by Claire Logan
Albert’s face fell.
Sergeant Nestor gestured to his men, who began digging. He turned to Mr. Jackson, and asked quietly. “How did you know he’d talk?”
“He wouldn’t, if you questioned him directly. But I knew he’d talk when we accused his wife.” Mr. Jackson smiled at the old couple. “He might love her even more than his gardens.” He went to Albert, then turned to the officer. “Might I speak with him in private for just a moment?”
The officer glanced at Sergeant Nestor, who nodded. Cordelia and the officer moved a few paces away.
Mr. Jackson said quietly, “Mr. Stayman, there’s something which still troubles me.”
Albert raised red eyes to him. “What?”
“What really happened to Miss Luella?”
He nodded, glancing away. “After what she did to Agnes, I was convinced she’d gone completely mad. I told Helen I wanted to make a friend cookies, and she let me into the shop one night.” At that, he faltered. “I sent Luella cookies made with the crumbled hard bits of one of the seeds.” He shook his head. “I thought it’d kill her, and my little Agnes would be free. When I spoke with the desk clerk just now, and he told me how she was ... and I realized what I’d done to her —” Tears filled his eyes. “Three years, she lived that way.” His head hung low. “I’ve made a complete mess of everything. I regret it all, every bit.”
Mr. Jackson put his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Thank you for telling me the truth. I think you’ll feel much better now.” He stepped back, let the officer take hold of Albert’s arm again.
Sergeant Nestor came up to him. “What was that about?”
Mr. Jackson said, “The truth. I think he’s truly sorry for what he’s done.”
Sergeant Nestor shrugged. “I just catch ’em. What happens next is in the court’s hands.”
A cloth bag came free of the dirt below the snake-wood tree. When opened, it held the library book, its record card, the mortar and pestle, the hand drill, and the bookmark-sized strip of red cloth with three poison seeds attached.
Sergeant Nestor stared at the bag, then at Mr. Jackson, blinking in astonishment. “How did you —?”
Mr. Jackson shrugged. “Another hunch. But it seemed reasonable.”
Albert turned to Mr. Jackson. “Take care of Cordelia, will you? And make sure she has flowers.”
Mr. Jackson smiled at him. “I’d be honored.”
They led Albert Stayman off, the dowager Duchess trailing behind.
Mr. Jackson put an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “The things we do for love.”
26
The couple stayed at the hotel — all expenses paid, of course — until all the questions and searches ended and they were declared free to go. It was nice to be able to relax without the worry of catching a killer.
They went to a posh little cinema near Grant Park to see their talkie, and Mrs. Jackson thought that the sight and sounds of it were just as astonishing as Mr. Jackson had described. Afterward, the two strolled along the boardwalk, a magnificent view of the lake before them, their little dog Bessie running back and forth alongside.
Mr. Jackson said, “Do you find this marriage agreeable so far?”
Mrs. Jackson pondered this a moment, then smiled up at him. “I do!”
He appeared pleased with himself. “And how do you find our accommodations?”
She shrugged. “Beautiful, sumptuous. Nothing a murder here and there can’t undo.”
At this, Mr. Jackson chuckled. “My dear, I find you most amusing.”
“An ʻentertaining companion’, as you once put it,” she said, also amused. Then she considered recent events. “You’re quite perceptive. A masterful job discovering the man behind all these murders. And the stolen items!” She felt humbled. “Perhaps a better investigator than I.”
“I’m quite honored. Then shall we remain here in Chicago for a while? At this Myriad Hotel?”
“I don’t see why not,” Mrs. Jackson said.
They continued to stroll along.
Mr. Jackson said, “How do you feel?”
She considered this most seriously. “I feel good. I feel well.” She moved her injured arm in its sling.
“It doesn’t pain me.” You must find a way to become a new woman. She stopped, took the sling off, then tossed it into the lake, where it floated, sank. “I feel free.”
Mr. Jackson chuckled. “You know, you might need that again, after we consult the specialist.”
She shrugged. “I’m sure the doctor will have another one if I do.”
“Well, now that you’re well, I intend to give you a proper honeymoon.” He gestured with enthusiasm as he spoke. “We’ll dance at the nightclubs, sail the lake —”
Amused by the mention of sailing, she turned to face him, looking into his dark eyes. Then she took his hands, interlacing his dark brown fingers in hers. “Have you ever been with a woman?”
He didn’t flinch, nor glance away, but to her surprise, he blushed. “I have not. Men have always been my downfall.” He smiled shyly, still gazing into her eyes. “But I’d be willing to make an exception with you.”
She smiled. “Ah, yes. For the sight of my legs.”
“For the sight of your legs. They ... are ... stunning.”
“On one condition.”
“I’ll do anything you ask.”
“Kiss me.”
“Here? In public?”
“No one will care.” She gave him a wry smile. “Besides, I don’t show my legs to just anyone.”
“Ever the investigator, are we? Well, then,” he said, moving closer, “I —”
Looking into his dark eyes reminded her so poignantly of another kiss, the dark eyes of another man now dead, that her vision blurred. “I —”
“Let me love you,” he said softly. “I know it’s much too soon to expect love in return. But can you forget the griefs of the past, your fears for the future, and just for this one instant, be happy?”
It was too much, too close to what that man she’d loved so very much had said the day he died. And she couldn’t help herself, couldn’t stop herself, couldn’t hide from the reality in front of her, not anymore. You have a second chance. Take it.
“I can,” she said, and kissed her new husband with all her heart.
As it turned out, he was a very good kisser.
Some time later, she took his arm, as seagulls flew high across the lake in the sunshine. “I think it’s time we began our proper honeymoon.”
Epilogue
Albert Stayman was convicted of the librarian’s murder. He was also convicted of the attempted murders of manager Flannery Davis and hotel owner Montgomery Carlo, which led to the negligent poisonings of Agnes Odds and George Neuberg. Mr. Jackson arranged to have Albert transferred to a prison with a garden.
Mr. Carlo was charged with blackmail, but the charges were dropped after Sergeant Nestor watched six cases of fliers go into an incinerator.
Duchess Cordelia Stayman continued to live at the Myriad Hotel, and true to Mr. Jackson’s word, was kept well-supplied with flowers.
George Neuberg recovered from his poisoning, and returned to being a waiter at the Myriad Hotel. The couple spent many a happy weekend thereafter, sailing the lake with George and his family.
Mr. Lee Francis was promoted to head desk clerk, a title which came with a raise. He and his wife were blessed with a son several months later.
Eugene and Helen were married, and while Eugene still did much of the “dirty work,” the hotel hired an outside service to take care of the rats.
After the manager failed to find a Cook who would agree to join the Hotel, the couple recommended a young Chef of their acquaintance — a recent graduate from the Cordon Bleu — who was most happy for the opportunity.
The snake-wood tree was donated to a conservatory specializing in poison plants, where it lived happily thereafter, visitors from around the world marveling at its story.
After an outp
ouring of sympathy, a settlement from Mr. Carlo, and the encouragement of the couple, Miss Goldie Jean Dab opened a shop of her own. Its sign read:
THE EXONERATED COOK
Dishes To Die For!
It became the most popular bistro in town.
The Vanishing Valet!
Coming soon!
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Acknowledgements
Thanks so much to Melissa Williams for beta reading for me, and to Patricia Loofbourrow for the proofreading, formatting, and cover design. I appreciate it so much!
About the Author
I've loved reading since I can remember! I love puzzles and mysteries and intrigue, and of all the cities I've been to, Chicago is my favorite. My four years living in Chicago during grad school were wonderful. Plus I love history. And wasn't the 1920's wild? I've always wanted to write a series set in Chicago and now here's my chance.
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