Dead Lock

by B. David Warner

  I looked at the clock. I had just enough time to talk with Crawford before leaving the office for Mrs. Brinkwater and her damned gardenias.

  I found him at his desk, reading.

  “Why did you assign Carol Olson to the story of Shirley Benoit’s murder?” I asked.

  Crawford looked up from the papers he was perusing. He obviously wasn’t accustomed to having his assignments questioned and looked a bit surprised. “She’s one of our best reporters,” he said. “Besides you’ve got another story today.”

  “Yeah. Viola Brinkwater and her gardenias.”

  “There are a couple of weddings and a funeral we need written up for tomorrow’s edition, too. And don’t forget the list of ship passages through the locks.”

  “Gardenias, weddings, funerals and ships going through the damn locks. A cub reporter could handle those assignments.”

  That got Crawford’s attention. He reared back in his chair. “Look. You can’t walk in here off the street and expect to get preferential treatment. Even if you did work at a big Detroit daily.”

  “The woman who was murdered, Shirley Benoit? She and I were best friends.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Crawford paused for a moment; then came back at it. “But, that’s even more reason not to assign you to the story. Being that close to the victim can sway your judgment.”

  “My judgment is just fine. Apparently much better than yours.”

  “Prove it by bringing in a good story on Mrs. Brinkwater’s gardenias.”

  Great. The news story of the century was blazing away overseas, the news story of the year was tearing apart my hometown, and I was in Sault Ste. Marie writing about Viola Brinkwater’s fragrant gardenias.

  That stunk.

  34

  I sat upright and much straighter than I wanted to, in a hard wooden chair in the sunroom of Mrs. Viola Brinkwater’s brown and white ranch home on Superior Street.

  All of eighty years old, Mrs. Brinkwater’s pinched face gave her the appearance of one of those people who are most comfortable being uncomfortable. She wore a plain white dress, a perfect match for the gardenias that filled the myriad of planters arranged about the sunroom. Their sweet, distinctive aroma permeated the moist air.

  “Thank you for seeing me this morning, Mrs. Brinkwater.”

  “My pleasure, dearie.” Mrs. Brinkwater’s mouth cracked into a smile.

  “Your gardenias are beautiful.”

  “Gardenia jasminoides. Thank you.”

  “You certainly know your gardenias, Mrs. Brinkwater.”

  “Why, ask anyone in Sault Ste. Marie. They’ll tell you no one knows gardenias like I do.”

  “I’m sure they would.”

  “Gardenias were discovered in China in the Eighteenth Century.”

  “And, how long have you been growing them?” Probably since they were discovered in China.

  “I started as a teenager, actually.”

  I looked down at my notes. “Tell me, Mrs. Brinkwater, what’s the secret of growing beautiful gardenias like these?”

  “Coin.”

  “Coin?”

  “C-O-I-N. It’s a way of remembering my system. C is for cool nights. Gardenias like fifty to fifty-five degrees. No more. No less.”

  “I see.” I scribbled in the notepad on my lap.

  “O is for oxygen. Important to their photosynthesis. The letter I stands for indirect light. You notice my windows are all shaded by an overhanging roof.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And n... that’s for nitrogen in the soil. Put ‘em all together and they spell ‘coin’.”

  “Very clever.”

  Mrs. Brinkwater looked pleased. “Why, it’s known as a mnemonic device, a way of jogging the memory. Daniel taught me to use memory joggers. He was my first husband. Daniel played the piano.”

  “The piano?”

  “Face. F-A-C-E. It’s the way students learn the notes between the lines of a musical score.”

  “And Daniel taught you that?”

  “Daniel fingered those keys like a pro. So did my...” she paused momentarily, “... my uh, second husband Alden. There were four, you know. It’s difficult sometimes to keep their order straight.”

  With the interview going nowhere fast, I had just put my pencil in a pocket when Mrs. Brinkwater let go with a sharp epithet that nearly brought me out of the chair.

  “Damn!”

  “I beg your pardon? Did you say damn?” The old lady must have been losing her marbles.

  “No, damm. D-A-M-M. It’s the way I remember my husbands.” She was losing her marbles.

  “And how does that work, Mrs. Brinkwater.”

  “D-A-M-M. It’s another mnemonic device, dearie.”

  I simply nodded.

  “The first letter, d, is for Daniel. He was my first husband. Alden was my second. Those are the first two letters of damm.”

  I nodded again.

  “Michael was my third. He’s the first m.”

  “Uh-huh. And the second m?”

  “That would be Matthew. Or was it Matthew first and then Michael? They’re all gone now, of course. Poor dears.”

  I sat there dumbly, not believing my ears.

  “Now you string those names together ... and it comes out d-a-m-m, damm. It’s the way I keep them all in order.”

  I closed my notebook. The paper would have to survive without its article on Mrs. Brinkwater’s gardenias this year.

  “Judas Priest, girl. You’re impatient. You remind me of my husband Michael. Never could sit still.”

  “I’m afraid that’s me.” I stood.

  Mrs. Brinkwater went on. “Why, instead of relaxing in the evenings like most sensible men, he’d run whiskey across the border with Roland Swenson. That was a while ago, during Prohibition. Roland’s our mayor, you know.”

  That bit of news got me to sit back down. Rafe Johnson had been mayor when I was in the Soo for my senior year in high school, but I recalled hearing Swenson’s name as the mayor before Olson. He must have decided to run again.

  “Are you telling me, Mrs. Brinkwater, that the mayor of Sault Ste. Marie once ran illegal whiskey across the Canadian/United States border?”

  “With Michael, yes. It’s a long story.”

  “Believe me, Mrs. Brinkwater, I have plenty of time.” I cracked open my notebook.

  35

  I got back to the newsroom anxious to write the article about our mayor and his history of running booze across the border in violation of Prohibition laws, but was interrupted by a phone call.

  A man identifying himself as Mr. Rodgers from the L. Rodgers Funeral Home asked if I could provide him with a dress that could be placed on Shirley’s body for the funeral service. I agreed to meet him at Shirley’s home on Amanda Street during the noon hour.

  I had dreaded the thought of going through Shirley’s personal effects, but now with no other choice, I met Mr. Rodgers in front of the home a little after twelve.

  I let Mick out for a run in the backyard then invited Mr. Rodgers to have a seat in the front room while I went into Shirley’s bedroom for the first time since her death.

  Shirley’s closet was filled with clothes, but most appeared to be too casual. Shirley was a sharp dresser, preferring bright colors to earth tones. The latest garments were made of rayon and some of the other newer artificial fabrics; wools and cottons were hard to come by since they had been restricted for use in military uniforms.

  Sadly, it reminded me of all the times as teenagers that Shirley and I would go through each other’s closets looking for something to wear to a party or dance. Our sizes were interchangeable and we often borrowed each other’s clothes.

  Now I was looking for something for my best friend to wear at her own funeral.

  After some searching, I found a powder blue wool dress that Shirley must have had for some time. It was ankle length, tied at the waist and featured a collar that could be turned up to hide any wounds on her neck.
I pulled it from the closet and carried it out to the living room to show Mr. Rodgers.

  “Hmm . . .” he said, running his hands over the garment and turning up the collar, “this will do nicely.”

  Mr. Rodgers’ visit had heightened my feelings of sorrow over Shirley’s passing and quelled any appetite I might have had for lunch. I simply returned to the office and wrote the story.

  36

  “That’s me cross-checking Johnny Gottselis in the third game of the ’32 Stanley Cup finals.”

  Blades Larue had noticed me studying one of the black and white photos on the wall behind where he stood wiping glasses. I was sitting at the bar nursing a Budweiser. I had written the story about Mrs. Drinkwater’s husband and left the office early. I wanted to ask Blades a few questions about the tragedy of the last evening before the after-work rush hour started.

  He was more interested in talking hockey. “The Black Hawks beat us in seven games, but we got back at them in ’36. That’s when we took the Cup for the first time.

  “I retired right after the season and moved up here.”

  “My father covered the Wings for the Times.”

  “He did?”

  “He probably interviewed you. Buck Brennan?”

  “Sure. Buck Brennan was your father? What’s your name?”

  “I’m Kate Brennan, Blades. We’ve never met formally, but I’ve been in here for lunch and supper with my uncle. I used to come up here for a week or two almost every summer.”

  Blades stopped wiping the glass he was holding. “Kate Brennan. Kate Brennan. Yeah, you’re G.P. Brennan’s niece. Now I remember.” He smiled and resumed wiping. His sleeves were rolled up and his meaty forearms bulged with every move. It was easy to see how a flick of those wrists could send a puck rocketing past a surprised goalie.

  “Shirley Benoit and I were best friends.”

  Blades stopped wiping again. “Shirley was our best waitress. Smartest, too.” He shook his head. “It was a crying shame what happened to her.”

  “Tell me about that night.”

  Blades put the clean glass down and picked up another from the sink. “Shirley finished her shift at one and left. Ellen Popowitz was closing. A minute or so later, Ellen made sure her tables were happy and walked out there for a cigarette.” Blades motioned toward the back door with his head. “That’s when she found . . . you know.”

  “Will Ellen be in later?”

  Blades shook his head. “I gave her a couple days off. She’s still pretty shook up.”

  “Did you see anyone in the restaurant that night who might have looked suspicious?”

  “In here? Nah. Just the usual amount of locals; and soldiers of course. They’re great drinkers, but lousy tippers. I thought they caught the guy who killed her. That Army corporal.”

  “He’s in jail,” I said. “But some people think he may not have done it.” I didn’t elaborate.

  Blades set the glass down. “Too bad we don’t have the death penalty here in Michigan,” he said. “Prison’s too good for the son-of-a-bitch who killed Shirley. I wish I could help you find him.”

  Unfortunately, Blades couldn’t. But maybe Ellen Popowitz could.

  37

  I found Ellen at home in the upstairs flat she rented on Maple Street. She had answered the door and now sat facing me across a coffee table. She was a small woman, slight of build, who looked even smaller huddled in the chair with her legs and arms crossed. It was clear from the redness around her eyes that she had been crying.

  “No, I never got a look at whoever killed Shirley,” she was saying. “Like I told the deputies, I walked out the door for a cigarette and saw . . . saw Shirley lying there on the ground.” She dropped her face into her hands and began sobbing softly.

  “I’m sorry to be asking you these questions, Ellen,” I said. “But Shirley was a good friend of mine, too. And I think I owe it to her to help the authorities find her killer.”

  Ellen stopped crying and looked up at me. “What about that colored soldier?”

  “Corporal Cummins? He didn’t do it.”

  “But the sheriff . . .”

  “Cummins was picked up walking blocks away. If he were the killer he’d have had blood all over him. But he was clean.”

  “Then why . . .?”

  “He’s the only suspect they could find.”

  Ellen covered her face again with her hands. I realized my time with her was going to run out soon.

  “Ellen, did you notice any suspicious-looking characters in the tavern last night?”

  She shook her head without looking up. “Just the usual crowd. You know: locals and soldiers. I knew most of them; by sight, at least.”

  Ellen uncovered her face and looked up at me again. “I don’t understand. You say that soldier didn’t kill Shirley.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then, who did?”

  “That’s what I’m going to find out.”

  38

  Wednesday, June 24

  “Your story’s not running, and that’s final.” Jack Crawford slammed the desk with his fist.

  “What do you mean it’s not running?” I stood in front of that desk, shouting just as loudly. I couldn’t believe it. A first-rate story about the mayor running illegal booze across the border during Prohibition had to be the Scoop of the Century in this little burg. And the managing editor was apparently too cautious to run it.

  “You won’t let me write a legitimate story about a murder or riot. Then, instead of writing some mundane pap about flowers, I bring you a story with some substance and you don’t know what to do with it.”

  “Oh, I know what to do with it,” Crawford said. “I’m tossing it in the wastebasket.”

  “What’s the matter? Too controversial?”

  “No . . .”

  “Isn’t controversy what news is all about?”

  “News is all about what’s happening.”

  “Sure. And up here that means garden club meetings, ship passages and who’s engaged to whom.”

  “If that’s what’s happening, that’s what we write. We report the news, we don’t manufacture it.”

  “And you think I manufactured this story? Maybe G.P. will see things differently.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Well let’s see about that.” I started for the door that separated his office from Crawford’s. It was closed but I didn’t let that bother me, flinging it open without knocking, a big mistake. G.P. had just hung up the phone. He stood as I approached his desk, and I could tell by the look on his face he wasn’t used to reporters barging into his office.

  “Yes, Kate, what is it?”

  I took that as an invitation to lay out the whole story, rehashing the argument Crawford and I had just been through. I could hear Crawford’s footsteps as he entered the office and I could feel him stop just behind me. When I finished, G.P. just stood there shaking his head.

  “So you really want me to run this story?” G.P. asked.

  “Damn right I do.”

  “And which sources have you contacted to verify the facts? I mean, other than Mrs. Brinkwater.”

  “I tried Mayor Swenson, but he wouldn’t talk to me.”

  “That was him on the phone just now.”

  “Trying to spike the story, I suppose.”

  “Yes, he was. But not for reasons you’re thinking.”

  I decided to keep my mouth shut and let G.P. explain. It turned out to be one of the smartest things I’ve ever done.

  “Viola Brinkwater is known for her green thumb,” G.P. said. “But her touch on reality leaves something to be desired.”

  “You’re saying her husband Michael didn’t run illegal whiskey across the border with Roland Swenson during Prohibition?”

  “Not exactly. Michael ran illegal whiskey across the border with Roland Swenson, Sr.; everyone knew that. Hell, illegal booze helped get Swenson elected.

  “But Roland Swenson, Jr., our current mayor, wasn
’t even in town back then.”

  “You mean . . .?”

  “Our current mayor is the son of the man who ran whiskey. He was away at college and serving in the military during most of Prohibition.”

  So the old bat was nutty. I stood there, my mouth open, as G.P. went on. “Viola Brinkwater’s husband back then, during Prohibition, was Alden Mathews, her second.”

  G.P. sat down behind his desk. “I’ve known Viola Brinkwater for years, Kate. She never could keep her husbands straight.”

  Damn!

  39

  “Kate, I need you back in Detroit.”

  It was Wells Mayburn’s voice. His call reached me at my desk where I was still stinging from my conversations with G.P. and Crawford.

  “It’s the third day of rioting in the city, and things seem to have quieted down somewhat,” Wells said. “But what happens next is anybody’s guess. You could cut the tension in the air with a knife. So far more than 700 people have been injured. A lot of them badly enough that they’re still in the hospital.”

  Despite my run-in with Crawford, and the temptation to tell him to go to hell and take my job with him, I had to stay. Shirley Benoit was dead, and the authorities had the wrong man in jail.

  “I can’t leave the Soo, Wells. My best friend has been murdered, and I can’t go anywhere without knowing who killed her.”

  “I heard about a murder up there, Kate, but I didn’t know the victim was a friend. I’m sorry. But they’ve made an arrest.”

  “Yeah, a false arrest. I’m certain the man they’ve locked up didn’t do it.”

  “I’ve never doubted your instincts, Kate. But are you sure you won’t reconsider?”

  “Sorry, Wells.”

  “At least tell me you’ll think about it, Kate. We’re undermanned here. We could really use you.”

  I couldn’t let him get away with that. “Just because you’re undermanned, huh?”

  “You know what I mean, Kate. You’re my best investigative reporter. I want to get to the bottom of these riots. Find out how they started.”