A Negro and an Ofay (The Tales of Elliot Caprice Book 1)

by Danny Gardner

  “Come again?”

  “Did you recite it from a book or follow along with one of those records you send away for? Ya know, they keep stuff like that in prison libraries. For the personal betterment of inmates.”

  “Nigger, watch your mouth.”

  “Nigger, huh?” Elliot snickered. “What, they let you live in the coach house? You get to eat in the kitchen once the main course is served.”

  “You wear a suit to work, yet you smell of cheap liquor.”

  “That would be good liquor, poured by a white woman.”

  Sally opened the sliding doors. Chauncey stepped back.

  “Chauncey, would you please show Mr. Caprice to the recreation room?”

  The handyman was silent as he led Elliot through the silent labyrinth of wealth. Portraits of McAlpin family members lined the walls. Even pets were rendered for posterity, yet nothing of the newest Mrs. McAlpin.

  They arrived at the recreation room. Chauncey opened the large double doors. The first thing Elliot noticed was the rich wood paneling. A picture window draped in red velvet was background for two large red leather chairs arranged around an antique pedestal table. A matching large sofa sat along the far wall in front of a long sofa table. Handmade Turkish area rugs covered the hardwood floors. A stuffed head of an eighteen-point buck was mounted over the fireplace. Elliot would bet his balls the master didn’t have the stones to kill it himself. Maybe Chauncey did that for him too. A billiards table and a snooker table stood at opposite ends. Elliot wondered what the hell was the difference. Trophies for various accomplishments in rich people’s frivolity stood on Italian trestle tables. Elliot was discomfited in that setting—why show off the trappings of the rich to Mike Robin’s messenger? What was her gambit?

  “Wait here. Don’t steal anything.”

  “Please don’t mind Chauncey, Mr. Caprice. He’s not used to receiving guests.”

  When she appeared out of nowhere, all the air rushed from the room. Margaret Thorne McAlpin stood around five-foot-eight. Her strawberry blonde hair didn’t come from a bottle. Her tits stood at attention, like soldiers guarding that lean athletic frame. She had alabaster skin, deep green eyes and lips that took up no more room on her face than necessary. At the center was her slight aquiline nose that bore a barely noticeable scar on its bridge. Either she wore glasses or once took a shot to the face. It was fall, yet she wore a summer dress that looked as if she poured it on herself like a fine lotion upon stepping from the bath.

  “I’ve had to furlough some of the staff while this estate business is sorted. That will be all, Chauncey.”

  “Are you sure, ma’am?” Chauncey glanced at Elliot.

  “Yes. Off you go.”

  Margaret’s manner made her rebuff sound like high praise. No wonder Chauncey forgot he was the help. This dame knew how to handle men. As Elliot watched Chauncey shuffle off, he reflected on how difficult it is for a man to be so far inside a world to which he could never belong.

  “I expected you tomorrow.”

  “I set my own schedule.”

  “You’re certainly not dressed like a messenger,” she said. Damn her syrupy condescension. “An assistant of some sort?”

  She itched him to see just how he’d scratch. It was little ol’ her against that big bad board. She was intent upon holding her own, even against the attorney’s man.

  “I perform various services for Attorney Robin.”

  “Such as?”

  “Today I’m delivering sensitive documents for execution.”

  Elliot held up the leather envelope. Margaret directed him to the sofa. She still moved like someone afraid of agitating her betters. Once she sat, she made certain to fix the hem of her dress. Perhaps she didn’t want to send any negative impressions back to Mike that could get back to the trust board. He unwrapped the binding string, pulled out the contents and laid them in front of her.

  “Need a pen?”

  Margaret slowly reached for an elegant cigarette box on the sofa table. She offered Elliot a smoke, but he refused. She pulled a Gitanes Brunes out of the box. Using a nearby crystal lighter, it took a few flicks to yield a flame before Margaret could light her smoke.

  “I have no idea why I keep that girl on.”

  “Well, if you want a job done right…” Elliot said.

  Margaret took a drag. She gave him a cold stare. Elliot immediately regretted the quip. If she didn’t sign for being pissed off, Mikey would pitch a fit. He tried small talk.

  “Didn’t know one could find blue gypsies here in the states?”

  “One can’t,” Margaret said. “Your bon mot lends the impression you are privy to the”—she interrupted herself to produce a plume of exhaust— “complexities of my legal situation.”

  She took another drag. Margaret examined Elliot’s face as if it was the cover of a worn book. She pointed her cigarette at him. Her hair cradled her face. Elliot tried very hard not to find her beautiful.

  “You’re rather cheeky.” She exhaled again, blowing smoke in his direction.

  “I apologize. I’ve been nursing a headache.”

  “Under the weather?”

  “Under a bottle. Ran into an old acquaintance last night. Things got out of hand.”

  Elliot’s admittance of his hangover was deliberate, intended to put Margaret at ease. She rose from the sofa, walked over to a marble bar, and pushed a recess etched in the wall. A panel opened to reveal an extensive collection of spirits.

  “Pick your poison, Mr. Caprice.”

  “Not while I’m on duty.” He wondered why he felt like a policeman.

  “Everyone knows the best thing for a hangover is a stiff drink. Chop chop.”

  Oh, that syrupy voice. Elliot examined the selection. Seems as if he judged the late Master McAlpin a bit prematurely. The man hoarded a bevy of rare spirits. He either had a drinking problem, or problems that required a lot of drinking.

  “I’ll have a single-malt.”

  “Top ball. Speyside, Islay or Skye?”

  She was taking him out of his depth, on purpose.

  “I’ll trust your tastes.” Elliot smiled. He told himself to stop flirting.

  She scanned the bottles for Talisker thirty-five-year, produced two crystal rock glasses.

  “Two of your fingers, or two of mine?”

  “One of yours and one of mine.”

  She winked at him as she poured both their drinks. It was her subtle invitation to let his guard down.

  “Bottoms up, then.”

  “Do dheagh shlàinte,” Elliot said, almost at a whisper. He breathed in the aromas. After a small sip to savor its details, his hangover started to dissipate. Over the top of his glass, he watched Margaret gulp half her drink. She used the back of her hand to wipe her mouth.

  “Used to drinking amongst the Irish, are we?”

  “I heard my mother was Irish.”

  “My mother was from Surrey. My father from Cornwall.”

  “Sowena dhys.” Elliot smiled.

  “I’m impressed.”

  “A few Brits joined our company during the war. They liked their liquor.” Elliot took another sip. Margaret knocked the rest of hers back. “There’s a lot of idle time in-country. Holding positions. Waiting out the enemy. Fellas make conversation about anything just to take their mind off what’s comin’.”

  The scotch loosened Elliot’s tongue, but he wasn’t embarrassed about opening up. Something in the way she couldn’t take her eyes off him seemed to pull his true self forward. Margaret offered to pour him another, but he put his hand atop the glass and shook his head no. She refreshed her own glass and capped the bottle.

  “Yeah, the limeys weren’t a bad bunch of joes. Didn’t mind we were colored one bit.”

  Margaret’s eyes went up.

  “Couldn’t tell, huh?”

  “Can’t say I could, Mr. Caprice.”

  “Oh, I’m no mister.”

  “Elliot.” Margaret smiled. Elliot noticed her subtl
e cheek freckles. They were the size of Molly’s.

  “I’ve been called swarthy, olive-skinned, red, mestizo.” He chuckled. “Confused for everything from Moroccan to Sicilian to Cuban. Not by Negroes, tho’. Colored folk obligate me to be colored.”

  “It must be maddening to be taken for the lesser,” said Margaret.

  “Yeah,” Elliot said. “I hate when folks think I’m white.”

  Margaret laughed. She replaced the bottle in the cubby.

  “Wealthy men devise such clever ways of hiding things.” The secret panel went click.

  Of Kenilworth’s two hundred fifty-two acres, the McAlpin Estate must have stood on most of them. Elliot and Margaret walked the grounds until they reached a secluded rear garden. Shrubbery as tall as a man was arranged in long rows. Along the shale pathways stood beautifully sculpted marble benches, each bookended with magnificent topiaries.

  “What else do you do, Mr. Caprice?”

  “Nothin’, if I can help it.”

  “I didn’t expect to be meeting someone possessed of such—” She pondered the right word. “Gravitas. It means—”

  “One of the original Roman virtues. Pietus, dignitas, virtus, gravitas. Density of character or personality, though you may have that part wrong.”

  Margaret looked impressed but embarrassed.

  “Bradley forensics team. Go Braves.”

  “I didn’t mean to suggest—”

  “I’m used to it,” Elliot said. “I noticed you speak received English.”

  “My, you are full of surprises.” Margaret caressed his shoulder.

  “Boarding or finishing school?”

  “Boarding, for a while. My father was something of a diplomat back in Britain until Ferdinand was assassinated. Daddy fell from grace when he expressed he saw no point in honoring the Treaty of London. Thought it antiquated. That didn’t help the war profiteers, you know. To prove his loyalty to the aristocracy, he joined the front, as an officer. He was dead within a week.”

  “That’s war.”

  “He was no warrior, I assure you. Apparently, neither was my mother. She fell off the deep end. Men were in and out of our lives, taking advantage of us. By the time I was twelve, I was cleaning houses so we could survive. By the second war, I was here in the States. Still cleaning houses.”

  Margaret stopped walking. She gestured to a bench. They sat and, for a moment, did not speak. A light lake breeze wafted through the maze of hedges.

  “Did you love him?” asked Elliot, wondering where that came from.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Your husband. Did you love him? Or was it about all of this?” Elliot gestured to the expanse of wealth around them. Margaret sighed.

  “I loved the idea of him loving me. I resisted at first. The age difference. The circumstances. Eventually, I fell for him. It wasn’t about his money. Or maybe it was.”

  She turned away from Elliot. He didn’t know if she was sincere or if he was being played.

  “You must think of me as they all do. That I’m some gold digger.”

  “I doubt you had that much control.”

  She turned back around and looked Elliot in the eye. The fine scotch was already wearing off.

  “What did you do before?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “You’d rather just air out my dirty linen. Pity. We were getting on so well. Back to the house then.” Margaret stormed off. “I won’t be signing any papers. Chauncey will show you out.”

  Elliot abruptly stood. “I was a cop.”

  She turned around. They met at the center. He didn’t know what was happening inside of himself, but he knew he didn’t like it.

  “In the city?”

  “Chicago, yes.”

  “But it went bad.” Margaret’s concerned gaze made Elliot want to vomit, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t let him.

  “Tragically bad.” His voice trailed off. “A friend lured me into things that were questionable. When it was over, I wouldn’t let it go.”

  “You’re still paying for it, aren’t you?”

  She reached out to touch his face, but that’s where Elliot drew the line. He took a full step back. A stronger breeze blew. Margaret wrapped her arms around herself. The rustling foliage delivered an unheeded warning. Elliot took off his jacket and placed it around her shoulders. He may as well have sealed a covenant.

  “Do you think you could find him?” Margaret asked.

  “The driver?”

  “His name is Alistair Williams. He’s from Brixton. It’s an area—”

  “I know where it is,” Elliot said. “What is it with this town and limeys?”

  “We were once an item. He’s was so smart. Driven. When I first met him, he was studying nights and weekends to become an accountant. Some mornings, I would find him asleep in the garage, books open, papers strewn about.” Her voice trailed off again. “You see, Jonathan and Esme were good people.”

  “Esme was his first wife.”

  “Second. They didn’t regard the help as automatons. They had Alistair take me places, help me meet people, become part of the community. We fell in love. It was harmless, really.”

  “Until the wife died. That when McAlpin took a shine to you?”

  “I never felt that way about him in all the time he was my employer, but once tragedy struck, he didn’t seem so powerful. He was helpless without her. He refused guests. He didn’t attend to his business affairs. Oft times I would find him sobbing alone in her closet. One day I knelt down to help him off the floor. He just seemed so lost. So sweet.”

  “It’s gotta burn a guy up to put his time in on a gal, just to lose her to the boss man.”

  “I wanted to be discreet. Wait until a good time to tell Alistair, but Jonathan was insistent he would have it sorted. At first, it seemed to be fine. Chauncey took over the duty of driving me so Alistair wouldn’t have to be burdened. This place is so vast, it was easy to avoid each other. Shortly thereafter, Jonathan dies.”

  “And your Alistair makes a run for it.”

  “No, no, no. He stayed. He stood by me, even though I broke his heart.”

  “Oh, I bet he did. His girlfriend just came into half the money in the Midwest.”

  Margaret stared off into the clearing, her memories transporting her back in time. Tears streamed down her face.

  “A few months passed. I failed to resist his overtures. We spent time together in secret. Chauncey suspected us once Alistair began driving me again. He won’t admit it, but I knew when Jonathan’s children came around, he told them what he saw. That was the start of the trust board’s hostility.”

  “Can you blame ’em? You’ve gotta know how that looks.”

  “I’ve never cared about the money. I just wanted to honor Jonathan’s wishes.”

  “Bet it was killin’ ol’ Alistair.”

  “He couldn’t understand. He knew nothing of money or status. He was naive to think we could just be openly involved.”

  “Spoken like a diplomat’s daughter.”

  Margaret yanked off Elliot’s jacket. It fell to the ground.

  “I’ll pay you five thousand dollars.” Margaret’s back straightened. Her tone, terse.

  “To do what?”

  “To help me fix this probate mess.”

  “You think dragging him back here is going to fix your problems? This is old money.”

  “I know full well of old money. Once Alistair is accounted for, I’ll take what Jonathan meant for me to have. The wolves can have the rest.”

  “What about Alistair?”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead, I’m afraid.”

  “I figured you hadn’t.”

  Again, she was near tears. Elliot’s mind raced. Five large would be more than enough to reclaim the farm. He could start restoring it. Except this broad was playing at his convictions. That made him nervous, which meant he already decided somewhere inside himself to do it.

  “I’m gon
na need you to sign off on these papers I brought over.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I read through ’em a few times. There’s no risk to your claim on the estate, as long as you can produce Alistair. Matter of fact, if you don’t sign ’em, they’ll likely get one of their judge buddies to yank everything into probate. They’ll starve you out. Get you desperate enough to give up. Take whatever they slide you to go away.”

  “And you wouldn’t want to see that happen, would you?”

  “I work for Mike Robin. He’d like to see this matter closed. That means I’d like to see it closed.”

  “I see.”

  “You sign the papers, I’ll take a third up front. I get another third when I have news to report. Pay me the rest once I’ve brought him back to you.”

  “There will be a good bonus in it for you once you do.”

  “Bonuses are nice. Sign the documents.”

  They stared each other down. Another stiff lakefront wind blew. Even the gods would have their say.

  “Very well.”

  She signed each in his presence. When Elliot replaced the documents in the leather envelope, she asked him to show himself out. There was no trace of the help. The house felt like a mausoleum. When he closed the door to the McAlpin estate behind him, he could feel the harsh chill of a Chicago fall. As he opened Lucille’s driver’s side door, he pretended he didn’t notice Chauncey watching him from a window atop the rotunda.

  CHAPTER 10

  Willow Ellison of 4802 N. Broadway Avenue in Chicago was a mutual acquaintance of Margaret and Alistair. She was of the social set. On nights off, they occasionally attended her Bohemian get-togethers. He knew the address off the top, as it was the same as the Green Mill Cocktail Lounge, a place he twice met disgraced police Lieutenant Bill Drury. At their second meet, Elliot exhorted him to keep a lower profile. Stop pushing it, if not for his own sake, for Elliot’s, yet Drury wanted the life. He wanted the notoriety. He remained active, even after he was tossed off the force. He was determined in his bitterness to wreak the most havoc. And he did. He just hadn’t foreseen his murder. Elliot hadn’t foreseen the death of his entire world.

  Most likely this Willow gal lived in one of the apartments above the Green Mill, or she may have even been a prostitute. Maybe the lounge was where she received her calls. Either way, it was the only lead Margaret could provide. She didn’t even have a photograph of Alistair, which wasn’t particularly odd to Elliot, as he himself had no use for picture taking. What stood out was, Margaret’s only angle was a woman. Why did Alistair’s play involve another frail?