. O’Reilly the truth, and she doubted Madame Mercier would pay the fee for a proper burial. It didn’t hurt to ask, Haley supposed.

  Leaving Dr. Guthrie to “work” at his desk—meaning he’d be snoozing within ten minutes—Haley returned to her own to catch up on paperwork. Her mind went back to the death of Agnes O’Reilly, also known as Snowflake, and she mentally reviewed the scene of the crime. Her subconscious niggled. Something was amiss. If only she could see those photographs Miss Hawke had taken.

  It wasn’t a big surprise that Miss Hawke had failed her. Members of the press were like vultures, circling the carcass, looking for a bit of meat they could snag. They weren’t interested in sharing, and they didn’t care if they had to fight one another and squawk loudly to get what they wanted.

  Haley had hoped Miss Hawke was different.

  Then again, Miss Hawke had kept her promise so far and hadn’t published the story. And the photographs hadn’t shown up anywhere yet. Maybe Miss Hawke hadn’t had a chance to develop them. Or worse, she’d bungled the process, and Haley could never hope to see them.

  Yesterday, she had tried her luck at investigating Mr. March’s death, to no avail. Maybe she’d have better odds with Miss O’Reilly. Haley opened the girl’s file and read her notes again.

  Twenty-year-old Caucasian female of Irish descent. Five foot four, one hundred and twelve pounds. First-trimester pregnancy. Cause of death: gunshot to the frontal lobe.