“I thought I’d probably have uncovered a romantic relationship between Katie and Mr. Hanson if I’d had more time in Hanover.” Except for a book of poetry, there was no actual evidence of an inappropriate relationship, just rumors and speculation one would expect in a small town.
The truth of the matter was I detested the man the moment I met him. Maybe back then I wanted him to be guilty. Now it seemed possible I might have let my feelings cloud my judgment.
“Mary told me Katie liked George Hanson as a teacher. He loaned her books of poetry and gave her one for her birthday. And he encouraged her to try out for the role of the princess at Founder’s Day, but sometimes he made her feel uncomfortable.”
“If you get a chance to meet him, you’ll probably feel the same.”
“I borrowed one more thing.” She removed a yellowed booklet from her purse and handed it to me.
The pamphlet was labeled FOUNDER’S DAY, SATURDAY, JUNE 27, 1925. It listed the events, concluding with the Founder’s Day Reenactment. The performance was directed by George Hanson. Until now, I hadn’t known her teacher directed her in the Founder’s Day event. Princess Teleka, Katie Caldwell. “She was so proud, thanks to Mr. Hanson. The same role Ginger has this Saturday.”
Laura nodded. “Mary described how proud Katie was at being selected for the role of Princess Teleka. She did a fabulous job too. Then, for the first time, she blinked away tears as she told me about finding Katie dead the next morning.”
A smile crossed her face. “So, how did I do?”
“What about Father Ryan?”
She let out a low groan. “His name never came up! You really think a priest could’ve bashed a girl’s brains in?”
“I learned years ago not to exclude a suspect based on his occupation. Draw your own conclusion after you get to know him.”
Laura grabbed my wrist and checked my watch. “Darling, it’s ten-thirty. You have a novel to write.”
“Time to go to work. Words don’t write themselves.” I’d lost my earlier enthusiasm for restarting my novel, and now I had Laura’s safety to worry about.
“Jake Donovan.”
I glanced over my shoulder. I couldn’t make out the man’s face, backlit by the bright morning sun, but a gun sat in a holster on his hip.
With a confident stride, the officer approached the table.
The first officer on the scene was now in his early thirties. He was just a kid ten years ago. Now he wore a sheriff’s badge. I rose and shook his hand. “Edgar Bishop.”
He wore a solemn expression. “We need to talk.”
Chapter 14
Tombstone
The officer removed his dark sunglasses, tipped his cap to Laura, and nodded to me. Edgar Bishop, the baby-faced deputy who was the first cop to arrive at the crime scene, had gained a few pounds of muscle since I last saw him. “Never expected to see you in Hanover again, Jake.”
“I never expected to come back.” I introduced him to Laura.
Laura turned the yearbook over and flashed her most charming smile.
With the pleasantries over, Bishop grew serious. “Got a few minutes?”
“Sure.” I liked Bishop; at least I did years ago. Of all the cops I met in Hanover, he was the most professional. He cared about solving Katie’s murder and didn’t seem to mind the presence of an outsider reviewing the lack of progress by his superiors.
He removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Excuse me, ma’am. Maybe Jake and I should chat alone.”
Laura’s eyes narrowed. “I’m Jake’s wife, and I have a right to hear what you have to say.”
“Suit yourself.” He sat across from her at the table.
I remained standing. “What’s up?”
“When I heard you’d returned I assumed you came to look into the Katie Caldwell case.”
“My husband is here to work on his novel.”
His eyes shifted between Laura and me, as if he wasn’t sure whom to address. “You’ve written other novels, and I don’t recall seeing you here except to investigate the Caldwell murder.”
What was he beating his gums about? “Does getting elected to office cause someone to avoid getting to the point?”
“I’m getting around to it.” Bishop drummed his fingers on the table. “It hasn’t been easy on Mary since you left. And the town’s gone through hell since the Depression hit. Businesses have closed and people lost their jobs, their pensions.”
I knew how it was. “I didn’t expect Hanover would be spared the effects of the country’s panic.”
Sheriff Bishop gazed toward the ducks gliding across the pond. “Ten years ago everyone had an opinion about who killed Katie Caldwell. Much of the speculation was unfair to innocent people.”
“You’re a cop. You know life isn’t fair.”
“Still, I wouldn’t want to see old wounds reopened.”
“What?” Maybe old wounds needed to be reopened to get at the truth.
Laura’s face reddened. “Sheriff, it sounds like you’re warning us about our behavior.”
“Miss Wilson, you and your husband might find people aren’t as friendly as Jake might remember them to be. If you’ve come back to look into Katie’s murder, people might not take kindly to your digging into the past.”
Laura flashed me a can-you-believe-this-guy look. “Especially the killer.”
I didn’t like the tone in the sheriff’s voice. “My editor suggested…insisted that I get away from the city. Hanover was close, quiet, and a place I could concentrate on my writing, something I was about to do before you dropped by.”
Bishop studied my face. “You went to see Mary Caldwell this morning.”
I nodded. “Mary and Father Ryan visited me in New York a couple of days ago. She asked if I’d look into the case. I told her no. If you don’t believe me, you might believe a priest. I didn’t want Mary, when she heard I was in town, to jump to the same conclusion you have, so I explained how things were.”
“Mary mustn’t have been too happy to hear your return had nothing to do with her daughter’s death.”
“She wasn’t. And she isn’t too pleased that your office has given up on her daughter’s murder.”
Bishop furrowed his brow. “We never closed the Caldwell murder.”
That didn’t mean it was active. “I’m glad to hear that.”
For a moment, none of us spoke.
“Guess I’d better let you get back to your writing.” He nodded toward the yearbook. “Enjoy your reading, Miss Wilson.”
Bishop’s attitude toward Katie’s murder had changed over the years, and I wasn’t sure why.
Now he was probably the last person I’d expect to get to the truth. It had to be more than the badge. “When I left, I thought you were the best chance of discovering Katie’s killer.”
Laura and I walked him to the front of the inn.
She didn’t like the guy and hadn’t tried to hide it. “Thanks for the warning, Sheriff.”
“I wasn’t warning you, Miss Wilson, or your husband.” Bishop straightened his hat. “I dropped by to warn you about the town’s attitude toward outsiders, Miss Wilson.” He slipped on his sunglasses. “I’ve never given up on finding Katie’s killer.”
Laura didn’t look convinced. “Mary Caldwell will be glad to hear that.”
Bishop stared at Laura for an uncomfortable second then climbed down the stairs, slipped into his patrol car, and drove away.
Laura watched him go. “What a despicable man.”
“He wasn’t always that way.”
She smiled. “Now that you’ve told Mary and the sheriff you’ve come to work on your novel, you might want to start.”
When we went inside and headed for the stairs, Edwin held up a slip of paper. “Miss Wilson, Miss Wilson.”
The owner hurried from behind the counter and handed her a phone message. “Another call from Hollywood. Paul again.”
Laura stuffed the message into her pocket. “He’s
such a nag.”
We climbed the stairs without speaking of the note. Inside our suite, Laura tossed the yearbook on the couch then grabbed my lapels and kissed me on the lips. She checked her look in the wall mirror. “You have a novel to write, and I’m going to stay out of your way. I think I’ll go shopping, maybe get my hair styled.”
“In Hanover?”
“Why not?”
“What about Paul?”
Laura flashed a look of irritation. “He can wait.” She went into the bedroom.
I was more than ready to focus on my writing. I closed my eyes and told myself to become Blackie Doyle, like Laura suggested. I took a deep breath, ready to begin the best damn Blackie Doyle novel yet.
In the bedroom, I retrieved my notebook and unzipped the cover to my Underwood. I reached for a pencil and knocked it into the trash can.
The trash can was empty, except for the pencil and a crumpled phone message. A single name was visible. Selznick. Selznick! David O. Selznick, the young Hollywood producer who made a star of Fay Wray in King Kong? There wasn’t a hotter filmmaker around. That was why her manager kept calling.
I stared at the message. If she wanted me to know its contents, she would have shared it with me.
Reading someone else’s phone message was like reading someone’s mail, something I’d done as a detective, but I’d never do to Laura. Still, curiosity won out. Feeling guilty, I picked up the message, smoothed the wrinkles, and held it in my hands.
The message from her manager, Paul Sawyer, asked Laura to call him as soon as possible. He’d scheduled a lunch Tuesday with Selznick, who wanted to discuss a movie he was producing, Tombstone. A Western. “Holy Toledo!”
I was so happy for Laura, I read the note a second time.
Laura stepped into the room in a simple yellow dress. “How do I look?”
Her eyes went to the message in my hand. “How could you!”
Laura hurried from the room, rushed into the corridor, and slammed the door behind her.
I felt like a real heel. I dropped the message and ran after her. I passed the old man who’d been sleeping in the lobby when we arrived as he poked his head out of his doorway.
I bounded down the stairs and caught up with her in the middle of the lobby. “Laura, I’m sorry.”
Laura spun and glared at me. “Sorry? Well, then, it’s okay to read other people’s messages.”
I’d never seen her so mad. Behind the counter, Edwin was waiting on a couple. All three were staring at us.
His daughter, Ginger, stared open-mouthed from the dining room as she wiped down a table.
“Darling.” I gently took her arm. “Let’s talk about this outside.”
She shook off my grip, marched to the front door, and went onto the deck.
I could feel eyes burrowing into the back of my neck as I followed her outside.
Laura stood at the end of the railing, with her back to me.
I stopped a respectable distance away. “I didn’t mean to snoop. I dropped a pencil into the trash can and noticed the message with the name Selznick on it.”
She faced me and folded her arms. “And the message just leaped into your hands. How can I trust you?”
“I saw the name and…Did you really expect me to ignore it?”
“Yes!” she shouted, then looked embarrassed as she saw Ginger and Freddy standing in the doorway.
They ducked back inside as Laura shot them a look I knew all too well.
She dropped into a chair at one of the tables and lowered her voice. “We just behaved like a typical Hollywood couple with such a public display.”
“It’s all my fault. I was wrong, I know it. I’ve never read your mail or messages before, and it’ll never happen again but, sweetheart, we need to talk about Selznick.”
Laura looked up and stared at me. “Don’t sweetheart me.”
I didn’t want my wife to make the same mistake I had when I put her career ahead of mine. “Opportunities like this don’t come along very often. Look how many actresses turned down the role of the heiress in It Happened One Night.” Myrna Loy, Margaret Sullavan, Constance Bennett, Loretta Young.
“I know, but…”
“At least call Paul.”
“I’ll call him, but I won’t go back to Hollywood until I know you’ve written something Mildred will love.”
“Fair enough. I’ll get started. You have time. The lunch is Tuesday.”
She let out a low growl. “What, did you memorize the entire message?”
“I read it twice.” I held out my hand.
She ignored the gesture. She stood and glanced toward the front door. “How can I face these people after we made such a public display?”
“You’re an actress.”
She shot me that look, then her face softened. She was still angry, but she took my arm and we went inside, where no one appeared to notice our presence.
In our suite, I grabbed the typewriter, notepad, and typing paper.
Laura picked up the phone. “You can stay and listen. The secret’s been discovered.”
“No, I have a novel to begin.” With my hands full, I left, kicking the suite door closed.
Chapter 15
I’m Not Blackie Doyle
The only way I could convince Laura to return to Hollywood was to produce three or four dynamite chapters in less than a week, something I hadn’t produced in the past year. I once wrote four chapters in twenty-four hours, but that was in the past, when I was holed up in my Tampa apartment living off coffee and beer.
Time was running out, and I had to get started.
I carried everything to the lobby, trying to not drop my Underwood.
When Edwin saw me struggle, he rushed from behind the counter and grabbed the typing paper before it fell.
“Thanks.”
We went outside and walked to the end of the deck.
When we reached the side deck, Ginger was smoking a cigarette at the table Laura and I had sat at earlier. I set the typewriter and paper beside her.
Her father’s face looked ready to explode. “I thought you were going to quit smoking. A nice girl like you shouldn’t smoke. Am I right, Mr. Donovan?”
I held up both hands. I wasn’t going to get involved in another public argument.
Ginger jumped to her feet and crushed the cigarette on the deck. “See why I want to blow this town?”
She stomped away, her red hair bouncing as she disappeared around the corner.
Edwin helped me set up the typewriter and paper without speaking. He pulled out the chair. His eyes began to tear. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.
I wasn’t the best guy to give advice on kids, but I admired the man. He raised two kids on his own and kept an inn going in a small town during the Depression. “Ginger’s still young. Young people make mistakes.”
“Mistakes? This isn’t Hollywood, Mr. Donovan. This is Hanover. Nice girls don’t smoke!” His eyes widened as he appeared to realize he’d just shouted at a guest. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right, really. You’ve done a terrific job of raising the kids on your own.”
“It’s not easy.” He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Can I get you some coffee?”
“Maybe later.” I sat and rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter.
“Of course, of course.” He backed away and disappeared around the corner.
I hit the return twice then centered the page and typed the two most important words I’d typed in more than a week, Chapter One. Again I closed my eyes, trying to become Blackie. I pictured the back alleys of New York, his office above the deli, his secretary typing…
“Excuse me, Mr. Donovan.”
Ginger stood beside the table. “Do you have a moment?”
I tried not to show my irritation. Maybe working outdoors wasn’t the best idea. “Of course.”
She sat and began to recite all her grievances against her father, then
threw in more about Freddy. She wrapped things up with how there was squat to do in town. When she finished, she stared at her fingers. “I don’t even have a boyfriend.”
“When I was young, my old man didn’t like the idea of me joining the army and going off to war. When I returned, we argued about everything, especially after I landed a job as a Pinkerton and the company transferred me to Baltimore.”
She let out an impatient moan. “Why are you telling me this?”
“My father and I never patched things up until the very end, after his stroke. Only then did I realize we argued because my sisters moved away and I was all he had. He died a few months later. Don’t make the same mistake I did and wait to talk until it’s too late.”
“But you did leave!” She ran her fingers through her red hair. “You think becoming an actress is silly, don’t you?”
“Absolutely not. If you remember anything I say, it’s this. People who don’t dream only exist from day to day. Never give up your dreams, Ginger. Never.”
Ginger’s eyes gleamed. “You think your wife was serious about helping me with my acting?”
“Of course.”
“Ginger!” Edwin’s voice called from the front of the inn.
“Thanks, Mr. Donovan.” She jumped to her feet and kissed my cheek. “Coming, Pop!”
I turned back to my typewriter. At the edge of the clearing, a doe grazed alongside two fawns. The mother resembled the one on the tavern wall in Queens. I forced myself back to the task at hand. When I flexed my fingers, the joints cracked and the deer bolted for the trees.
I hit the carriage return and focused on the novel’s opening line.
Laura came around the corner. “Paul sends his regards.”
“I’m sure he does.”
She sat across from me, our earlier spat forgotten, or at least set aside. “I explained how things were with you and your writing.”
Oh, good, now the man had further reason to resent me. “When do you leave?”
Laura shrugged. “That’s up to you.”
The Big Brush-off Page 10