The Dame on the Dock

by Louise Gorday

  “Are you coming with me or shall I engage you a ride?” he asked.

  “No need,” she said. “All I want is fresh air, a brisk walk, and Mom’s darb raisin bread. What time is your meeting with Emerson?”

  “Eleven o’clock. Jack can take care of himself, but I’m not so sure about letting you wander around by yourself.”

  “My hometown and the middle of the day? Pfft. I’ll be fine. Now you . . . don’t wander into any alleys and I’ll meet up with you later at the Bayside Hotel. Noonish?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  She raised up on tiptoes and smooched his cheek. “Now breeze off.”

  Shoe chuckled. This was the Fannie he enjoyed—happy, with just a little bit of sass. “Will do. Soon as they find our suitcases.”

  “Right here, sir.” It was Mr. Parnell, pushing a cart of luggage.

  Shoe gave him a tip and asked that his bags be delivered to the Bayside Hotel and hers and Jack’s to Betty’s diner. “Mr. Parnell,” he said, motioning toward the throng milling about. “All these people here to get a jump on the park line, or are they giving away something that I don’t know about?”

  The porter arched a bushy gray eyebrow. “It’s the visitation, sir.”

  Shoe racked his brain, scanning it for any political or diplomatic mission that would somehow consider it important to include backwaters such as Nevis on its itinerary. Goose eggs. “Sorry, which one would that be?”

  “Why, the visits by Mother Mary down at the waterfront, don’t you know.”

  Parnell pocketed his tip and crossed himself.

  Shoe was unsure of whether the hand gesture was one of reverence for the Virgin or appreciate for the money. He wasn’t particularly religious—a quick prayer requesting assistance when he was in trouble, appreciation for a particularly lovely azure sky, or giving thanks for a sudden, inexplicable influx of money when he was short. He’d never been a member of a church, and he wasn’t planning on joining any time soon. “All these people?” he asked. “Must have been quite a show to attract this kind of attention.”

  Parnell gave him a quick look. “Does everything have to be flashy to be important? These are true believers.” He tipped his hat and headed off toward a group of older women struggling with big suitcases.

  “Parnell,” he called, turning the old man around. “Where can I find out more?”

  “Evening Star.” Parnell flashed a quick smile and disappeared into the throng.

  Shoe nodded. If anyone knew their onions, it was the local newspaper. He could handle that. Just so happened the newspaper was his next stop anyway. He collected his bag and fell into step with a herd of people traveling downhill toward the waterfront.

  Less than a week until Christmas and the town had gone all-out. Wreaths hung on the doors of many businesses. Lampposts were festooned with big red bows and more than a few had posters advertising Winter Wonderland Friday night dances at the pavilion. More like Winter Wonder-out-land-ish, he mused. He could never quite find the rhythm to be a good dancer. He fought the strong urge to pluck each advertisement from its place and chuck them all into a nearby trash receptacle; Fannie would want to drag him there if she could. It gave him even more incentive to get things tied up here and get back to D.C. in time for President Coolidge’s Christmas tree unveiling. No dancing there.

  As Shoe hit the first intersection—Third Street and Bayside Avenue— he scrutinized his surroundings. He could put up a good front with Fannie, but honestly, returning to Nevis gave him the shivers. The bootlegging network he had here had been but one facet of a massive illegal operation extending clear back into Philadelphia and the Delaware Valley. The resultant scandal touched the highest level of local government, and not all of those people were currently doing time in the Big House. The Volstead Act had no teeth. First-time offenders got off relatively easy. With juries rare to convict, most arrestees walked away with no jail time. Oh, there was public embarrassment to contend with, but considering that most citizens were partaking in illicit sippy-sippy, the only ones who cared were the temperance people.

  When he decided no one was paying any particular mind to him, he continued on down to the Evening Star. He ignored the newspaper’s main entrance and headed for the side door in the alley; old habits were hard to break. It was unlocked, so he walked right in.

  Perkins was hunched over his linotype looking as if he had not gone home since the last time Shoe had seen him. Shoe gave him a nod as he threaded his way around boxes of printing paper, machine parts, and other printing paraphernalia. Riley Tanner’s office was closed. The old Shoe would have considered it a blessing and crept quietly away. The new emboldened Shoe rapped several times. “Too busy for a quick howdy?” he asked, peeking in.

  Tanner looked up, startled. “Well, I’ll be.” They shook hands and Tanner seemed quite pleased by his old employee’s interruption. “Never thought I’d see your face this way again.” He pointed to an empty chair across from his desk.

  “Yeah, well, there’s a certain charm about the place,” Shoe said. He pulled his fedora from his head and looked about the editor’s paper-filled office—same clutter as before, newer publication dates.

  Tanner offered him a cigar. “You know I’ll never forgive you for running to the Washington Evening Star to publish that political piece of yours.”

  Shoe didn’t smoke, but he took it anyway. It might serve as an excellent source of barter later on. “And if you’ll remember,” he said, sitting down, “I tried several times to sell you on that story . . . from early on. But in all fairness to you, I guess it is unusual for someone so green to crack a story that big.”

  Tanner sighed wearily as he trimmed the end of his fat cigar. “The one time in my life when I sell someone short and they come up with that! I’m such an old donkey’s rear end, Shoemaker. But now you’re back. All is forgiven. I have an empty office right next door. Assistant editor if you’d like.”

  “Don’t think Buck would like that much.”

  Tanner shook his head in disgust. “Ole Buck Hooley traded in his newsman’s cap for manufacturing typewriters. I tried to tell him, once a newsman, always a—anyway, when can you start?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Of course. Best reporter I ever had. Can’t fathom why Washington would let you slip away, but their loss.”

  Shoe nodded. The Nevis paper would be good cover . . . free access to insider information and extra moola in the pocket, who wouldn’t run with that? “I, er, when do you want me?”

  “Yesterday, kid.”

  “Uh, that’d be swell,” Shoe said, trying not to sound overeager, “but I have a story I’d like to follow up on. Free rein to do that?”

  “Can I get first crack at it?”

  Shoe rotated his hat around in his hands, studying the brim. “Well, sure . . . yeah, I suppose you can. I’ve just got to make sure I don’t step on any toes. I’m not planning on catching any more midnight trains out of town to save my skin.”

  “Done. I’ll get you with Conrad and we’ll blow your horn a bit. He’s been writing our human-interest stories since you ran out on me. We’ll splash it across the bottom of page one. Pulitzer Prize-Winning Hometown Boy Returns,” he said, trying to paint a visual picture with a sweep of his hand. “It’ll be good for business, good for you.”

  “Nominated. Didn’t win, actually,” Shoe said, blushing. “And I don’t know about all that. I’m sure there are more than a few who’d like nothing better than to boot my rear end right back to D.C.” He picked up a galley proof from several on Tanner’s desk. “But look at you! Business seems to be rolling right along. Like that bloody killing on the wharf. The Washington Evening Star picked up your story. What’s the scoop on that?”

  Tanner shook his head. “Wish I knew. We can’t get a word out of anybody. Chief McCall just about ripped off Ed Nugent’s head when I sent him for a comment. All we know is what we printed: a woman and a boy whose names they are withholding. The young�
��un probably a local. They found his bike nearby. Snake-eyes on the woman. I guess they’ll provide more information when they get positive identification.”

  “Why would the cops withhold information? Somebody might have seen something.”

  Tanner shrugged. “You know these police. Everything is held close to the vest until they build a case.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “Afraid not. Not enough left . . .” Tanner’s voice trailed off in disgust.

  “Witnesses?”

  Tanner gave a half-shrug. “If there are, they’ve got ’em on ice somewhere. But hey, don’t go blabbing, okay? This is strictly on the down-low. With all the hush-hush you’d think it was someone important, but down in that section of town . . .” He shook his head. “Rough and dirty.”

  Shoe’s eyebrows went up. “Really? And how does all this religious—the visitation by the Virgin Mary? A porter up at the depot said it was bringing in boatloads of people. Saw it for myself getting off the train this morning. That story getting good traction?”

  Tanner laughed and rolled his eyes. “Too much. If you can get me a deal on cheap rosaries to hawk down wharfside, I’ll cut you in on nice little side job.”

  “Creative advertising from Bayland Amusement Park?”

  “Oh, no! Couple of Irish nuns decide to spice up their American visit with holy people floating around the warehouses like specters. Suddenly, we’ve got nuts-o’s coming from everywhere. If I wanted to give it momentum, first thing I would ask them is why they were down in the red-light district in the middle of the night.” He studied the end of his smoke and then tapped the long column of gray ash into a nearby ashtray. “No, the amusement park folks didn’t dream up that one, but they’re sure reaping the benefits. The last thing in the world this town needs right now is a bunch of people poking around in bad places. We don’t want any more of them getting sliced and diced down on the waterfront.”

  Tanner suddenly preoccupied himself with snuffing out a perfectly good cigar and lighting a fresh one. There was a tremor in the editor’s hand. Things were really bad when a battle-hardened newshound ran scared.

  Shoe stood up. “Could talk to you all day, Riley, but I do have my other business to complete.” He settled his hat back on his head and pushed it well off his face. “Maybe I’ll nose around a bit. If you don’t mind, of course. And my assistant, Miss Byrne—would you mind if she poked around the news morgue so we can catch up to speed on town goings-on?”

  “Betty’s daughter? Tell her to have at it.” Tanner pointed towards a rear corner of the building. “Same place as when you left. But tell her to avoid Jenkins. He has an eye for pretty young ladies. And you,” he said, pointing at Shoe now, “you be careful. Still a load of townspeople holding a grudge. Best watch your back. And watch yourself along the pier, especially after sunset. They don’t care who you are down there.”

  Shoe laughed. “Yeah, I heard. I might be safer where they don’t recognize me. Doesn’t say much about the electorate, does it?”

  “Oh, I think it speaks more to man’s unwillingness to give up the fruit of the vine, and Volstead’s inability to stick violators where it hurts. Six months for Prentis Gant, that’s all he got. If he could have weaseled out of the manufacturing charge, he might have walked with a simple fine. He’s still a god of the common man’s plight. Hard liquor sooths everything.”

  Tanner was thoughtful for a moment. “Ahh, I could yap about this all day long. Get out of here so I can get some work done.”

  Shoe skirted the group of reporters kibitzing near the front door and headed for the Bayside Hotel and his appointment with Emerson. He had no intention of permanently hanging out his shingle here. He didn’t think Tanner knew much more about the murders than he did, but whatever the old goat found out, Shoe was certain he’d share.

  Were the Marian visions and the murders related? He would get Fannie into the news morgue to nose out any patterns. It was possible someone was making murder their religion. He aimed to find out who . . . and why.

  Chapter Six

  Forget the Why

  The Bayside Hotel was the grandest of the lodgings in Nevis, a vision of octagonal towers, wide wraparound porches, and gables dripping in Victorian vergeboard. It was impressive, but Shoe much preferred the uncluttered look of some of the newer buildings in town.

  He pushed through the stained-glass paneled doors of the grand entryway and entered into a microcosm of high society. This was a leisured, wealthy clientele for the most part, with a few barnacles who, whether through charm or striking good looks, had attached themselves to a free ride. They strutted. They posed. They scrutinized him fiercely.

  He crossed the dark, polished floor and headed for the maître de standing guard at the double-doored entrance to the glass conservatory. Mentioning Douglas Emerson’s name brought him instant curry-favor. He hadn’t received this much consideration since he’d been nominated for the Pulitzer. He was swept immediately into the room and seated at the best table, which was tucked cozily into a corner underneath a potted evergreen festooned with enormous red Christmas bows and silver bells. Close by, a fire crackled in a fieldstone fireplace with a hearth stretching the length of the wall. Here, the most powerful and rich could be admired but not inconvenienced by the lesser folk.

  He ordered a Klondike Fizz and reminisced about his last visit, right before he broke his big story. He had been stalking Nathan Tarkington, a charming bootlegging middleman out of Delaware. Shoe wondered if his exposé had sent the man to prison. Probably not. He had seemed like an adaptable chap who would land on his feet no matter what life threw at him. No doubt all the notoriety had launched him into a new career—maybe something honest like selling shoes at Hahn’s. He’d check with Fannie.

  “Mr. Shoemaker?” Douglas Emerson’s quiet voice stirred him from his reverie.

  Shoe rose and they shook hands. “Glad to see you made it back to Nevis safely.”

  “And you also, Mr. Shoemaker. If this is too public a place for you, we can procure another room, but I though the privacy adequate. The staff will make sure we aren’t disturbed.” When Shoe offered no objections, he took a seat.

  “What he’s having,” Emerson said to the waiter. And when the waiter returned with his drink he said, “I’ll let you know when we need you again.”

  The waiter discretely disappeared.

  “Have you settled in yet?” Emerson asked, turning back to Shoe.

  “Not yet. Thought it best to see what I’ve gotten myself into. Who, exactly, am I working for? And the unidentified victim? But please, no more pictures.”

  “Oh, I intend on telling you everything, Mr. Shoemaker. And I’m fairly certain that when I’m done, you won’t walk away disinterested. As for the pictures? Just these.” Emerson handed him a buff-colored folio of heavy cardboard.

  Shoe unwound the string from the button and opened it. Inside was an old, formal family portrait in the typical American style of yesteryear: a studio setting with a man and woman seated next to one another, a boy of about twelve standing beside them with his hand on his father’s coat sleeve, and three younger children sitting primly at their parents’ feet. Shoe noted the close, conservative cut of the gentleman’s coat with its wide, notched lapels, and the heavily beaded ruby-red dress of the elegant woman. This was a family of considerable means.

  “Wilhelmina Barton Weathersby,” Emerson said, tapping the face of the youngest in the picture—a curly-haired brunette beauty with rosy cheeks and doe eyes. He produced a second picture of a little girl clutching a bouquet of flowers. “Mena, beloved daughter and last surviving child of shipping tycoon Benedict Weathersby. She’s also the granddaughter of Edgar Tuttle Barton, former advisor to the President. Benedict Weathersby is a gentleman—to be most blunt—on whom the rain does not fall, Father Time does not ravage, and certainly, no one has ever thought of crossing.”

  “Benedict Weathersby? Now that’s some money!” Shoe studied the pictures a moment, the
n Emerson. “How does the little girl fit in with what happened to the woman on the wharf?”

  Emerson lit a cigarette and glanced around them. “They are one and the same.”

  “Her?” Shoe picked up the girl’s photograph and studied it more closely. “I take it they found identification on the . . .”

  Emerson looked at his cigarette and studied the wisp of rising white smoke as if he would find some answer there. “None.”

  “Then how do you know—how long had she been missing?”

  Emerson shrugged. “She was never missing. Just displaced. She cut herself off from family and kept a low profile in the Bowery in New York. Good stock but ill repute. A heroin addict. Her family kept tabs on her general whereabouts just so there were no surprises. The day before the murder, she checked into the Bayside under her stage name, Mena Beebe. Room 29.”

  “‘Stage name’?”

  Emerson shook his head at this. “Mena ended up about as far away from Broadway as one can get, and in the end resembled nothing of the sweet little girl in that picture. Have you ever known someone who has more money, Mr. Shoemaker, more money than they know what to do with? So much money that they build an ocean-view mansion on a cliff in Newport, Rhode Island with no intention of spending more than three weeks a year living there? Children of such wealthy families often find themselves with too little to do and too much money to do it with. Women move so fast now,” he said with a sigh. “If they knew what was good for them, they’d find a nice fellow and stay home and have babies.”

  Shoe wondered what Fannie would say about that. He stared at the photo and tried to imagine the little girl without a face. It brought up bad memories and breakfast. He flipped the picture over. “If they haven’t found identification, how do you know the body is Miss Beebe’s?”

  “From the moment she alighted from the train at the Nevis depot, her father had her followed. She went directly from the train to Betty’s, where she ate alone. As I’m sure you know, it’s a well-established place, nothing out of the ordinary.”