The Dame on the Dock

by Louise Gorday

  “One word, Fannie, and I’ll—”

  She ignored his chivalry and consulted her notes. “When I lived here, I didn’t realize what a dangerous little town Nevis was. For the eleven years prior to this one, the murder rate held steady at around ten annually. And then you have this inexplicable change . . . want to guess how many in the twelve months?”

  “Twenty?”

  She held up two fingers. “Just Mena and the bike messenger. Seems everyone’s giving up their wanton ways. Either that, or they’re burying the body so deep nobody can find it.”

  “Or they throw it in the bay with cinder blocks tied to the feet.”

  “Exactly,” she said, cracking a smile. “Anyway, ten seemed a bit high. Most violent crime in Nevis involves altercations between longshoreman or day laborers on the waterfront—arguments while unloading freight, or bar fights. There were only four stranger assaults. Those were on the wharf, and all but one was solved. That’d be little Billie Peaden, a ten-year-old townie who snuck out one night to play hide-and-seek with his friends down on the wharf. They found him with his throat cut ear-to-ear. No suspects. Poor kid. But that was five years ago,” she added, looking down at her notes again, “and nothing remotely like it until Mena’s assault. All the other brouhahas were rows between family members, usually on Saturday evenings after a bout of heavy drinking. With Prohibition . . .” She shrugged.

  “Mmm,” Shoe said. He reached over and pushed a wayward piece of hair out of her face.

  “Stop. I like it short,” she said, pulling away.

  He smiled at her independence and dropped his hand. “That gives me a whole different picture than the one Riley Tanner gave me earlier. He doesn’t seem to think it’s safe. Told me to watch my back.” He thought a moment. “What about a year back—was there a record of the two bodies found under the wharf?”

  “I skipped that one. It was about bad booze. Comments? Suggestions? About the murders, not the hair.”

  “It seems unlikely an acquaintance would have followed Weathersby here from New York and done her in. Why not do it there, in the Bowery? That stuff goes on all the time. Besides, the circles she lived in wouldn’t have the wherewithal to follow her to Maryland. No,” he said, shaking his head. “Too far. Maybe it was just a case of bad judgment on her part, and she thought if she could survive in the Bowery, Nevis would be a Sunday stroll. Emerson said her father watched over her from afar. It’s hard to picture him letting her wander freely on the questionable side of town.”

  Once again, the feeling crept over him that there were eyes on him. If Weathersby kept tabs on Mena, why not keep tabs on him too? Shoe considered his surroundings: an older couple holding hands as they window-shopped, a gentleman walking a small white dog, and a shopkeeper collecting his mail from the mailbox mounted next to the door. No one seemed to give them a second glance.

  “By the way,” he said. “Weathersby’s considering a run for office.”

  “Are you thinking family did it? To protect their reputation? I can’t even fathom a family like that.”

  Shoe ran the tip of his shoe across the ground, smoothing out the dirt in front of him. How much should he share with her? Her help was beneficial, but she’d burned him before—a little too independent for her own good and the potential for going rogue if she thought it would help him. “Doubtful. If the truth were ever revealed, political opponents would have a field day with the scandal.”

  Fanny flipped the steno pad closed. “Where does that leave us?”

  Shoe considered, for a moment, Lewis Ware, the only lead he had. Was he a do-gooder out to rescue a trollop—as Emerson referred to Mena—and dime-a-dozen streetwalker? It seemed off, a bit far-fetched. “Based on the viciousness of the attack, I’d say it was a crime of passion.”

  Fannie studied her bright red shoes. “So, she knew her attacker. Jealous lover? Someone with kinky habits who got possessive.”

  Shoe gave her a double take. “Miss Fannie, that certainly didn’t come from your Emily Dickinson days. What on earth have you been reading?”

  Fannie blushed and hung her head. Shoe loved to make her blush, but he didn’t get to revel in the moment. His attention was drawn to a rattling flivver that pulled up to the gasoline pumps in front of Spitlers Auto Supply. A dandy in a tweed jacket hopped out and cranked up gasoline on the pump while his passenger remained in the car.

  “Jeez, Maries,” Shoe said, turning away and shielding his face behind his hand. “Ten o’clock—Rudy Becker. No, on second thought, eyes over here. His investigative skills are outdone only by his extraordinary good looks. Why does he keep following me around?”

  Fannie looked up and flashed her brightest smile. “Consider it done,” she said.

  “Done? I’ve not said a word about doing anything. When did you suddenly turn into this free-spirted femme-fatale flapper?”

  “When I found out how much fun it is.” She patted his hand. “Think he’s here for the reward?”

  “Most assuredly. What else would bring him out of his comfortable Washington office? I’m beginning to wonder how many people Emerson’s paid to sleuth around. Clearly, he’s not been entirely forthwith.” Shoe parted his fingers and took a peek at his nattily dressed competition. Shoe didn’t get how Rudy could take the same Roman nose, chestnut hair, and dimpled chin he himself had and turn them into something swoonworthy. “Oh, dear, the weasel’s heading this way. How about you go powder your nose somewhere?”

  “Nonsense,” she said, poufing her bob. “I think I’d prefer to sit here and shine.”

  “Shoemaker!”

  “Becker!” Shoe moved away from Fannie. “What a surprise!" He dodged a playful right hook Rudy threw at him. He offered his hand, which Rudy grasped and crushed in his own.

  “Still boxing, I see.”

  “Of course,” Rudy said. “Dempsey’s the greatest. Babe Ruth, eh, maybe a distant second when it comes to heroes.” He leaned around Shoe and smiled at Fannie.

  “What brings you out of Washington?” Shoe asked, leaning slightly to block his view. “If you’re looking for a position, I’m on good terms with the editor of the newspaper here. Shall I give Riley Tanner a reference?”

  “Business is good in D.C., but a little collegiality never did newsmen any harm. You?”

  “Vacation.”

  “Good for you. It’s all about pacing. All work and no play makes Shoe a dullard. “Am I right?” Rudy asked, looking at Fannie again. “When I saw you sitting here, my first thought was that you had given up trying to make it in the big city. It gets rough, spending your day dodging creditors.”

  Fannie crossed her legs and gave him a radiant smile. “Actually, Shoe is being modest. He’s working on a big case.”

  “Really? Care to share, Miss . . .?”

  “Fannie Byrne,” she said, offering a hand.

  “Rudy Becker,” he said, walking over and taking it.

  “Oh, look, dear,” Shoe said, taking Fannie’s hand from Rudy and pulling her to her feet. We’re late.” He turned to Rudy and said, “Maybe catch you about. Staying long?”

  “As long as it takes,” Rudy said. “No vacation for me. I’m on a great case. I’ll be at the Calvert. Give me a ring when you’re able to make some introductions.” He smiled at Fannie. “If you get bored, Miss Byrne, give me a call.” With a wink and a tip of the hat, he was off.

  “My case,” Shoe muttered. “As soon as Emerson offered me the case, he made a beeline for Rudy’s place. I wonder what he knows, that scoundrel!” He turned and gave Fannie a sour look. “Big case? I wanted to keep this on the down-low.”

  “Then why did you offer to show him around the Star?”

  “Well, ah, I didn’t think he’d take me up on it, that’s why. Somehow that scoundrel always seems to get the best of me.” He took off his hat, smoothed the brim, and resettled it on his head again. “And don’t think I didn’t see you flirting. Care to explain that?”

  Fannie’s lips pulled up into a pout
y little bow that almost always drove him nuts. Sometimes it was anger, but more often than not it was lust. “Well, he seems to be as low as they get. Maybe I’ll see if he’s free for cocktails later.”

  “Over my dead body! What happened to the naïve young woman who followed me to Washington?”

  “She bobbed her hair, picked up some worldly girlfriends, and learned not to be beholden to anyone for what she wants.”

  He gazed at the eyes. He thought they had a loving light, but it might have just been the delight of tormenting him. “And what would that be, because I’m not sure anymore.”

  “What every woman wants. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to visit Miss Francine’s beauty salon and get my nose powdered.”

  Shoe watched her float off. “Do you think you could fit a little reconnaissance into your visit?” he called after her. “Find out of anyone knows a young gentleman named Mr. Ware. And stay away from Rudy Becker!”

  She fluttered her fingers over her shoulder and threw in an exaggerated wiggle to her walk. Only God and women knew what the fairer sex wanted. If he could crack that code, he’d be ruling the world. If she was setting her sights on Rudy, the man would never know what hit him. It suddenly occurred to him that if God were a woman, it might explain a lot of crazy things in this world.

  He sat back down on the bench to cool off and regroup. Where was Jack, the other member of their merry little trio? Fannie’s brother might be only thirteen, but he was experienced way beyond his years. Right about now, Shoe pictured him working his connections down at the wharf. Pulling information from the lad would be relatively easy if Shoe threw money at him and framed his questions carefully.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sparrows and Chickens

  Dermott flicked away the half-smoked remains of his third cigarette. The area behind the police barracks was littered with old smokes. “Jack, I don’t know why I let you talk me into these things.”

  Nobody could make smoking look more boss than Byron Dermott, but the chain smoking gave it away. Old Dermie was fighting his insides. Imagine that.

  “Ssst! Hey, kid!” It was one of the jailbirds watching them through the iron bars of the lock-up next door. The voice was chipper, hopeful, but the words a bit slurred. He stuck a crooked finger through the grille. “If you’re gonna waste ’em . . ."

  Dermott shoved his pack deeper into his pocket and turned away.

  The voice took on a mean edge. “What’re you doin’ out there? Up to nooo good. Gonna end up in here with Jimmy and me. Good times.”

  Jack didn’t need to look him in the eye to know there was a leer there. He also knew the fellow was full of it. The jail wasn’t a long-term lock-up but mostly a drunk tank. The boozehound would be out in a few hours when he sobered up.

  “Gimme one. A new one and I won’t start hollering for the coppers . . .”

  “Christmas, Dermott,” Jack muttered. “Give him one. Shut him up.”

  “Sss.” Dermott tapped one out of the pack and made the fellow stretch hard for it.

  “That’en too,” the jailee said, pointing to one on the ground.

  Dermott gave him that one at arm’s length also. Apparently satisfied and tired of the game, the inmate disappeared with his booty.

  Dermott moved quickly away from the window. “Hurry. I’m not giving any more away, and I ain’t doing time for breakin’ and entrin’.” He laced his fingers together and got down low against the back wall of the barracks. “Up you go.”

  Two quick steps—one into Dermott’s hands and one for traction against the brick wall—and Jack caught the edge of the metal gutter. A couple of swings and a heave-ho rolled him up onto the roof. He rotated around and offered Dermott a hand.

  Only, Dermott stood staring, hands on his hips, disinclined to follow. “You see the problem,” he said. “Right? You’re gonna slide off of there.”

  He did have a point. Without any way to hook his feet, Jack was coming off head-first. “Running start,” Jack said, directing him away from the building.

  “Yeah. Maybe.” Dermott trotted back until he hit the wooden fence at the end of the lot. He spent a moment sizing it all up and then came full-steam at the building. About three feet from the wall, he launched himself upward and lunged for the top of the drain spout. He latched onto the metal pipe about halfway and began to shimmy his way up—a superb effort.

  Who woulda guessed the gutter wouldn’t hold? The metal trough detached with a squeak and a pop, dropped down, then toppled earthward with Dermott still attached. He hit the ground with a yelp and a thud. Then, not a wiggle, nor a whimper, nor an oath.

  Sweet Jesus, he’d just killed his best buddy. “Derm! Talk to me, Derm!” Jack hung over the edge of the building, waving his hands like a madman. “Say something,” he hissed. He started off the roof and then thought better of the drop.

  “Do it, dammit!” came a faint voice from the ground. “Get on with it. And then I’ll help you down.”

  Jack clambered up the sloped roof to the chimney and waved his hand around the flue cap. The ventilation coming out was cool air, no fire. He eased the cap free and put his ear close to the flue opening. The room below was silent.

  After a bit, his neck muscles began to burn. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. He could be here awhile. He switched ears, closed his eyes, and thought of other things. Like bananas. Yes, We Have No Bananas. Why didn’t the Greek guy have any bananas today? And what about yesterday? ’Course, if he was singing the song yesterday, that would make it today and he already said he didn’t have any. It was a dumb song. He was humming it, so his brain didn’t seem to think so. He shushed himself. The sound of voices rising up through the flue jolted him back to reality. Huh?

  “Lots of trouble down on the wharf.”

  “What now?” The voice sounded weary.

  “. . . murder the other night? People’s telling me it’s not your average murder. Chief McCall’s put a lid on things. Told those in the know to keep things real quiet. It’s a political thing. Nobody’s going to want to come here if we have a Jack the Ripper terrorizing the town.”

  “Politics? McCall’s a Donaldson boy. Why would Donaldson care?”

  “Boy?”

  “Aw, you know what I’m saying.”

  Whatever they were saying got lost in the blast of a car horn on the street below.

  The weary voice again. “What about the Koenig kid?”

  “Which one?”

  There was some chuckling.

  “Always the smart aleck. The one that’s left.”

  “Gonna go get him, scare a little silence into him, and cut him loose.”

  “Well, when you do, make sure you give him his brother’s effects. They’re locked in the evidence cabinet. Pocket stuff, you know? Marbles, penknife, buffalo nickel.”

  The conversation ceased. Maybe the coffee break was over. Jack leaned as far as he dared into the shaft.

  “Sad, real sad,” one of the voices continued. “Even McCall got misty-eyed. But don’t tell ’em I said that.”

  “Not me,” the other chortled.

  Another moment of silence. Jack’s legs were cramping. He changed from a squat to a sitting position and stretched out his legs. The voices began again, but the conversation was indistinct. He huddled closer.

  “. . . land speculation. Not much chit-chat but they say—”

  “You ladies plan on drinking tea all day?” A third voice.

  A couple of no sirs and that was it. Sheet, Jack thought. He stretched out on his back and pondered it all. A definite cover-up, someone named Donaldson, and land speculations. And the boys had been right. The other victim was one of the Koenig brothers. As his fourth-grade teacher often preached, ‘Who, what, when, where, why, and how?’ He couldn’t give her a satisfactory answer then, and he could only partially answer the question now, but Shoe should know. For all the quibbles he had with the man, Tatum Shoemaker knew how to use his noggin.

  He slid to the end of
the roof and peered out into the woods. Dermott? He puckered up and gave his best rendition of a house sparrow. No response, no Dermott. Be damned, the great Byron Dermott cut out on him. Dad-burn chicken. Jack gauged the distance from the roof to the ground. If he dangled, then dropped, it might not be too bad . . . He needed to think on it. It wasn’t being chicken, just cautious.

  A moment later, he swung off the roof and let ’er go.

  Chapter Twelve

  Betrayal and Revenge

  Rudy thanked his driver and hurried up the steps of the Bayside. Why was Shoemaker in town? He’d heard Shoe’s girl was a local—maybe for her. Given the hullabaloo Shoe’s reporting had stirred up, it was foolish to come back here and risk retribution, especially now. After months of upheaval, the Nevis political structure was calming down and settling back in with the same group of political figures previously swept up in the liquor raids. Rudy had to shake his head at that one. When was the populace ever going to learn that you could never trust a crooked man?

  He paused in the lobby, searching for the conservatory. He’d long ago become jaded by the spending of the super-rich. Still, this place was a doozy, dripping in opulence: gilt wallpaper, crystal chandeliers everywhere, and an expansive sitting area filled with palms and other exotic flora. It seemed the approaching winter hadn’t slowed down business; the lobby was full and bustling. He knew how it went with these places. Find one influential high-society benefactor to be belle of the ball—all amenities gratis, of course—and all the friends and wannabees would follow. The season would be a successful draw. This winter, it would be a Vanderbilt. Next year, an Astor or the like. Rudy shook his head. He was in the wrong profession.

  An effervescent uniformed bellhop in a round brimless hat—perhaps seizing on Rudy’s hesitation as a chance to earn a quick gratuity—skittered toward him. “May I be of assist—”

  Rudy spotted the conservatory and shook his head. From there, his eyes shifted to the staircase across the hallway. No doubt a gentleman such as Emerson valued timeliness, but surely he would excuse a few minutes of tardiness and allow a gentleman to reassure the love of his life that he would soon be safely by her side. And maybe assuage his guilt for flirting with Shoe’s lovely Miss Byrne, however innocent it might have been. Getting Shoe’s billy goat was a difficult habit to break.