by P. J. Conn
"Thanks, Henry."
* * *
Joe drove down Wilshire Blvd. to the address Joel Sloan had given them. From what he could see of the construction project, it would be a five-story building with lots of glass. He kept his distance from the men working, walked the perimeter of the site, and sure enough, he found a pile of old bricks heaped by the outdoor chemical toilets. He picked up one, but before he could hide it under his jacket, the burly foreman shouted at him.
"Hey, what are you doing there?" he called.
Joe was blessed with a fluent supply of believable prevarications and chose one. "Good morning. My wife makes doorstops by covering bricks with felt she embroiders so they look like cute little cottages. I thought you were throwing these away, and picked up one for her. I'll give you fifty cents for it."
"Doorstops? Take it and get out of here, and don't come back."
"Yes, sir, I'll do that." He carried the brick to his car and headed for Monrovia, a suburb nestled against the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains.
Chapter 12
Joe drove to Mrs. McDowd's home and found a cute yellow cottage with a white picket fence and a colorful flower garden out front. A woman wearing a cotton housedress, straw hat, and garden gloves stood on a path curving through the flowers. She held a watering can, and appeared to be speaking to her favorite plants.
Joe hadn't called first to avoid giving her the opportunity to refuse to meet with him, and he had a story prepared. "Good morning, are you Mrs. McDowd?"
She was a plump little woman with a bright smile. "I most certainly am. What do you hope to sell me?"
He waited by the gate. "Not a thing. I'm Joe Ezell, a private investigator, and I'm looking for Bertha Lloyd. I believe she worked with Dr. McDowd, and the family has lost touch with her. Do you happen to know where she might be?"
"I sure do, Forest Lawn. How can her family not know she's dead?"
"Some families aren't as close as others. You have a beautiful garden. My mother was also fond of zinnias."
"Right cheerful flowers, aren't they?" she replied. "Although I love my pots of pansies in the spring. If you're not in a rush, why don't you come up on the porch and sit with me for a spell?"
"I'd be happy to, Mrs. McDowd." Joe flipped the latch on the gate and followed her to the wicker chairs on the porch. He waited for her to take the rocking chair, and then sat down beside her. He pulled his notebook and pen from his pocket.
"I have another couple of questions about Bertha Lloyd, do you mind?"
"Not at all, although I didn't know her well."
"Thank you. She signed Phillip Fitzgerald's birth certificate on November 11, 1911."
She removed her hat to fan herself and revealed a head of thick, white curls. "That was a long time ago."
"Thirty-six years to be exact," Joe replied. "Another of Dr. McDowd's patients had a set of twins that same night. Ida Sparks was the midwife."
"I know Ida quite well," Mrs. McDowd interjected. "My husband always spoke very highly of her."
"That's wonderful. The twins were separated at birth, and just discovered each other recently. I'm helping them learn the truth about their birth. Do any of Dr. McDowd's records still exist?"
"His file cabinets are out in the garage. I haven't gotten rid of them and should. Do you want to take a look at them?"
He was tempted to kiss her, but restrained himself. "I'm only interested in November of 1911, so it shouldn't take me long."
"Take as long as you like. No one else is in any hurry to read them." She led him down a path beside the house to a small narrow garage built when the Model T Ford was popular.
Joe pulled open the double doors and sunlight streamed in to reveal a row of pale green file cabinets placed along a side wall. Boxes labeled holiday decorations were stacked on top.
"I've been meaning to sort the decorations and give most away. I'm just not as enthusiastic as I once was about dressing up the house for Christmas. You don't need me standing here looking over your shoulder, so I'll go back out front and finish watering."
"Thank you, Mrs. McDowd."
"You're welcome, son. If you find anything pertinent to what you're seeking, feel free to take it with you. It will save me the trouble of throwing it out."
"I will." Joe waited for her to walk away before he bent down to read the faded labels on the file cabinet drawers. Patient records were organized in alphabetical order, with the Cs one cabinet over. He found Lillian Cooper's and took it out into the sunlight to read. She'd visited Dr. McDowd several times during her pregnancy, but the doctor's handwriting was small and difficult to read. The birth of male twins was noted for November 11, 1911, with the comment only one boy had survived the birth. Ida Sparks was listed as the midwife.
That was definitely untrue, as Fred's aunt Ida had to know. He searched for the Fitzgerald family next. Pearl Fitzgerald had visited the doctor in August for a sore throat, with no mention of a pregnancy, and yet she became the mother of a son on November 11, 1911. Bertha Lloyd's name as the midwife had been added later in blue ink.
Joe carried the two files out to the front yard to speak with Mrs. McDowd. "Did your husband handle adoptions?"
She set the watering can on the porch before she answered. "A time or two he might have, but it wasn't a regular part of his practice. Girls from around here who find themselves in a family way usually go to live with a relative out of state, so no one here would ever learn they had a baby. Those babies would have been adopted there rather than here."
"I understand. Thank you again for your help."
"You're welcome. Please tell Bertha's family I'm sorry for their loss."
"Sure will." He waved and got into his car. Fees collected weren't given in the patient records, but if Dr. McDowd had been paid for handing Phillip to the Fitzgeralds, there wouldn't be any record of it anyway.
* * *
On the way to his office, Joe stopped by Fred Cooper's barbershop. Glaziers were already installing a new plate glass window, and he walked around them to enter. The shop wasn't open while repairs were underway, and Fred sat at his desk at the end of the room working on his books.
Joe carried the brick to him. "Does this look like the one that came flying through your window?"
The barber turned it over in his hands. "Exactly. See the streak of white paint? Something must have been painted on them, and they might match up."
"Probably not. It was a big pile of bricks," Joe countered.
"All right, I'll drop it, but Phillip doesn't have to know. While I'm tempted to throw this through his firm's front window, I'm a better man than that. Can you come up with a way to let him know I'm on to him?"
Joe pulled up a chair. "I could just walk in and lay it on his desk. He'd think it was the one that broke your window, and immediately deny anything to do with it. While I'm there, I could show him Percival McDowd's records." He spread them out on Fred's desk.
Fred scanned them quickly. "Childbirth isn't easy on a woman. Do you suppose my mother was so exhausted by labor that she believed McDowd when he told her only one twin had survived?"
"Did she ever mention you'd had a twin?"
"Never. I'll call my sisters and ask if she ever mention twins to them."
Joe walked away to watch the installation of the new window while Fred made the calls. It didn't take long before the barber joined him up front.
"They never heard I was a twin either. Would Phillip's parents speak to you?"
"Florence, his wife, didn't believe so. First, I want to see Phillip's face when I deliver the brick. I can easily imagine the smoke spewing from his ears."
Fred laughed with him. "So can I. Between us, I believe I'm the luckier man."
"So do I," Joe agreed.
* * *
After dinner that night, Joe took Mary Margaret to Aunt Lucy's Ice Cream Parlor. She listened to Joe's discoveries and nodded thoughtfully. "The doctor's wife didn't strike you as someone who could have been i
nvolved in selling black market babies?"
"Not at all. She's the straightforward type. It's more likely Phillip's father, who is an attorney, planned and arranged the adoption."
She savored a particularly delicious taste of chocolate ice cream before she spoke. "With the doctor's involvement, of course. What if the attorney didn't stop with finding a son for himself? What if he made it known he'd welcome an infant whose mother had died in childbirth, or whose mother was unwed? He could have had a lucrative adoption practice."
"Yes, he could have handled such adoptions, but Dr. McDowd apparently told Mrs. Cooper that one of her twins had died. That's not just wrong, it's evil."
"I agree, but what if she was in on it? Maybe she couldn't handle the thought of raising two babies, and the doctor promised to find a good home for one, perhaps the smaller child?"
"Phillip's wife mentioned he had a heart murmur." He paused to take a long sip of his milkshake. "I need to speak with Fred's aunt Ida again. What sort of incentive can I use to inspire her to talk?"
"Other than Aunt Lucy's ice cream? Maybe if she thought Phillip wanted to meet his mother, she'd tell you why it isn't a good idea."
He reached for her hand. "That's inspired. I'll try it."
"That's one of the things I love about you. You're always willing to try something new."
"Let's wait until we've left Aunt Lucy's to begin, shall we?"
She blew him a kiss.
* * *
Wednesday morning, Joe gave Phillip time to stop by the construction site and reach his office before he arrived at Fitzgerald, Finegold, and Sloan. He carried the brick he'd picked up in a shoebox as well as Dr. McDowd's records tucked under his arm. The receptionist recognized him, and looking for Fred, shot a fearful glance behind him.
"I'm by myself today. Is Phillip in?"
"He is, but he won't want to see you."
"I'm sure he'd rather see me than the police." Joe went by her down the hall and found Phillip in his office at his drawing board. "Before you start yelling at the receptionist, I forced my way by her." He placed the shoebox on the drafting table. "Fred sent you something."
"I don't need any shoes," Phillip replied. "Get out of here."
"Better open the box," Joe urged, his manner friendly rather than threatening.
Phillip yanked it open, and then stared at Joe. "What's this supposed to mean?"
"It's the brick you threw through Fred's shop window, and it's a perfect match for the bricks piled at your construction site. We could probably fit them all back together and discover where this one used to be. The police asked for a name of someone who might have caused the vandalism, but Fred didn't give them yours. Frankly, I believe he's too embarrassed to report his brother would resort to such juvenile behavior."
The architect looked ready to choke. "What's he want?"
"Nothing for his silence, but if there's any further trouble, he'll report you. Now on a lighter note, I have Dr. McDowd's records for Fred's mother and yours."
He waited for Phillip to absorb the additional distressing news. "Mrs. Cooper had several prenatal visits with the doctor, and had twins on November 11, 1911. Sadly, the doctor told her only one of the little boys survived. That same evening, your mother apparently also gave birth to a boy, without the benefit of any prenatal visits. The name of a midwife, Bertha Lloyd, was added to the record later."
Joe opened the folders so Phillip could read them, but he kept a tight hold on them so the architect couldn't rip them to shreds when he was through. "It's interesting that Pearl Fitzgerald saw Dr. McDowd in August for a sore throat. There's no mention of a pregnancy, undoubtedly because she wasn't pregnant. I'll be happy to go with you to talk with your parents if you like. They really should have told you about the adoption, if we can call it that, long before this."
When Phillip continued to regard him with a malevolent stare, Joe took another tack. "Fred closely resembles his fraternal grandfather and uncle. Do you look like any of the Fitzgerald family?"
"No," Phillip reluctantly conceded.
"I'd really like to ask your parents about November 11, 1911, and how your family came to have a baby boy Dr. McDowd had earlier declared dead."
"My parents are my parents," Phillip spit out through clenched teeth.
"Of course they are, they raised you, but there's a woman living in Pasadena who gave birth to you. Wouldn't you like to meet her?"
"Not particularly, no."
Joe closed the folders and shoved them under his arm. "Keep the brick as a token from your twin. You know how to contact me when you become so curious about your true parentage you can no longer hold it in."
He walked out of Phillip's office, wished the befuddled receptionist a good day, and drove to his office to decide how to proceed. He owed Fred a report, but before he could arrange a meeting, the telephone rang. It was former LAPD detective Henry Hilburn.
"Det. Lynch found the Thorntons."
"Where are they?" Joe asked, hoping they hadn't turned up as dead bodies in some nameless ravine.
"They're back home in Denver. Vince's father died suddenly." He shuffled his notes. "Looks like they got the word of his death early on Thursday, September 4th, and he and his wife grabbed everything and hightailed it for Colorado. Vince got a speeding ticket in Albuquerque on Saturday, September 6th, and that was the last day Cookie Crumble performed. So they're off the suspect list. Looks like they took Route 66 out of LA, followed it across Arizona to New Mexico and made a left turn to go north up Highway 25 to Denver."
Joe sat back in his chair. "Is there anything in your notes about what they did with their keys?"
"Nope, and I don't have a telephone number for them. Does it matter?"
"Possibly. If they were in such a great hurry, they might have left the door unlocked and forgotten to leave the keys. Whatever they did, they were too far away to harm Cookie. Thanks, Henry. I'll stop by to talk with you soon."
He ended the call, hung his bulletin board on the wall, and removed the Thorntons' card to make a note they were in Denver. He could understand how a sudden death would make notifying a landlord slide, but at least they were accounted for, and it solved a part of the puzzle. He'd still like to know where Vince Thornton and his wife had worked, if only to tie up loose ends.
He called Leon Helms with the news. "My source tells me the Thorntons returned to Colorado before Alice Reyes died."
Leon sighed unhappily. "That's not good for us, is it?"
"It removes them as possible suspects, but there are still plenty of others who could be involved in her death."
"What did they do with their keys?" he asked.
"My source didn't know, but we'll keep asking until we find them. The missing keys could have fallen into anyone's hands. You can be sure Gladys will use the keys to every advantage."
"I sure hope so," Leon replied. "Let me know if you learn anything more."
Joe promised, and placed a call to Gladys Swartz. He gave her the news about the Thorntons.
She listened as he described his source as a knowledgeable former LAPD detective. "So you trust his information to be accurate?" she asked.
"I do. Now we need to find the keys, and identify who used them."
"Wasn't the apartment where Cookie was found unlocked? If the murderer had had the keys, wouldn't he have locked the door so her body wouldn't have been found?"
"Yes, unless he wanted her to be discovered," Joe suggested.
"Interesting thought. Keep in touch, and let me know if you find anything more related to Stuart's case."
"I will." He pulled a 3x5 card from his top drawer to list reasons the murderer could have had for wanting Cookie's body to be found. Almost immediately it occurred to him the murderer must have had a believable alibi for the time of her death, and wanted to shift the blame to someone who didn't. It was clever, but impossibly evil in its intent.
* * *
There was still plenty of time left in the day for a tr
ip to Pasadena to chat with Aunt Ida. He'd paid close attention as Fred had driven there last week and had written her address in his notebook. He rehearsed what he wanted to say as he drove the curving Arroyo Seco in the midday traffic.
Ida Sparks answered his knock at the door, appeared puzzled momentarily, and then remembered him. "You're Fred's friend," she murmured without enthusiasm.
"Yes, I am, and if you have a minute, I'd like to speak with you." He kept Dr. McDowd's records clasped in his hand.
She glanced over her shoulder to make certain Lillian wasn't calling for her, and then stepped out on the porch. "A minute is all I have. Make it quick."
"As you know, Fred has recently discovered he has a twin. His brother, Phillip Fitzgerald, hopes to meet their mother. He loves the couple who raised him, but he'd still like to see his mother, if only once. Could you arrange it?"
"Lordy," she whispered under her breath. "My sister isn't certain who Fred is, and she's too forgetful to have an enjoyable visit with Phillip or anyone else. She was a proud woman, and wouldn't want anyone to see her now that a stroke has taken away so much of who she was."
"I understand, but Phillip would drop by to say hello, and leave promptly. He wouldn't tire her."
"You don't take no for an answer, do you?"
"It's considered a fine trait for a detective," he responded with an easy smile. "What Fred and Phillip really want to know, is how they came to be separated soon after they were born." He opened Lillian's folder. "Dr. McDowd wrote that your sister had given birth to twins, but only one survived. You were there. What really happened?"
Ida looked away. "It was nearly forty years ago, and it's best left forgotten."
"It might be the easiest course, but Fred and Phillip deserve to know the truth."
Pressed to explain, her gaze turned scorching. Her voice dropped to a breathless whisper, "I'll tell you if you promise to go away and leave my sister in peace. Do you understand me? You come here again, and I won't open the door."
"Fair enough." There were chairs on the front porch, but she didn't even glance toward them, let alone invite him to sit.