Too Darn Hot

by Sandra Scoppettone

  “I just want an apartment number for some people I need to see.”

  “Yeah, that’s right, Connery. She’s a lady detective.” This sent her into another spiral of laughter.

  “De-tec-tive? Never heard a that. No women I know would be such a thing. Yer a detective with the coppers?”

  “No. I didn’t say that. I’m a private detective. And I need to see the Turners. Ya know em?”

  “Burt and Marj? Sure,” the other guy said.

  “You just shut him up, Connery,” Binnie said.

  I hated doing it but I had no choice. “Look, I have a client who left em some money.”

  They all went silent.

  Binnie gave me a cocked head once-over and the two mugs came up a couple of steps.

  “What kinda money?” Connery said.

  “I can’t tell ya that. After they get it, ask them.”

  “They don’t tell nothin,” Binnie said. “Like clams.”

  “That ain’t fair, Bin. Burt tole us bout his daughter bein real successful at Wanamaker’s.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  Binnie said, “And what about Lucille? They ever tell ya bout that one?”

  “Nope.”

  “There ya go. Just what I’m sayin.”

  “What about her?”

  Binnie glanced at me then back at the two guys. “Another time, fellas.”

  “You’ll forget. Why don I go get us some beers,” he said.

  “Good idea.”

  “Before ya go, can ya tell me which apartment is the Turners so I don’t hafta ring all the bells, bother everybody?”

  “Fourth floor. Two B.”

  “You bigmouth, Connery.”

  “Why shouldn’t they get money if it’s due em, Bin?”

  “Yeah,” the other one said.

  “Ah, what’s the dif. Go on up, girlie. Girlie detective.”

  I heard them all laughing as I made my way up the stairs. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d given people such a good time.

  Two B was down a long dark corridor. I didn’t feel scared but I did feel a cloak of depression come over me like a bleak, cloudy day. I knocked. It’d been a timid sound, so I did it again with more beef. Nothing happened. I tried again, four loud ones instead of three. I heard a stirring, then a sound like someone mopping the floor. As it got closer it became a shuffle.

  “Who is it?” A deep male voice.

  “Detective Quick?”

  “Who?”

  I repeated it for him.

  “There ain’t no girl detectives.”

  “I’m private.”

  “Yeah? Well, I’m public and I’m sleepin.”

  I could hear that he was turning away.

  “Wait. Mr. Turner, I have somethin to tell ya about Claire.”

  “Claire?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Somethin wrong?”

  “Mr. Turner, could ya let me come in?”

  He turned a lock and opened the door about two inches. All I could see was his nose and one blue eye, an accordion of bags beneath it.

  “What about her?”

  “I’m not talkin about this in the hall.”

  “Okay.” He opened the door wider and let me through. “I was sleepin,” he said and looked down at the proof, his striped pajama pants. He wore a grubby undershirt on top. His full head of black hair was sticking up at odd angles. From what I could see in the dim light his features were square, like boxes.

  “Should I get my wife? We both work nights.”

  “I think it would be good to get her.”

  Suddenly he didn’t want to know why I’d come. He’d rather get his wife.

  It was a railroad apartment, one room after another off the narrow hallway. Mr. Turner walked down it like he was navigating a plank.

  The living room was dark; the one window had a blackout shade pulled down, its green color chipped. A sagging couch was against one wall, while a three-legged chair and another one with four legs were across from it. Small tables were staggered around the room.

  Mr. Turner came back with his wife. He’d changed into a pair of work pants.

  “Let’s get some light on the subject,” she said. Her voice was cheerful, as if she was about to kick off a party. When she raised the shade, it didn’t make that much difference, cause outside the window was another brick building. She went around the room snapping on lights. It felt like it was three in the morning.

  “There. That’s better.”

  Mrs. Turner was a short scrawny woman. The back and sides of her fading blond hair were rolled up, while bobby pins kept the curls above her forehead in a straight line, and all of it was held in place with a hairnet. She was wearing a quilted bathrobe that was tattered and frayed at the cuffs. Her blue eyes looked lavender like her daughter’s.

  “So what’s this about Claire?” he asked.

  “Could we sit down?”

  “You keep beatin around the bush. I don’t like that.”

  “Now, Burt,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. He shook it off.

  I sat in the chair that had all of its legs. But no springs. I felt like I was on the floor.

  They stared at me, then took seats on the couch, which I could now see had a pattern of big faded flowers. He looked angry and she tried to look sunny. They both looked tired. I didn’t know how I was gonna tell em. Why hadn’t I left it up to the police? They’d probably be here soon. Did I always have to be first?

  Mr. Turner tapped a cigarette out of the package on the table in front of him. He opened a box of wooden matches and lit one by scraping his thumbnail across the top. “Whatcha got to say about Claire?”

  “There’s been an accident.” Why had I put it like that. It was only a delaying tactic. I lit a butt to delay a little longer.

  Mrs. Turner grabbed the lapels of her robe and brought them together like she needed to get warmer. He stared at me.

  “Is she in the hospital?” she said.

  “No.”

  “She’s dead, ain’t she?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Dead?” She moved her hand from the lapels to her mouth.

  He said, “Who killed her?”

  I wanted to know why he’d asked that, but I couldn’t put the questions then, I had to answer them.

  “I don’t know.” I told them the rest of what I knew, leaving out details they didn’t hafta know.

  They sat in front of me as though I’d punched them both in the gut. And I had. A long time passed before anyone spoke again.

  Finally I broke the silence. “Why’d ya think someone had killed her, Mr. Turner?”

  “I could tell she was goin down the road her sister went. Girls like that get killed. With Lucille it was somethin else, but I knew Claire would come to a bad end. I don’t get it. She was a real nice kid once.” He blew out a last spat of smoke and crushed his cig in the ashtray.

  “Mr. Turner, I don’t think it was Claire’s fault.”

  “Shut up.”

  He startled me. I hadn’t expected that.

  “Just shut up. You don’t know nothin about em, my girls.”

  I had to admit he was right. I knew very little about either of them, as it turned out.

  “Can I ask ya somethin?”

  “Of course, dear,” Mrs. Turner said.

  “Has Lucille called ya recently?”

  “She wouldn’t dare,” he said.

  “Well, she did,” Mrs. T. said.

  He looked at her, shock in his eyes. “When was this?”

  “All the time.”

  “Whatcha sayin, Marj?”

  “I’m sayin that I never agreed with how ya handled everything with Lucille. I talked to her and I saw her every week. She’s my daughter and I love her, no matter what. Same with Claire.”

  “Had ya cut off Claire, too, Mr. Turner?”

  “No reason for her to leave home. She thought she was too good for us, so she had to get her own place. That�
��s what whores do.”

  I felt angry for Claire. “She wasn’t a whore, Mr. Turner.”

  “She made up like one, runnin around with sailors and soldiers and who knew what else.”

  “One soldier,” Marj said.

  “Ya don’t know that,” he said.

  “I do.”

  “How?”

  “She told me about him.”

  His mouth pulled back into something that he intended as a grin. “And ya believed her? You’ve always been a dimwit.”

  “I don’t wanna argue, Burt. I just wanna see my girl. I wanna see both my girls. Does Lucille know?”

  “No.” Now I was gonna have to tell these people that their other daughter was AWOL. “When’s the last time ya talked to Lucille, Mrs. Turner?”

  “Let’s see. About a week ago. Last Wednesday to be exact. She’ll be heartbroken about this. They were such good friends. I should tell her. Should I phone her or should I go over there? Oh, I don’t know what to do.” She began to cry.

  “But they hadn’t been friends for a long time, had they? I mean since Lucille . . .”

  “Had a baby. Say it. She had a baby without bein married,” he said.

  “And you forbid Claire to see her, didn’t ya?”

  “You bet.”

  Through her tears Mrs. Turner said, “Well, she didn’t listen to ya, Burt. That girl had a mind of her own. They saw each other all the time.”

  “Are ya sure of that, Mrs. Turner?”

  “Sometimes I met with em. We’d go to real nice restaurants. The girls would take me.”

  “You went against me, Marj?”

  “Yes. I did and I’d . . .”

  There was a knock at the door. We all stopped short as if we were guilty of something. I was pretty sure I knew who it was.

  “Police,” a man called.

  “I’ll get it,” I said. “And I’ll leave then, too. I’m sorry about everything.”

  I went to the door and unlocked it. Detective Powell and two cops stood there.

  “Just leavin,” I said.

  Powell’s eyes got smaller than they already were.

  I hurried past them and hightailed it down the hall.

  “You’re a menace,” Powell yelled after me.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  THIRTY

  I walked back toward my office. It was hotter than ever. I was bathed in sweat right away. I smiled. My mother, when she was somewhat sane, used to say to me, Girls don’t sweat, Faye. Men sweat. Girls glow.

  Sure as the devil, I didn’t feel like I was glowing. I felt wet and sweaty. And confused. Why would both Claire and Lucille lie to me about their friendship? If they were still friends, what was the point of telling me they never saw each other? They had to have gained something from the lie, but what? Why would that make any difference to the investigation? In fact, it made it harder.

  Now I could never ask Claire, and who knew if Lucille was ever gonna turn up. Why would she disappear? Had she been kidnapped? I didn’t believe that one for a second. So where was she and why?

  The Newark police woulda been to Lucille’s place by now. Maybe they’d found something. I picked up my pace, hot as it was.

  Before I went upstairs I stopped at Stork’s. I needed a Royal Crown like I’d been marooned in the desert for weeks.

  Stork was behind the counter reading a magazine, and the Ink Spots, singing “Don’t Get Around Much Anymore,” were coming from the radio.

  “Whatcha readin?”

  “A real good story, Faye.” He lifted up the magazine so I could see the cover. It was the July issue of Doc Savage. A blond guy with a can of gasoline was pouring it on something I couldn’t make out.

  “This one’s called ‘Murder Up the Line.’ ”

  “I didn’t know ya read stuff like that, Stork. I mean mysteries and such.”

  “Sure, I read em. What can I do for ya?”

  “I’m dyin of thirst.”

  “One RC comin up.”

  “Thanks. Where are the boys?”

  “Don’t know. Out doin somethin stupid probably.”

  Stork pulled on his earlobe when he said this so I knew he was fibbing. The earlobe pull was his tell. Everybody has one. Sometimes it tips off lying, sometimes it’s a giveaway in poker games. And speaking of poker games, I knew they were in the back room playing. I never understood why Stork and the boys felt they had to lie to me about this. It wasn’t really a lie, I guessed. More an omission. I figured even though I was private and not gonna rat on them, I was still a stand-in for law in their eyes, so I didn’t push it.

  He set down the glass with ice and the open bottle of RC on the marble counter. I thanked him and gave him my five cents, then took a deep swallow and though it was cold and tasted great, when I put it back down I was still thirsty.

  “I gotta question for ya, Stork.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why would two sisters say they weren’t friends when they really were?”

  “Is this a riddle?”

  “A question.”

  Stork tapped a cig from his Luckies pack, lit it, and blew out a puff of smoke. Now he could think.

  He mumbled my question to himself and ran a hand through his black hair. Then he took off his glasses with the thick black frames and put them back on. “They say this to you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They knew ya were investigatin?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I guess they didn’t wantcha to know they were friends.”

  I gave him a look.

  “Yeah, well. That’s the obvious part. You want me to get to the bottom of the reason they’d wantcha to think that, right?”

  “Right.” I took a swallow of my drink. Then I lit a butt. I wondered why I was doing this, putting Stork through the wringer.

  “They said it together or separately?”

  I almost told him to forget it but I could see he was taking this challenge seriously. “Separately. On different days. In different abodes. In different states, even.”

  He whistled and shook his head. “This is a toughie, Faye.”

  “You don’t have to go on with it, Stork.”

  “No, no. I’ll get it. Gimme a minute.”

  “Sure.” I wandered over to the magazine rack and picked up a copy of Modern Screen that had an article in it about Judy Garland. She was one of my favorites. I flipped to the page and read:

  Every spare second of Judy’s life for the last two years has been tied up with a red, white and blue ribbon and handed to the lads in uniform!

  That was as far as I got. Stork gave a little yelp and I turned around.

  “I got one more question so I can be sure.”

  I put the magazine back and walked over to the counter. “What?”

  “Was one of em your client?”

  “Yeah.”

  He snapped his fingers. “I knew it.”

  “What did ya know?”

  “If one was yer client, then they said they weren’t friends cause they wanted to give ya a bum steer.”

  “But why?”

  “They were pullin a one–two play.”

  “Ya mean they were in on somethin together?”

  “That’s just what I mean.”

  I stared at him. Of course. He was right. It was so simple I couldn’t see it.

  “Stork, yer a genius.” I leaned across the counter and planted one on his cheek. “I owe ya,” I said, picked up my stuff, and practically flew out the door.

  I’d never run up the stairs to my office so fast. I pulled open the door and rushed in.

  “Marty call me?”

  “Yeah, he did,” Birdie said.

  “He say where he was?”

  “Smitty’s. Yer all in a dither, ain’tcha?”

  “I’ll tell ya about it in a minute.”

  “Okay. I don’t mind bein last to know.”

  I didn’t have time to play the game. In my office I dialed Smitty’s. Lupino answered
and called for Marty, who came on almost right away.

  “Faye?”

  “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “I heard back from Newark. Lucille Turner’s place was empty. No clothes, no nothin. Looks like she did a ghost.”

  “That fits. Sorta.” I told him Stork’s theory.

  “Why’d ya say sorta?”

  “If they were doin somethin together, why’d Claire turn up dead?”

  “Why does anybody turn up dead?”

  “Love or money.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, I don’t think Lucille killed her sister for love. So it musta been money.”

  “Maybe. But who says Lucille killed Claire?”

  “Ya got a point.”

  “The only one left is Charlie Ladd,” he said.

  “Who says he’s alive? And I can’t see Lucille doin anything with that guy after what he did to her.”

  “Faye, ya only got her word what he did.”

  Everything in this case was based on just one person’s word. A bunch of storytellers. David Cooper’s body was the one piece of concrete evidence.

  “And if she was in on some scam, she’d want me to think she hated Charlie. Or maybe Claire and Lucille kidnapped him cause of what he did, bumped him off, and sat back to collect the dough.”

  “Yeah, that sounds right.”

  “Then Lucille musta killed her own sister. That’s hard to swallow.”

  “Strange things happen when big bucks is involved.”

  “So the money’s gone. Claire’s dead. Lucille is missin, and we don’t know about Charlie Ladd. And let’s not forget the murder of David Cooper. Who did that and why?”

  “It’s gotta be connected since they found the kid in Ladd’s room.”

  “Oh, it’s connected all right. I just can’t figure out how.”

  “Anything else I can do, Faye?”

  “You can find Lucille and maybe Charlie.”

  “Swell.”

  “Powell must be on to all this by now.”

  “If he’s not, he’s got a demotion comin.”

  “Maybe ya can get a bead on what Powell and his boys know.”

  “I’ll give it a hundred percent.”

  “Thanks.”

  After I hung up I sat there, trying to make the pieces fall into place. I’d add it up one way and then add it up another and it still didn’t come out right.

  There was a knock on my door.

  “Yeah?”