The Dame on the Dock

by Louise Gorday

  “And she never slipped away?”

  Emerson shook his head.

  “Did your man get any feel for whether she was expecting to meet someone there?”

  “Mr. Henderson noted nothing definitive. He described her demeanor as uncomfortable. She insisted on a table away from the door, sat with her back to the wall, and eyed the doorway throughout her meal.”

  “Mmm. As would anyone relocating to a new place. And how did she look? Physically debilitated?”

  “Actually, he thought she looked better than usual.”

  Shoe shifted back in his chair and mulled over the information. Coming all the way to Nevis didn’t make a lot of sense. The main appeal of the small town was the Bayland Amusement Park. If she wanted that sort of thing, Coney Island was closer and much bigger. “Any ties to Nevis?”

  “Weathersby is part owner of this very hotel. The family has spent time here over the years.”

  “Oh, now we might be getting somewhere,” Shoe said, sitting up straight again. “She had to be seeking something else, meeting someone. Your man Henderson, he’s sure she traveled alone?”

  “He believed so. She sat alone and never spoke to anyone. She made contact with a gentleman who helped her descend the train stairs at the station. And when she headed for the pier, she disappeared into a group of apparition seekers. After that, he lost her.”

  Shoe made a note on his writing pad. “He didn’t by any chance provide the man’s description, did he?”

  “Certainly,” Emerson said. “Everyone Mr. Weathersby employs provides their money’s worth, Mr. Shoemaker.” He then closed his eyes and recited as if reading notes scribed onto the inside of his eyelids: “Handsome; well-made dark suit, possibly Brooks Brothers; spotless oxfords—”

  “A gentleman,” Shoe said, tapping his pen on the table. “That certainly narrows things down.”

  “And a subtle limp,” Emerson said, glaring at him. “He favors the right leg.”

  Shoe wrote that down and circled it. “Any indication where he went?”

  “Towards town. I’m sure you’ll find out.”

  Shoe nodded. “So where else did she go?”

  “She shopped along Main Street, stopping to peer in the window of three establishments: Wockenfuss Confectionary, Francine’s Salon, and a Dr. Thurber’s.”

  “Thurber? He must be new.”

  “He’s a charlatan quack.”

  Shoe marveled at the preciseness of Emerson’s information and wondered why they even needed him. He might not even be able to meet the high standards that would be expected of him.

  He reviewed his notes. “So, to summarize: she was an addict, appears to have traveled alone, liked chocolate, valued good looks, and may have had some ailments. Anything else?”

  “None. She arrived on Thursday and remained in her room all the rest of the first day. She stayed in all day Friday, ordering room service in the morning and once again at midday. Friday night, she sashayed down to the rough section of town and never came back out again. It was Henderson who found her lifeless body behind a trash bin. He recognized her clothing.”

  “Hold up,” Shoe said, motioning for him to stop. “This Henderson guy watched her waltz down into the bad part of town and did nothing to stop her?”

  Emerson nodded.

  Shoe arched an eyebrow and scratched his head. “And you don’t see anything ethically wrong with that?”

  “Of course! Everyone can see what’s wrong with that, but who could predict . . .” Emerson heaved a sigh. “Mr. Weathersby’s employees quickly learn what their duties and responsibilities are, or they are quickly seeking employment elsewhere. Mr. Henderson was to follow at a discreet distance but not interfere in any way. Unfortunately . . .”

  “I’d like to speak to him.”

  “That won’t be possible. He’s no longer in Mr. Weathersby’s employ.”

  The thought suddenly occurred to Shoe that he should get as much money up front as possible. “What about the kid?” he asked, shifting subjects. “Have they identified him yet? I take it he’s not a Weathersby?”

  “As far as we can tell, just an innocent local. Mr. Weathersby has offered to pay for final arrangements. Anonymously, of course.”

  “And why would he do that? Feeling guilty? Should I be looking at him too?”

  Emerson gave him a sharp look. “Absolutely not. Feelings of guilt often accompany loss of a child.”

  Shoe let it drop. If Weathersby had something hidden, it wouldn’t stay so for long. “Okay. Was she still in the will?”

  “Of course. Underneath Mr. Weathersby’s steely business exterior is the shattered interior of a loving father, Mr. Shoemaker. He never gave up on her and regularly provided a modest—very modest—stipend that was picked up from an intermediary down on the Bowery. He would have given more, but he realized that anything substantial would have been frittered away. Mr. Weathersby is a complicated man; both blood and dignity run deep.”

  Shoe nodded. Emerson pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and pushed it across the table. “Mr. Weathersby isn’t as interested in the why as the who. Confidentiality is crucial. As he’s rumored to be entering the next gubernatorial race, he wants as little information spilling out into the press as possible. One slip of the lip and you’re out. Understood?”

  “Certainly.” Shoe palmed the envelope closer. It seemed to warm to his touch. “What did they pull from her room?” he asked, casually fanning his thumb across the wad of bills in the envelope. From what he could tell without appearing greedy, the bills seemed to be of small denomination.

  “The room has been left untouched for renovation.”

  Shoe stopped thumbing. “And the police let him get away with that? I am impressed. You have the key?”

  Emerson shook his head. “At the desk. I’m sure you can handle that. And it’s not a question of getting away with anything. There was no identification on the body, no connection to the hotel, and thankfully, nothing to connect the deceased with Mr. Weathersby. Not yet, at least. Keep it that way.”

  “Any current or past beaus I might need to consider?”

  “She had a brief fling in Newport before she took off. A ne’er-do-well that the family chased off. He hasn’t been seen since. We don’t think he’s involved.”

  “You mean, ‘paid handsomely’? Isn’t that the way it’s done?”

  “He was a bounder, sir. He was sent off with enough cash to make him happy and a warning to not approach her again.”

  Shoe stifled a chuckle.

  Emerson gave him an indignant look. “Why do you find that amusing?”

  “Ahem, sorry,” Shoe said, trying to pull himself together. “Where I come from, there’s no reward for that kind of behavior. They just chase you off with a baseball bat and that’s the end of it.”

  “If you had children, you would no doubt think it all less funny.”

  “Fair enough,” Shoe said. “What was his name?”

  “Looking him up is a waste of time. He never showed his face again. Concentrate on other things.”

  “What about business, political rivals? I’m sure Mr. Weathersby has made quite a few enemies along the way. Any of those despise him enough to seek revenge? Maybe not so far as to murder someone. Kidnapping, perhaps, with things gone terribly awry?”

  “What you have to understand is the politics of old money. They form business partnerships, lavish one another with entertainment, and their children get along well enough to marry each other. All goes extraordinarily well until there’s a falling-out. Unfortunately, those happen quite often, part and parcel of business. Mr. Weathersby is troubled by only one such relationship. Carlton Donaldson.”

  “The shipping magnate?”

  “The same. Long ago, Missus Weathersby and Mr. Donaldson’s son, Theodore, were betrothed. Healthy business competition between Messrs. Weathersby and Donaldson became a heated personal competition, driving a wedge between the intendeds. They went their separate
ways. Thus far, Carlton Donaldson is disinclined to back Weathersby on anything.”

  “Where might I find this Donaldson?”

  “You don’t. Arouse his suspicions and it affects Mr. Weathersby’s business dealings as well as any future political aspirations.”

  “Well, surely Carlton Donaldson knows about Mena’s downward spiral.”

  “Oh, most assuredly, and his son’s breaking of their engagement no doubt led to some of the poor choices she made. But feeding the flames of curiosity surrounding a recent sensational murder could provide unnecessary fodder on an already toxic relationship.”

  “So, no Donaldson.”

  Emerson didn’t respond but crushed the last of his cigarette in a nearby ashtray as he exhaled smoke through his nose.

  Like the cigarette, Shoe’s time was up. He closed the folio. “Can I keep these?”

  “Certainly not,” Emerson said. He slipped the pictures back into his jacket pocket and handed Shoe a slip of paper. “This is her last known address in New York. Grief is a private matter, Mr. Shoemaker, and Mr. Weathersby would like to keep it that way. Find out who killed his daughter and keep the family name out of the press, and he will be most grateful.”

  With that, he slipped money under his glass—a sizeable tip for the waiter’s discretion, no doubt—and left.

  Shoe sat a moment longer, transferring the New York address into his reporter’s notebook. There would be no trips to New York until he exhausted the leads in Nevis, slim though they might be. He checked his watch. Fannie was probably wandering around the lobby waiting on him. He could only hope that the latest scuttlebutt from her mother’s diner was more straightforward than some of the malarkey just dished out to him. Emerson wasn’t playing it straight. Too many secrets and don’t go there’s. So, what of it was true, and why bother to throw a boatload of money at him and then play games?

  He pocketed the envelope. This case was getting better all the time. It would be interesting to use someone’s own money to call them out.

  Chapter Seven

  Room 29

  Shoe didn’t see Fannie. He dinged the gold bell on the check-in counter and in exchange for a room signed away three days’ pay on the Bayside Hotel’s guest registry. In return, the concierge gave him a disapproving head-to-toe, a celluloid smile, and a bronze room key.

  “This is overlooking the water?” Shoe asked, running his thumb across the 28 on the brass key.

  “No, sir. It’s parkside.”

  Shoe tipped his head, beckoning the desk clerk closer. “This puts me in a bit of a bind with the little lady,” he whispered. “Foolishly, I promised her a suite on the bay side. Nothing else available, Mr. . . . Waddell?” he asked, reading the gentleman’s name tag. He slid a twenty across the counter.

  “Hmm.” The gentleman turned and consulted the key board, which was empty save for one key hanging below the number 29. “No, that would be all, sir.”

  “What about 29?” It was Fannie, fluttering both eyelashes and a dainty hand at the rack. “I believe we’ve stayed there before. Right, sweetie?”

  The concierge blanched. “Oh, no, that one isn’t available at the moment. It’s being renovated. Perhaps on your next stay?” Waddell lifted the key from its hook and slid it into his pocket. “Do you want 28?” he asked, honing an edge on his voice.

  “Very well,” Shoe said, sighing dramatically. “I’ll make it up to you later, baby.” He put an arm around Fannie and guided her toward the elevator.

  “Why do we want to stay in 29?” Fannie whispered, giving the bellhop a wave and a smile.

  “It’s the victim’s room, only nobody knows it.”

  “Then how come you know it?”

  Shoe held the elevator door open and followed her on. “Because I know all the right people.” He punched the button for the second floor and when they got off there, he ignored room 28 and rattled the handle on 29 across the hall. It was locked.

  Shoe studied Fannie’s glossy short hair a moment. “I wish you hadn’t bobbed your hair,” he whispered.

  Her face fell. “I thought you liked it,” she said, fingering her soft waves.

  “Oh, I do,” he said, turning his attention back to the door, “but I need a hairpin to work this lock.”

  Her smile returned. She dug down through her handbag and pulled out a metal tin stuffed with hair clips. “All you had to do was ask.” She hung over him as he jimmied the lock. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

  “Your brother.” The lock clicked and Shoe pulled her in behind him and closed the door. The room was actually a suite, spacious and well-appointed with white furniture he’d be afraid to sit on. The window curtains were pulled back to reveal a sweeping view of the sparkling Chesapeake Bay, its glassy surface dotted with tiny fishing vessels. This was a life he’d never have.

  Shoe moved to the bedroom, Fannie right behind him. In this room stood a four-poster bed, dresser, chifforobe, and a small writing table. Near the bed were several leather suitcases stacked one on another. Fannie pushed past him and scooted to the mahogany chifforobe on the far wall. She pulled open the long, mirrored door on the right side.

  “Look, but don’t touch,” he whispered. “Unless you want a nice little interview down at headquarters. At some point the police are going to be in here.”

  Fannie rolled her eyes at him and opened her hand to reveal a lace handkerchief wrapped around her fingers. She poked around a moment before switching to the left side of the cabinet. “Empty,” she said, taking in the rest of the room. “I wonder why room service didn’t unpack her? She spent a whole night in here and never unpacked?”

  Shoe walked over to the three suitcases—two matching dark leather-edged Louis Vuittons and a smaller Pullman of tan vellum—and popped the latches on the top one. “Empty,” he said. And so it was with the second. The third, the largest of the three, was locked, with no sign of a key.

  “Can you spring it?” Fannie asked.

  “Sure, but that’s evidence-tampering.” He stepped back and stared at it for a moment. He shrugged it off. “Leave it be for now. If we get desperate . . .”

  “Why would someone take her clothes?” Fannie asked. She pulled up the bottom of the bedspread and looked under the bed. “Nothing.”

  Shoe checked the desk. The writing pad was blank. He ran his fingertips across the top page, feeling for indentations. There were none. He put it back and pulled out a burgundy leather-bound book from the same drawer. “Well, she can’t be too bad a character. She unpacked her bible.”

  “It’s a Gideon.”

  “No, bible. Says so right across the front.”

  “It’s a Gideon Bible,” she said, taking it from him. “From the traveling evangelists, named after the biblical figure Gideon in Judges. They gave them away to students at Drexel.” She stared at him a moment. “You don’t know your Bible, do you?”

  “Judges 6,” he countered, throwing her a smug look. “So, we might have a hooker who’s found her way back to the righteous path?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not hers. Wherever the Gideons go, they leave them for other people. It’s their mission.” As she fanned through the book, something blue flipped out of the pages and spun to the floor. She picked up the crinkled slip of pleated paper and smoothed it out into its circle shape. “Blank,” she said flipping it over. Then she sniffed it. “Mmm, chocolate. And not your penny candy stuff either. Heavenly,” she said, enjoying a second whiff.

  “Something you could buy here?”

  She shrugged. “Here as in the Bayside or here as in town? Probably no to the first and yes to the second. The wrapper is lovely. Wockenfuss Confectionary down on Main Street could probably tell you. I could do that if you’d like.”

  “Actually, I have something else for you,” he said, not trusting the dent she might put in his wallet in a heavenly chocolate shop. He slid the paper into a breast pocket and took in the rest of the room. “So, she was a sentimental type and she liked to squ
irrel away her mementoes. Take one more look, Fannie. What else can we learn here?”

  Fannie took her time, starting at the door and gradually working her way around the room. “Nothing,” she said with a sigh. “Either someone’s taken all her things, or she traveled light because she was in a hurry and she was keeping up pretenses.” She shook her head. “Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Faceless corpses never do. Come on. Let’s get out of here.” He cracked the hallway door open and listened a moment. It was as quiet as a morgue on Sunday night. They slipped across the hall.

  In the three strides it took to switch rooms, Fannie and Shoe crossed from the domain of the excessively rich to that of the moderately comfortable. Whereas room 29 was an opulent bayside suite, room 28 was a single small room, although still well-appointed with two nicely carved beds, a small table separating them, and an adequate chifforobe opposite the window. A view of Bayland Park replaced the glorious bay panorama.

  Shoe walked over to the window and drew up the shade. The view wasn’t bad if you liked looking at treetops and the summit of the Derby roller coaster. He wondered how much clickety-clack he’d have to listen to.

  “Where are my bags?” Fannie asked, making a quick visual sweep of the room.

  “Where—I had them sent over to your mother’s house.” He turned around to get a better look at her. “Surely you didn’t think you were staying with me?”

  “Well, er . . .” She cast her eyes down and refused to look at him.

  He chuckled. “Well, I appreciate the trust, but think of your reputation, Fannie. How good would that look?” Two unmarried people sharing . . .”

  “But you signed us in downstairs as married?”

  “Well, yes, but that was just for show. So we could come and go without the clerks gossiping.”

  Fannie didn’t look pleased. Shoe walked over to her and tried to put an arm around her. Apparently, he read that one wrong. She pulled away with a huff and decided to check out the window view herself. Somehow, he didn’t think she’d be giving him the lowdown on how the roller coaster was doing.