Vespasia went to the foot of the servants’ stairs, ready to go up if necessary and waken one of the valets to minister to Ferdie. She noticed the crooked vase again. It was exactly where someone would have caught it on the way up if passing in a hurry, or in the dim light. Who would be going up there in the half dark and not want to straighten a vase he or she had knocked?
Oremia’s lover! Because he did not want to be seen and feared he might be––after Ferdie had intruded into the bedroom he presumed not occupied, only to find a previous pair of lovers about to leave.
And the lover would go up there rather than to his own room, unless his own room were indeed up there. Oremia had been sleeping with one of the servants!
Vespasia knew which one it would be––the remarkably handsome young footman with the dark hair and the curving lips and fine legs. Really, how could Oremia be so––so incredibly, monumentally stupid? To betray Toby with one of his friends was bad enough, with a footman was appalling! If it became known, Toby would be mocked or pitied, or both. His effectiveness to do good, his life’s goals, would be nullified. Who would take him seriously?
Vespasia was so furious she could hardly swallow. All for the sake of a few moments’ utterly selfish gratification! Oremia had known the wretched man barely a week, and she had used him simply for her own enjoyment. He was hardly in a position to refuse her. She could ruin him with a word, and if rejected might well do so out of spite! Vespasia felt the anger settle inside her like a stone, but she was helpless to do anything about it. She must protect Oremia for Toby’s sake, and because she had said she would.
She marched up the stairs, fists clenched, and knocked lightly and firmly on the butler’s bedroom door, and then again, in case he should doubt what he had heard.
It was opened after several moments, and a very anxious face appeared in the crack, his nightcap askew. He blinked before he recognized Vespasia.
“Lady Cumming-Gould! Is something amiss, my lady?”
“Yes, I am afraid so, Harcourt. It seems Sir Ferdinand has disturbed an intruder and been attacked when he tried to apprehend him. He is not very seriously hurt, but he was knocked insensible for some few minutes and has a very nasty cut on his head. We are not aware of anything that has been taken.”
“Oh, dear.” Harcourt gathered his wits very quickly. “That is dreadful. Are you all right, my lady?”
“Yes, thank you, Harcourt, I am quite unhurt. Perhaps you might call whoever on the staff is best able to minister to injury and a severe headache, and then see if anything is missing or anyone else disturbed. Although I have heard no other sound.”
“Certainly, my lady. That would be most wise. I shall come straight down,” and he retreated behind the door. Vespasia assumed he was arranging his clothing with a suitable dignity. After all, he was the principal among the servants and must always appear to be in command.
She went downstairs again and found Ferdie still looking pained and very groggy, propped up by the chair rather than sitting in it. “I think you need a stiff brandy,” she observed. “Or perhaps one of my maid’s herbal preparations against headache and a brandy afterward.”
“I think I’ll take the brandy,” he said with more decision than she had thought him capable of.
Vespasia smiled. “You don’t surprise me,” she murmured. “Although, Ferdie, I do think the herbs might have a more lasting result.”
“I’ll have the brandy,” he repeated.
She smiled very slightly. “I think next time you hear burglars in the night, you would be wise not to involve Leonora,” she said casually.
“Oh…” He looked nonplussed, then suddenly blushed deeply. “Oh, yes…of course. I…”
She turned away, so as not to witness his embarrassment. She had said enough. He knew she knew.
* * *
—
Harcourt came down the stairs looking purposeful, with two ladies’ maids and a valet behind him. The brandy was sent for, and the herbs, plus a bowl of hot water, ointment, and plaster.
Within minutes doors were knocked on, and people began to appear in various stages of sleepiness and disarray. A full ten minutes passed before Leonora Vickery came stumbling out of her room, wailing loudly that her jewelry had been stolen––all of it, even including the case in which she kept it. It was monstrous! She had been robbed of everything!
“Not quite everything,” Vespasia observed in an aside. “I rather fancy something of it you were willing to give.” But fortunately, no one heard her, or if they did, they were too stunned and generally dazed to take it in or question her meaning. Not that people often questioned Vespasia, in any event.
By three o’clock in the morning Ferdie’s wound had been seen to, and he had been returned to his bed. Leonora had been comforted and assured that every possible avenue would be pursued in order to recover her jewels. Finally, everyone else in the household had gone back to their rooms.
At nine o’clock in brilliant sunlight Vespasia came along the corridor to the landing, ready to go downstairs for the day. By now, no doubt, the garden staff would have found Leonora’s jewel box and everything would be returned to her. Ferdie would have a resounding headache, but it would eventually go, and he would be little the worse for the adventure. At least he could pose as the hero. He would certainly never deny that.
On the whole, Vespasia felt rather pleased with herself, and as always she looked magnificent.
Toby Blythe was going down the stairs. Vespasia watched his straight back and dark head, now definitely touched with gray here and there, and smiled with delightful memory.
Then Oremia swirled out of the east corridor, her skirts flying in an enormous bouffant of rose-pink and wine. Her face was sickeningly pale and her eyes like sockets in her head.
Vespasia was startled and her composure completely shaken. “What is it?” she gasped. “Oremia!”
“My diamonds, Vespasia!” Oremia said in a dry whisper, so quiet Vespasia barely heard her. “My diamonds have been stolen!”
Vespasia drew in her breath, her hands flew to her lips and she stifled a laugh. “Oh, my dear!” she said with only the merest shred of sympathy. “If you will sleep with the footman, you must expect a certain inconvenience!”
Oremia glared at her, then whirled around and sailed down the stairs after her husband.
Vespasia sighed, and smiled, then followed her down, her head high, her ivory skirts touching the banister rails on both sides.
DETECTIVE: MARY SHELLEY
BEAUBIEN
Deborah Morgan
RAISED ON A RANCH in Grove, Oklahoma, Deborah Morgan (1955– ) went on to become a rodeo queen, so it is not surprising that she has great affection for writing westerns as well as mystery fiction; she is an award-winning writer in both genres.
Death Is a Cabaret (2001), the first novel in her antiques-lover’s mystery series featuring former FBI agent Jeff Talbot, was nominated for the Barry Award, won the Reader’s Choice Award at Chicago’s Love is Murder conference, and was one of only two paperback original mysteries to be noted in Publishers Weekly’s “The Year in Books” (2001). All five novels in the series made the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association bestseller list, with the third (The Marriage Casket, 2003) taking the number one slot.
Before moving to Michigan in 1993 to “join typewriters” with Loren D. Estleman, Morgan was managing editor of a biweekly newspaper in southeast Kansas and earlier was managing editor of the nation’s number one treasure-hunting magazine. She also served as editor of the Private Eye Writers of America newsletter for three years.
When asked to submit a private eye story featuring Mary Shelley, her private eye character, for the anthology Mystery Street, Morgan chose to set it on Motown’s Beaubien Street, home to the Detroit Police Department for ninety years, drawing on her observations during her years as a dispatcher for h
er hometown police department and later for the Oklahoma Highway Patrol.
“Beaubien” was originally published in The Private Eye Writers of America Presents: Mystery Street #2, edited by Robert J. Randisi (New York, Signet, 2001); it was first collected in Junction (Hertford, North Carolina, Crossroad Press, 2015).
Beaubien
DEBORAH MORGAN
AS MANY TIMES as I’ve walked into Detroit Police Headquarters, it still makes me nervous.
I can’t think why. I’m not a criminal. But my heart thuds like a Ford engine on a cold morning, then gains rpm’s and pounds hell against my ribcage. My nerve begs for a shot of anything. My senses are never sharper.
You know the feeling. The nervousness causes one of three reactions at any given time: fear (always visible in one form or another), cockiness (on the defense and ready to take on anything and anybody), or innocence (coupled with a determination to prove it by keeping a low profile). Point of fact: any one of these emotions will put the cops on red alert.
We’re screwed, no matter what.
Today, I opted for low profile. Lieutenant Harold Bittenbinder had asked me to come by for a piece of birthday cake that the department had ordered. Rumor had it Harry was turning 55 on Saturday. Since my father never reached that age and Harry doesn’t have any daughters, I was honored to be included.
I made it through the metal detector without a peep from either of us. That always surprises me.
Down the hall, just outside the bank of elevators, was a display case containing memorabilia for sale. I wondered how many of the navy blue coffee mugs emblazoned with Detroit P.D. in gold were being unwrapped on the fourth floor by our birthday boy.
By the time I arrived the party was in full swing. Harry spotted me and made his way through the post-battle confusion of uniforms and smoke, a Polaroid shot in one hand and a mug from the case downstairs in the other. Instinctively, I looked at his desk. Triplets.
If a two-hundred-forty-pound German American can bubble, Harry was bubbling. “Look at this, Mary!” He shoved a photo of the cake up to my face. It had been designed in the image of a double-nickel speed limit sign. Catchy.
“Where’s the real thing, Harry? I haven’t eaten all day.”
“You don’t wanna see it. It looks like a train wreck.”
I was starving, so I took my chances. After surviving two pieces of cake and countless curious stares directed my way, I went back in search of Harry. I hadn’t planned ahead, but hoped he was free for dinner. When I found him, he was talking with a young uniformed officer who looked like she’d be more at home on the cover of Vogue than in a squad car.
“Lee Khrisopoulis,” Harry said, “meet Mary Shelley, a good friend and a hell of a PI. Mary, Lee’s one of the best cops we’ve got.”
She awkwardly shifted a cigarette to her left hand and took my extended right. I noted that her grip was as firm as my own.
“Harry says you’re the best PI since Philip Marlowe.”
“That’s saying a lot, coming from this old man.” I squeezed his arm. “The cake was great, Harry, but I need to find something more substantial. Can you join me?”
Just then, Harry was hailed from across the room. “Can’t. I’ll call you later.” He left, and I turned to Lee.
Her smile behind the olive skin was still intact, but her dark eyes told me something was up. “Meet me. Pegasus. Fifteen.”
I nodded, understanding, and smiled. “A pleasure meeting you, too.”
I walked out the front door and onto Beaubien, fed the meter on the way past my Chevy, then turned the corner and took in the aromas of skordalia, baklava, and ouzo. If I worked down here, I’d gain back every pound I’d lost since my divorce.
The only person I know who can bake better than the Greeks is my son, Vic. He learned in Michigan’s culinary institute called the state prison system from a French-trained chef who had used his knife to fillet a restaurant owner for shorting his paycheck.
As I walked, I caught myself hoping that Officer Khrisopoulis was being melodramatic. Vic was joining me for the Fourth of July festivities, with a Tigers game and some cold ones thrown in, and I didn’t want to spend my time playing gumshoe.
When I arrived at the Pegasus, instinct told me to search out a more secluded table. I ordered a beer and a sampler plate of appetizers that included spanakopita, dolmathes yalantzi, and saganaki. Apparently, I’d bastardized the pronunciations so much that the waitress repeated my order of spinach triangles, stuffed grape leaves, and cheese that’s been set on fire in English so I’d know what I was in for.
When Lee arrived by way of the back door, she slid into the chair opposite me and ordered coffee. “I don’t have much time, so I’ll cut to it. The powers that be want to partner me up with a new cop on the force for a special detail. I’d like to know more about him beforehand.”
My brows shot up. “You pulled cloak-and-dagger crap on me for this? Why didn’t you have someone at headquarters get you the lowdown? Harry, for instance?”
“No. Even if I weren’t a female cop—which I am—it’d be difficult to check out another officer.”
“Yeah, for all of us. Do you have any reason not to trust this new cop?”
“Nothing like that. Just trying to watch my back is all.” The waitress put our drinks in front of us. Officer Khrisopoulis gulped the steaming liquid and set the cup down with a thud. “No one can know about this. Not even Harry. Got it?”
“I can handle that.”
“I’d like a daily report, too. Meet me here at the same time every day and I’ll pay you for the extra trouble. Can you handle that, too?”
I said I could. “But I’ll warn you, I may not have much to report by tomorrow. Could be a challenge to dig up much on a new cop, working from the outside in.”
“Easier than from the inside out.” She pulled a cigarette from her pocket and lit it and took a ragged drag. “The cop’s name is Joey Partello. Just over six feet, dark, buff—some would say sexy, if you’re into the Italian lover type.”
“Anything distinguishing?”
“That’s not distinguishing enough for you?”
“I like my men short and near-sighted. Less competition that way.” I waited for a smile. She didn’t oblige. “What does he drive?”
“When he’s off duty, he drives a dark blue Jimmy, loaded.”
“Off duty is when?”
“The harsh, bright light of day.”
I nodded.
The waitress showed up with my appetizers, touched a match to the saganaki and yelled Opaa! Khrisopoulis was gone before the flames died out.
* * *
—
It was getting close to five o’clock, so I made the appetizers serve as dinner, then searched out the pay phone and called my source at the Secretary of State’s office. If you’re not in Michigan, you probably know it as the DMV. There is the seldom, wonderful occasion when the computers aren’t down, and this was one of them. I obtained Officer Partello’s address, and decided to make a swing-by to check it out.
For the most part, the old Italian neighborhood hadn’t changed since FDR was president and Ford was making bomber parts for the war effort. Joey Partello’s house looked pretty much like the other clapboard homes that lined the street—for now, anyway. A sign out front boasted TRIPLE A CONSTRUCTION and on the driveway were stacks of smooth-planed lumber. Sacks of cement formed a barricade in front. Footings had been trenched along the east side of the original structure, about ten feet out; they cornered and continued out of sight around back.
Our Officer Partello was sinking a hefty chunk into a major addition.
I drove to the next block and pulled over to where a plump Italian woman was walking along the edge of the yard, picking tomatoes from vines that formed a frame around the property and hammocking them in a red-stained apron. Anywhere but
here and I’d have thought it was blood. Hell, I’d have thought the same thing in an Italian restaurant. In the safety of the neighborhood, though, it was always tomato sauce.
“Nice house,” I said by way of introduction.
She glanced up, then went back to picking tomatoes. When she spoke, her accent was as thick as marinara. “We’ve been here since ’42.”
I took that to mean she liked the place.
She stopped picking, then, and sized me up. “You looking for a house?”
I love it when they make the job this easy. “Yes, ma’am. I thought that was a for sale sign.” I pointed toward Partello’s. “Turns out it’s a construction outfit advertising what they haven’t done yet.”
“That’s the way of things these days. Joey would like to sell out, but—” she paused to cross herself—“he knows his mother would haunt him from the grave, so he’s changing everything he can about the look of the place.” She pulled a guilty look, as if she’d spoken out of turn. Apparently in order to absolve herself, she added, “He’s paying cash, though. That’s a good sign he’s sticking with the old ways.”
“A tough order nowadays.”
“For some, I suppose.” She paused, then picked up a small basket of tomatoes and handed it to me. “Go home and make some spaghetti. You’re rail thin.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her I couldn’t cook.
* * *
—
There wasn’t much more I could do that night, so I went home and drew a hot bath in the old clawfoot tub I’d rescued from the junk pile that came with the place. After an admirable attempt at becoming a prune, I set my alarm for God-awful early and turned in.
* * *
—
At three minutes after seven the next morning, I was at the intersection of Clinton and Beaubien when Partello pulled the Jimmy out of police parking and headed over to Brush. Tailing the cop was as easy as following a train down a railroad track. He took a left on Madison and nosed the Jimmy in for valet parking at the Detroit Athletic Club. I breezed on by.
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 169