The Big Brush-off

by Michael Murphy

  “And I have a rehearsal to attend.” She sorted through her closet.

  As I rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter, Laura carried the clothes to the bathroom and stepped into the shower. When she finished, I’d completed two pages.

  She grabbed a broad-brimmed hat and straightened it on her head just so, then checked her look in the mirror. “When you finish, why don’t you meet me at the high school?”

  “It’s a date.”

  After she left, the scene flowed and I started another. Blackie dodged a bullet, literally, escaped in a car he “borrowed” from a mobster, and made it to his office, where someone knocked him out cold.

  The chapter flowed even better than I’d hoped. The mystery might be the most dangerous case he’d ever worked. He faced a handful of suspects but, unlike with Katie Caldwell’s murder, I knew who killed the one-armed bartender.

  When I finished, I typed a brief letter to Mildred, summarizing the overall plot of the novel. I avoided lauding my work. Only Mildred’s opinion mattered.

  I placed the new chapter with the others on the desk then paced the room. Once the chapters were in the mail, my career was in the hands of a diminutive woman in New York. What I needed was a reader’s opinion, someone I respected, a real straight shooter.

  I carried the chapters downstairs.

  Freddy looked up from a comic book he was reading as the radio played an episode of The Lone Ranger. “Nice shirt, Mr. Donovan. Not everyone can wear purple.” He snapped off the radio. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Where’s your father?”

  He thumbed toward the back of the inn. “He went home to crunch some numbers and clean the place.”

  I went outside and made my way to the Conrad house. With butterflies crawling in my gut, I opened the screen door and knocked. “Edwin, it’s Jake.”

  “Come in.”

  I stepped inside. The room smelled of lemon oil and polished wooden floors and tables. Doilies sat on both arms of a flower-patterned couch.

  To my left was an open door, revealing a wall covered with photos of Fred Astaire, Clark Gable, Fay Wray, and William Powell. A stack of movie magazines lay scattered on the floor—Ginger’s room.

  Edwin came out of the kitchen munching on a sandwich. “Can I get you something to eat?”

  “I know how busy you are.” I held up the chapters. “I’m looking for a reader’s opinion of the chapters I’ve written since I checked in.”

  He grasped his chest. “Me?”

  “Have you really read all my other Blackie Doyle novels?”

  He finished the sandwich, dusted off his hands, and walked to a corner bookcase. He pulled out four books. “Every one.”

  “If you have time, would you read what I’ve written and let me know what you think?”

  “Would I? It would be an honor.”

  “I need an honest opinion. If something doesn’t work, or you have any suggestions, jot them down.” I handed him the pages.

  He dropped onto the couch and set the pages on the coffee table. “I’ve got time now, that is, if Freddy’s behind the counter. Did you see him?”

  “He’s at the front desk.”

  “Good.” He grabbed the first chapter and eased back onto the cushions. “If you don’t mind me saying so, I don’t know how you do it, Mr. Donovan.”

  “Do what?”

  “You write novels, travel from coast to coast, and according to the gossip columnists, you’ve gotten into a couple of scrapes. All this and you’re married to a gorgeous dish who has her own demanding career. How do you manage?”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you the same.”

  “Me?”

  “You’ve raised two kids and have kept the inn afloat in a small town during a deep depression. And look at your house, it’s spotless, and I doubt that’s because of Freddy or Ginger. How do you manage all that?”

  A smile crept across the man’s face. “Well, if you put it like that.”

  I thanked him and went outside.

  Freddy wasn’t behind the counter. He was throwing a baseball against the back of the inn and scooping it up with his glove.

  “Shouldn’t you be behind the counter?” I held up my hand and he threw the ball to me. I fired it back. The ball thumped into his first-baseman’s mitt.

  “Swell throw. You play ball when you were younger?” He tossed it to me.

  “High school. Pitcher.” I threw it back, and again the ball thumped into his mitt.

  “Figures. You’ve got a great arm. Wait a second.” He sprinted around the back of his house and returned with a baseball glove. He tossed it to me then retreated to his spot alongside the inn.

  The glove was a little snug, but functional. I pushed my sleeves to my elbows. We played catch between the inn and the Conrad house, talking mostly about growing up in Hanover.

  I managed to drop in a few questions about the teacher, the priest, and the boyfriend. The biggest surprise was learning Alan had become the town’s ladies’ man, dating most of the single girls in their twenties and a few married ones as well.

  Freddy and his friends disliked Principal Hanson, but then they were boys and Hanson was the principal. Freddy had heard rumors about Hanson and students when he taught English and drama, but Hanson had apparently settled down after marrying the rich, good-looking widow.

  Freddy used to be an altar boy when he was younger. Father Ryan knew scripture, but he also told some scary ghost stories, let the choir sing the latest hits in rehearsal, and occasionally sneaked a cigarette.

  I checked my watch. We’d been playing catch for a half hour. Sweat dripped down my face, and my arm was getting sore. I rotated my throwing arm a couple of times. It felt like it weighed twice as much as the other arm.

  When a ding came from the inn, Freddy sprinted toward the back door and went inside.

  I rubbed sweat from my brow with the back of my right hand and winced as a knifelike pain stabbed my shoulder.

  The screen door banged open on the Conrad house. Edwin came out with my chapters, wearing a grin the size of Manhattan. “Jake, this is your best yet. Your second novel, Blackie Returns, was even better than the first, but readers are going to love this one. It’s got a car chase, fancy dames…”

  He paused, staring at the baseball glove in my hand. “You’ve been playing ball with Freddy when he should have been behind the counter.”

  “I’m sorry. It was my fault.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Freddy came through the back door of the inn and fired the ball to me.

  I snagged it with the glove.

  Halfway to us, he spotted his old man and skidded to a stop.

  Edwin’s face reddened. “Freddy…”

  “Sorry, Pop. Things were slow and I needed a break. Besides, I heard the bell and waited on that new couple who checked in last night. They just wanted to know when Ginger would come back and open the dining room.”

  “You offered to fix them sandwiches, right?”

  “Ah…oh, sure, Pop, but they decided to take a walk instead.”

  Edwin’s eyes narrowed, and he pointed to the inn.

  I tossed the glove and ball to Freddy, and he ran inside the inn.

  Edwin shook his head. “Where was I? The last chapter ends at the point some novels kind of drag, but when I finished, I was really disappointed there wasn’t another. I’m not sure which of the four suspects was the killer…maybe none of them. In short, I loved it and can’t wait to see the book in print.”

  Was Edwin a typical reader? “You’re not just saying that?”

  He shook his head emphatically. “It was a pleasure. I can’t wait for it to come out, so I can watch it jump to the top of the bestseller list.”

  We headed to the inn and went inside. He stopped beside his office, and I shook his hand. “You’re a good man.”

  In the past two days, I’d grown to know Edwin and respect him even more. I walked down the short hallway and stopped when I reached
Freddy, who’d regained his perch on the stool behind the counter. I ran my hand over my chin. Something Edwin said about my chapters was forcing its way through my cluttered brain.

  “You want to play more ball later, Mr. Donovan?”

  Without answering, I turned and headed back to Edwin’s office. I stood in the doorway.

  Edwin looked up from a well-organized cluttered desk. “You forget something?”

  I went inside and closed the door. “You were here when Katie Caldwell was murdered. Everyone in town respects you.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “When I left Hanover ten years ago, there were three suspects—Katie’s teacher, Father Ryan, and Alan Tremain. Since I arrived, I’ve learned about another suspect.”

  He smirked. “Sheriff Bishop? You don’t believe that, do you?”

  “I’m not ready to exclude any possibility.”

  Edwin’s eyes brightened. “You’re not just here to write. You’re here to find Katie’s killer, aren’t you?”

  I could trust Edwin. I answered with a grin.

  He lowered his voice. “Are you asking who I think killed her?”

  I nodded. “If you don’t feel comfortable sharing your opinion, I’ll understand.”

  “No, it’s not that, Jake. I’ve listened to whispers in this town for ten years and suspected those you mentioned from time to time. Now I don’t think the killer is any of them.” He took a deep breath. “If you ask me, the person who murdered Katie Caldwell is someone the cops never suspected.”

  Chapter 23

  Princess Teleka

  Just when I thought I could winnow the herd and find the killer among George Hanson, Father Ryan, Alan Tremain, and the latest suspect, Sheriff Bishop, Edwin had to go and plant the seed that, like in my new novel, Katie’s murder wasn’t committed by any of the likely suspects.

  Before focusing on my next move, I bundled the chapters, with Edwin’s help, and addressed the package to Mildred. I hopped into the Ford, made it to the post office minutes before five, and sent the chapters airmail. With any luck, the beginning of the new Blackie Doyle novel would be in Mildred’s hands by the end of the week.

  As I drove from the post office, I focused on Katie’s murder. As much as I disliked George Hanson, he didn’t look like he had enough guts to kill someone. Father Ryan, with all his faults, was a lot of things, but a murderer? I didn’t think so.

  I liked Alan Tremain enough to feel sorry for him. I still couldn’t understand why he’d stayed in Hanover. His uncle Sam might have lied about Alan’s whereabouts on Founder’s Day, but what about Luke Jackson? Why would he lie?

  —

  I reached the high school and set aside my review of the evidence. As I climbed out of the car, a stabbing pain shot through my throwing shoulder.

  I rotated my arm, soothing the pain a little. I climbed the steps and wandered through the halls until I heard voices. The door to the auditorium was open.

  I hadn’t been in a high-school auditorium since I graduated. Before that, it was the Tom Sawyer play, where I was hoping to attract Laura’s attention, but she seemed much more committed to her role as Becky Thatcher than to me.

  The Hanover High auditorium was smaller than our old school’s but possessed the same smell of furniture polish. I stood behind the back row and watched from the shadows.

  On the stage, Ginger was listening to advice Laura was conveying while George Hanson sat in the front row jotting something into a book, barely paying attention, while a dark-haired woman, maybe thirty, paced the stage; Hanson’s wife, no doubt. Freddy had mischaracterized her. She wasn’t what I considered a looker.

  Like Laura, she was tall, but had narrow eyes and a beak where her nose should have been. A tight blue suit showed off a nice set of gams and a shapely caboose, but her voice was as smooth and comforting as a cue ball making a break.

  I took a seat in the back row and leaned forward, with my elbows on my knees. Now that I could focus on Katie’s murder, more suspects existed than when we arrived in Hanover. I was further from solving the case than ever. I felt about as optimistic as a sailor shipwrecked with a handful of spinster librarians.

  Onstage, Ginger stepped forward. In a confident voice, she delivered a passable soliloquy as Princess Teleka, pleading to her unseen father and fellow members of the tribe to spare the life of a young man they’d captured.

  She delivered her lines with passion. The girl was talented, but I couldn’t picture her on Broadway or in Hollywood. Unlike Laura, she had an old man who loved her, not one who slapped her around, but that pain drove Laura’s desire to succeed. Ginger didn’t possess that drive, thankfully.

  In spite of Ginger wanting a ticket out of Hanover, I’d wager she’d marry a nice-looking fella who’d come to work for her old man. They’d find a small house in Hanover, have a couple of kids, and argue about Ginger spending what little dough her husband brought home. It sounded bleak, except she’d be better off than most people these days.

  As Ginger continued, I began to picture Katie giving the same speech ten years earlier. Princess Teleka implored members of the tribe and settlers to commit to a future of peace and love. Hours after delivering her lines, Katie’s future was snuffed out by someone still unknown.

  I stepped into the hallway and paced, my shoes echoing on the tile in the empty hall. With each step I grew more determined than ever to unmask the person responsible for Katie’s death. I couldn’t care less that most of the town didn’t want the killer unmasked. I owed Mary Caldwell. I needed to find the murderer for my own peace of mind, but most of all I wanted Katie to finally rest in peace.

  The squeak of wheels came from around the corner. A janitor carrying a broom over one shoulder approached, pushing a cart with a trash can on it. He wore denim trousers and a blue work shirt. He unlocked a closet, pushed the cart inside, and set the broom in the trash can. As he locked the door, I noticed the name Luke on his shirt.

  “Luke Jackson?”

  He rubbed his chin. “That’s right.”

  “You went to school with Katie Caldwell.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “You were with Alan Tremain the night she was murdered.”

  A nod.

  He wasn’t going to give up information on his own, so I took a shot. “I heard you were sweet on her.”

  His lip curled in disgust. “I don’t know who you are, but you heard wrong. I didn’t like Katie, and she didn’t like me.” Before I could ask another question, he turned and hurried down the stairs.

  I went to the window and watched him pull a bicycle from the rack and pedal off.

  I didn’t know what to make of the janitor. He’d confirmed Alan’s alibi, but something didn’t seem right about the guy. I went back inside the auditorium as Ginger finished. I applauded and made my way to the stage. George Hanson snapped his book closed, a ledger, then rose and shook my hand like we were old friends. He followed me to the end of the stage and climbed the steps.

  I went on the stage and kissed Laura then hugged Ginger, surprising the girl. “Congratulations, Ginger, you were marvelous.”

  The girl blushed. “Do you really think so?”

  Laura gave her a hug. “You’ll be wonderful Saturday.”

  One hand flew to the girl’s mouth. “Yikes, that’s only two days!”

  “You can do better.” Hanson’s wife had as much compassion in her voice as a bowl of cement. “Let’s go over your speech one more time, dear.”

  Ginger glanced at her watch, and her eyes widened. “I’m late. I have to open the dining room. Pop will be furious.” She gathered her purse and dashed down the steps.

  Hanson’s wife shook her head. “The girl should be more committed if she wants a future in the theater.”

  What did she know about working in the theater?

  Hanson introduced his wife, Evelyn. Up close she looked more than ten years younger than her husband, no surprise.

  She didn’t dress
like a schoolteacher. Her expensive blue suit had at least a dozen gold buttons on the skirt and a dozen more on the jacket. If Laura wore something with that many buttons, I might give up before I had the package unwrapped.

  The woman’s beady eyes reminded me of Miss Hawkins, my fifth-grade teacher who used to rap my knuckles with a ruler for no good reason. I tried not to hold that against her.

  She slapped a smile on her face. “I remember you from ten years ago, Mr. Donovan. I’d just started teaching then. Now I’m one of the old-timers.”

  I shook her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, old-timer. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “The pleasure is all mine.”

  Laura had spent most of the afternoon with the woman. I couldn’t wait to hear her impression.

  She looked like a woman with all the answers, but I doubted if she even knew the questions.

  Someone else was onstage. Over the woman’s shoulder, I noticed a comely woman in her mid-twenties seated on a chair at the back of the stage sewing a princess costume. With a tight bun and glasses, she wasn’t unattractive.

  The seamstress rose and held the costume up to Laura’s shoulders. My wife laughed and whispered something to the woman, who smiled and returned to the chair. Laura had found a friend.

  I might’ve seen her around town; then again, I might not have. She was the type of person one could walk by every day on the way to pick up a paper and never notice. She appeared comfortable not being noticed.

  I didn’t care. “Hello.”

  She looked up from her sewing and nodded but said nothing.

  Laura nodded toward the woman. “That’s Nancy Oldfield. She’s the stage manager.”

  Evelyn smiled. “She’s the hardest-working volunteer we have, aren’t you, dear?”

  Nancy managed a smile and continued to sew.

  Hanson nodded. “She’s volunteered since high school.”

  The interaction between George and Evelyn Hanson might have kept me entertained for hours. He was the pageant’s director in name only. He appeared more interested in his ledger than his wife or anything onstage. I didn’t begrudge his business interests, but he liked to portray himself as a man still interested in education. I wanted to shake things up and see how he reacted.