Death at the Tavern

by Lee Strauss

  Boyle, the man with the bad ear, looked on Samantha and Haley with black eyes. Chapped lips curled cruelly. “Certainly.”

  Bobby Ryan removed a small key from his pants pockets and taunted them with it. “No use in losin’ two perfectly good sets of cuffs.” He removed Samantha’s first, then Haley’s and they both furiously rubbed circulation back into their wrists.

  Madame Mercier had her revolver trained on them. “Git in, both of you.”

  Samantha knew that if they got on the boat, their chances of surviving would drastically decrease, but Madame Mercier was unhinged, and the slightest provocation could cause an impulsive pulling of the trigger.

  Haley nodded at Samantha to go ahead. Samantha admired the doctor’s nerve. Thinking about Talia and how she had to survive this for her daughter, Samantha gathered her courage.

  She walked the plank onto the boat.

  Boyle’s shirt was unbuttoned revealing a stained undershirt. His face was leathery due to many years working outdoors on the ocean, and bristles darkened his jaw. He had a deformed ear, but that wasn’t the most notable thing about him. It was the handle of a gun that stuck out of the waistband of his pants. He was quick to bind Samantha’s wrists with rope, knotting her securely to the metal rail. At least this time her hands were bound in front and not behind her back. He repeated his performance on Haley, tying her to the other side of the boat.

  Bobby Ryan shouted to Boyle. “You know what to do.”

  Boyle responded with a mock salute. “Twelve miles out.”

  Twelve miles out was the rum-running line where prohibition agents no longer had jurisdiction or authority to arrest. Samantha wondered if Boyle was scheduled to make a liquor pick up, and was simply doing double duty by tossing a couple of bodies overboard while he was at it.

  Madame Mercier had already disappeared, but Bobby Ryan paused before taking his leave to stare at the two captives. “Such a shame, two beautiful specimens such as yous guys.” He tutted, then left them alone with Boyle who mocked them by drinking heartily from a pop bottle.

  * * *

  Standing on a slippery boat while it slammed along the waves would be impossible so Haley guided herself down the side of the fishing boat until she was seated on the wet floor. She winced as the cold dampness seeped through her pantsuit. Goosebumps sprouted on her arms, which were now elevated above her head.

  Samantha mimicked the maneuver.

  From this position Haley could see Boyle through the opened cabin door, propped on one knee, and with one hand on the wheel. His position was angled in such a way that he could keep an eye on where he was going and on the two captives. His gun was evident on the seat beside him.

  Haley started taking inventory. Tucked in the cubbyhole behind her was a rag, a flare gun kit, and discarded trash. Near the back, closer to where Samantha was positioned sat a large tackle box. Haley would bet a hundred dollars that beneath it was a hidden door that opened to cargo space where they stored the illegal liquor. A pair of oar handles jutted out of the cubbyhole behind Samantha. One donut-shaped life preserver was secured to the wall.

  Haley gave Samantha a meaningful look and nodded toward the tackle box. Surely, there must be a tool inside that could help them—a fishing knife, perhaps.

  Samantha started shifting her body toward the back, easing the knot that tied her hands above her head, now slippery in the drizzling rain, along the rail. She got as far as the next bolt which prevented her from getting closer. Her eyes beseeched Haley, and Haley pointed her toes in response. Samantha got the message and stretched out her legs. With the tip of her shoe, Samantha was just able to reach it.

  Haley wished that she could switch places with her. For once, Haley’s long legs could’ve come in handy.

  Samantha groaned with the effort, and Haley was glad the sound of the engine drowned her out. Haley’s gaze kept flitting toward the cabin and her view of Boyle as if she could will him to stay put and focused on the waves in front of him with the power of her mind.

  Samantha mouthed, “I did it!”

  Haley’s attention became riveted to the toolbox and Samantha’s shoe threaded through the handle.

  Haley held her breath. If Samantha could ease the tool kit close enough, she might be able to flip open the lid and somehow fish a knife out with her toes.

  The wooden box proved to be heavier than it looked, and Samantha tugged on the handle with considerable effort. It made a screeching sound across the surface of the boat’s floor, and for a second she froze.

  Pulling the box toward her, Samantha discarded the shoe and worked on opening the latch with her toes. Handy that she no longer had to contend with stockings, Haley thought. Samantha propped open the lid. “I see a knife!”

  Haley’s gaze darted back at the cabin. Boyle was looking ahead, but just as Haley motioned for Samantha to continue, he turned.

  “Hey!”

  Samantha jerked her foot, and the lid snapped shut. She shot Haley a panicked look.

  Suddenly, the sound of the engine went quiet. With both feet Samantha pushed the tackle box back a split second before Boyle stormed out of the cabin. With the motor off, the silence that encircled them was the call of death. He pointed his weapon back and forth between the women. Samantha was splayed along the floor, her dress twisted around her torso, and her eyes glued on their captor. His rubber boots gripped the surface as he marched toward her. Samantha curled into a ball as he pointed his gun at her head.

  “What are you silly women doing? I’ll kill you, you understand.”

  “Wait,” Haley shouted. She needed to divert Boyle’s attention before he figured out what they were up to. “She was throwing up over the edge and slipped. That’s all.”

  “Huh?” Boyle turned his head so his good ear faced her.

  Haley repeated loudly, “She was throwing up over the edge and slipped.”

  Boyle pivoted and in a flash pressed the gun muzzle under Haley’s chin. “The only reason I don’t kill the both of yous right now is cuz I don’t want to get my boat dirty. But I wouldn’t tempt me if I was yous.”

  “You have our word,” Haley muttered.

  “What?”

  She shouted this time. “You have our word!”

  Boyle went back to his position at the front of the boat and started the engine.

  Samantha pulled herself back into a seated position. Sounding defeated she said, “We’re going to hit the twelve-mile mark any minute, and he’s going to throw us overboard.”

  “I know.” Impulsively, Haley looked to Boyle who’d started up the engine again, and when his gaze was focused out to sea, she said to Samantha, “I have an idea.”

  22

  Haley shouted her plan over the engine noise, careful not to talk too loudly and attract Boyle’s attention. But first, Samantha had to get that fishing knife.

  For a second time, Samantha stretched out her body along the floor of the boat. She grimaced, and Haley knew the strain on her up-stretched arms would be painful. Samantha pointed the bare toes of her right foot and snagged the handle of the tackle box. Carefully, she shifted it along the damp surface until it was close enough to open.

  Haley held her breath as Samantha, with both feet working together, managed to lift the knife out of the box and drop it to the floor. Swiftly she closed the lid again and pushed the box back into position.

  The engine stuttered and with her foot, Samantha impulsively shot the knife over to Haley, who then shifted her body to conceal it.

  Boyle stood at the doorway of the cabin, eyeing them suspiciously. Both Haley and Samantha were in position, hands tied to the railing over their heads. Boyle huffed before returning to his seat.

  That was close, Haley thought.

  Now for her own circus act. She rose to her knees and worked to get the handle of the knife pinned between them. Returning to a seated position, she lifted the knife with her knees and carefully grabbed the handle with her mouth. She forced herself to not gag on the sten
ch or at the thought of the invisible germ colony that lived there.

  Next Haley returned to her knees and painstakingly sawed at the rope that pinned her wrists together. She hoped and prayed Boyle wouldn’t grow suspicious, and if he spotted her like that, he’d assume she was taking a turn at vomiting over the edge.

  It felt like an eternity, but within minutes the rope around her wrists unraveled. She looked over her shoulder at Samantha and grinned.

  Haley took a quick moment to rub some feeling back into her arms. Keeping her back angled toward Boyle, she reached for the flare gun kit and opened it to find a flare gun and two flares inside. She removed the gun and loaded it. Her blouse had pulled loose from the waist of her pants, and if she kept her back turned toward the cabin, she could manage to conceal the gun from Boyle. Now they had to wait until they reached the twelve-mile line and he came after them. She put her arms back up over her head and hung onto the rail.

  The engine cut.

  “This is it!” Boyle proclaimed. “The end of the line for you ladies.”

  This was the moment of truth—would their plan work? Haley wondered. She faced Boyle and without making a sound, mouthed, “What?”

  Boyle, looking confused, swung his gun from Haley to Samantha. In turn, Samantha silently mouthed, “Don’t hurt us!”

  Boyle slapped his head as if he was knocking the wax out of his ear. In that instant, his hand holding the pistol grew slack, and went off target. It was a split second, but long enough. Haley produced the flare gun and fired. The force of the flare knocked Boyle’s gun out of his hand and it slid to the back of the boat, lodging behind the tackle box. Boyle jumped and yelled in pain at what would be a nasty burn. He spun out of control as he held his arm, knocked against the rail next to where Haley sat and at that precise moment, the boat bobbed through a large wave. Boyle lost his balance and promptly fell overboard.

  Boyle’s cries reached them. “Help!”

  The life preserver was next to Samantha. Haley hurried to the other side of the boat. If she didn’t toss it overboard, Boyle would drown.

  Samantha, still tied to the rail, stared at Haley with a stern expression. “Do you have to?”

  “We’re not murderers,” Haley said. “So, yes.”

  With the skill of a champion softball player, Haley threw the life preserver to Boyle. The boat had drifted away from him and at first, it looked like he wasn’t going to reach it. Whether the man lived or died now depended on how well he could swim. Then as if by a divine hand, a wave pushed the preserver right in front of him.

  “Great, he’s saved,” Samantha snapped. “Now are you going to untie me?”

  “Yes, of course.” Haley retrieved the knife and went to work on Samantha’s bound wrists.

  “Heavens to Betsy!” Samantha flapped her arms like a goose with broken wings in an effort to get the blood pumping through them again.

  “Argh, it’s like blasted red ants biting my arms!”

  Haley went to the cabin, and happily found two unopened bottles of cola sitting on the opposite chair. She used the edge of the dash to open them and called for Samantha.

  “Take a seat,” she said as she handed one to Samantha.

  They clinked bottles in salute.

  “Good job, Dr. Higgins,” Samantha said.

  “Good job, Miss Hawke.”

  They spent a couple of minutes quenching their thirst and getting their energy back. Then Haley leaned against the captain’s chair and started the engine. “Let’s go save Mr. Boyle.”

  Haley’s natural driving skills, along with a previous boat trip where the captain had allowed her the privilege of manning the vessel for a time, made figuring out how to drive the fishing boat relatively easy. She pulled up to Mr. Boyle just in time, it seemed. The turbulent sea had exhausted the man and he looked as if he was about to lose hold of the life ring.

  Samantha reached over the edge. “Take my hand!”

  Haley, having put the vessel in neutral, assisted with the rope that had so recently held her and Samantha captive. She threaded it under Boyle’s armpits and together they heaved his wet and heavy body back on board. Fortunately, his energy was diminished and he didn’t resist as Haley tied his hands behind his back. Before she could secure him to the rail, he turned and vomited a good amount of seawater.

  “Had a bit too much to drink, huh?” Samantha quipped. She’d picked up the fishing knife and wielded it as a precaution. “He might be faking his weakness,” she said.

  Haley’s medical instincts said otherwise, but she didn’t blame Samantha for being wary.

  It was a choppy ride back to the harbor, and the same twelve miles felt twice as long. Keeping her eye on the waves ahead with cursory glances behind her to make certain Boyle didn’t move, Haley remained tense. Her muscles ached. Her clothing was moist and stuck uncomfortably to her body. Her hair blew loosely around her face, irritating her eyes and getting trapped between chapping lips. What she would give for a hot bath and a soft bed!

  Samantha Hawke had surprised her. Her dress was torn and twisted around her body. She too, had lost her hat, but somehow, despite being windblown with goose bumps covering her arms, hair damp and stringy, and makeup running down her rosy cheeks, she looked undefeated. The frightened mouse Haley had witnessed during their taxi ride with a gun-wielding Madame Mercier had, under extreme duress, turned into a courageous lion.

  When they finally reached the harbor, Haley glided the vessel to a stop. She shouted through the gathering storm. “Samantha? Are you all right to stay alone with him?”

  They both stared at their captive—Haley couldn’t help but think: poetic justice. He appeared awake, but docile.

  Samantha flashed the knife. “I think so.”

  “I’ll be quick.” Haley managed to disembark, keeping her footing on the slick dock, and secured the boat to a pile with cold, cramped fingers.

  A taxi idled on Atlantic Street, and Haley hopped in. “The nearest telephone booth, pronto!”

  Haley realized she didn’t have any money to pay the taxi driver or to make the call.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I know this looks suspicious, but I can assure you that you are assisting with police business. I’m the Boston City assistant medical examiner, and this is an emergency. I need to borrow a nickel.”

  The driver scowled, but after a quick assessment of Haley’s physical state, grunted and handed over the coin. He shouted after her, “I ain’t leavin’ ’til I’m properly paid!”

  When the desk sergeant at the police station answered the telephone, Haley practically shouted, “This is Dr. Higgins. Get Detective Cluney! It’s urgent!”

  Her voice must’ve effectively relayed the severity of her request as Detective Cluney was on the line far faster than any other time Haley had put in a call to him.

  She explained her predicament. “You need to hurry, Detective, if you want to catch the killer.”

  23

  Madame Mercier’s real name was Luella Morris. Due to an unfortunate family situation, she’d found herself working for a Louisiana madam at a young age—a fact that troubled Haley, and aroused her empathy. No child should be subject to that kind of exploitation.

  Though lacking a formal education, Miss Morris was sharp, and soon realized she could be a madam herself if she played her cards right. Quite literally. She learned the game of poker and won enough money to catch a bus to Boston—she’d confessed that the North had fascinated her—and rented the building on Endicott. Soon after, she donned her persona as Madame Mercier.

  Miss Morris proved to be a good businesswoman, and over time, her brothel had become a financial success. Unfortunately, she hadn’t kept to only breaking one kind of law. Her obsession with Stefano Marchesi had been her downfall. Detective Cluney arrested her for the murders of Stefano Marchesi, Agnes O’Reilly, also known as Snowflake, and Mr. Greenfield from the raid of Edoardo Marchesi’s club. Luella Morris had confessed to the killings. She’d learned about the plans for th
e raid that night—likely from one of her fellas, Haley thought—and packed her revolver in her purse.

  Apparently, Mr. Greenfield had passed her over for the lady in the blue dress. Ballistics came back from the police lab: the casings found in the Bell in Hand and Miss O’Reilly’s room were a match to Luella Morris’s H&R revolver, as was the bullet Haley had plucked out of Mr. Greenfield’s chest. As for Stefano Marchesi, when she told him she wanted him for herself, he’d laughed in her face, telling her she was too old for his fancy.

  Bobby Ryan and James Boyle were arrested for conspiracy to commit murder and for illegal distribution of alcohol.

  As for Edoardo Marchesi, Haley was in possession of a note commending her for solving the case. As she had expected, he offered her compensation. She wrote him a polite letter in response, declining, and hoped that would be the end of her connection to the Marchesi family.

  Haley stared at the locked drawer of her desk, knowing what lay inside. The previous medical examiner had given it to her after a rash of morgue break-ins last winter. Times were tough, and certain folks had taken to stealing cadavers to sell on the black market.

  Thankfully, Haley had never needed to use it, but after this last life-threatening experience, she wondered if she should start carrying it. The thought made her think of her dearest friend Ginger, and her feisty feminism. Ginger had no problem toting her gun around and even less problem in using it when circumstances required.

  But she wasn’t Ginger.

  Haley left the drawer locked. She was ready to put all the unpleasantness of the previous week behind her.

  * * *

  Samantha Hawke had gotten the story, the byline, and a raise. Not that her new salary even came close to what her male counterparts were making, but she felt it justified buying a new dress for work, a new tube of lipstick, and a pair of shoes for Talia. She even felt generous enough to purchase a new pair of white summer gloves for Bina.