The Dame on the Dock

by Louise Gorday

  He was almost to the door when a heavily laden luggage cart rolled off the elevator and cut him off. The porter parked it directly in front of the stairs and took up residence next to it. Behind him waddled a well-dressed dame in black, the sloth-like quality of her progress caused, no doubt, by her substantial girth, great array of diamonds, and more than a little self-importance.

  “Excuse me,” Rudy said, motioning toward the stairs. “If I might get—”

  The porter ignored him and proceeded to open the top train case for the lady to inspect. Rudy watched as she closed that one and indicated a need to plough through the checkered Louis Vuitton at the bottom of the stack. Rudy muttered an oath that would have brought color to her cheeks. His limited time now frittered away by the search and his own petty bid to stick it to Shoe, he turned and headed for his meeting.

  Emerson, approaching from the opposite direction, quickly intercepted him and greeted him cordially. They set right to business at a quiet table away from the conservatory door.

  “Are you staying here?” Emerson asked.

  “The Calvert.”

  “Excellent choice. I suspect you won’t be there long. This case is not that difficult for someone of your caliber.” Emerson opened the briefcase at his feet, withdrew a sheet of paper, and handed it to him.

  It was a nondisclosure form. That told Rudy two things. The parties involved had money, and he was about to get paid a hefty sum. He could be bought. Emerson proffered a pen and he signed it without question.

  Emerson next handed him several pictures.

  “Oh, dear God,” Rudy said, handing them right back. “Yes, a most heinous murder. Who’s the deceased and who do you think did it?”

  “There’s no guesswork here, Mr. Becker. The perpetrator is someone quite familiar with the town but not originally from Nevis. Someone with a public persona but not a terribly high profile. A rising star, if you will. We have no doubt.”

  “We? And who would that be?”

  “You don’t need to know the who to do your job. I’m going to give you the name of the killer. All you have to do is work your way backwards.”

  Rudy scratched an itch on his cheek that wasn’t really there. He’d heard some strange ones, but this outdid them. “I can respect that, but if you know who did it, why hire someone at all? Take it to the police. That is their function. They’ll apprehend the man . . . I am assuming it’s a man . . .”

  “And you would be correct.”

  “They’ll immediately nab the scoundrel and he won’t be able to harm anyone else.”

  Emerson raised a finger to stop him. “Because knowing and proving are two different things.”

  Rudy nodded. “Sounds straightforward enough.” He pulled out a pen and reporter’s pad. “Can I get some names here?”

  “Tatum Shoemaker.”

  Rudy blinked several times. “Begging your pardon?”

  “I believe you heard me right. An acquaintance of yours who now resides in the District.”

  “Shoe? Shoe Tatum Shoemaker?” Rudy realized his mouth was gaping. He closed it and continued staring at Emerson as if he’d just told him God had died. “We have a healthy professional rivalry, but, but, but . . .” He stopped a moment to consider it. “He scarcely strikes me as the type. An accusation of this magnitude, uh . . . you must have some evidence?”

  “He was romantically involved with the victim.”

  Shoe was cheating on Miss Fannie? Rudy took quick inventory. No, he had no recall of Shoemaker recently being linked with someone else. In fact, his perpetual abstinence from the opposite sex had invited intense gossip and made him somewhat of a joke among some of the young journos . . . Rudy shook his head to get back on track. “And the victim?” he asked, picking up his fountain pen.

  “Wilhelmina Weathersby.”

  Rudy’s pen stopped its scratching. He looked quickly at Emerson and then over his shoulder, out the door, and across the hall to the stairs. “Weathersby,” he repeated in a flat voice. “I’m sorry,” he said, frowning at Emerson. “I should be able to put this in some sort of context, but at the moment, I, uh . . .” He leapt to his feet. “Excuse me . . . pictures . . . corned beef . . .” He bolted out into the grand entranceway, located the lavatory, locked himself in, and promptly vomited.

  When the retching stopped, he eased away from the commode, sat down on his buttocks, and leaned against the cool wall of the water closet. When was their last communication? Two days ago? Yes, that would have been the day before he was stranded in Clinton. She had sent word that she would meet him in the evening down on the promenade. The same day as Emerson’s murder case. Hideous images of the brutalized corpse came roaring back at him. He vomited again.

  Oh, Mena.

  He babbled as he tried to sort out an explosion of thoughts and emotions raging inside. He recalled their last meeting: she arriving in Nevis and he heading to Washington—a brief touch of the hands, a fleeting smile at the bottom of the train stairs. How he had wanted to stay with her! He couldn’t handle any more. He visualized walking out of the hotel and leaving Emerson to handle the mess. Money had yet to change hands. Rudy owed him nothing. Who needed money if he couldn’t spend it on Mena?

  Mena cheating on him—it made no sense. There was nothing they didn’t know about each other. They were running from her father together. Another day and they would have been out from under that overbearing tyrant’s thumb. Shadow of a doubt. Shadow of a doubt. Powerful men like Emerson often knew more than they vocalized. He would have to put up or shut up.

  He flipped on the gold faucet and splashed his face with water. The icy shock made him gasp. He watched his tears drip into the sink and mix with the water from the tap and wondered why the color hadn’t changed to the red of a wounded heart or the black of his bleak, hopeless future without Mena.

  He took several long, slow breaths. With control came clarity. If there was one thing he had learned as a journalist, it was to follow the money. Without a doubt, the money Emerson was waving at him belonged to Mena’s father. It was Weathersby’s solution to everything. With him ever meddling during her life, it would be surprising for him to suddenly stop. Maybe Benedict Weathersby hadn’t harmed her physically, but he shouldered some responsibility for her death, driving her into unsafe circumstances she would not have otherwise chosen.

  But Shoemaker . . . wrapping his head around Shoemaker was more difficult. Shoe was a go-get-’em, no-nonsense reporter. Was stealing Mena away an act of revenge? Payback for the times Rudy had managed to beat him to a story? Maybe the two had met somewhere along the way, but so what? It didn’t necessarily mean romance. If Mena spurned Shoe’s advances—and he was sure she would have—did things tragically spin out of control? He pictured Fannie Byrne. Did she know what Shoemaker was capable of? Or was she the next victim of a sick, sick mind?

  There was a rap on the door.

  “Yes. A moment.” In that instant his mind was made. He couldn’t walk away from this. And really, where in this universe could he possibly flee and have peace of mind? No, he would take Weathersby’s money and determine what happened. If Tatum Shoemaker was that butcher, Rudy would make sure he answered for his crime. And if the legal system couldn’t give Mena the justice she deserved, well, then, he would handle it himself.

  He wiped his face and returned to Emerson. For the first time in their acquaintance, Rudy saw emotion in the lawyer’s face—not stained cheeks or tears, but a strained look as if struggling to maintain control. Rudy wondered how well he had known Mena.

  “Sorry, Mr. Becker. I won’t be showing them again. But I thought you should know what we are dealing with. A most deranged, enraged individual.”

  Rudy nodded. “How do you know that Shoemaker is your man?”

  “We have documentation of their meeting on numerous occasions.” Emerson went back into his rich leather briefcase. “Hotel registries, a consistent physical description. It’s all here.” He handed him an envelope.

&nbs
p; Rudy folded the documentation in half and slid it into a jacket pocket. He couldn’t handle more documentation at the moment. “So, you had someone following her?”

  Emerson nodded but offered nothing else.

  Well, the investigator was a stinker, Rudy thought. He himself and Mena had met dozens of times on the sly. Why weren’t they considering him a suspect? “What necessitated the surveillance? Past suitors a problem? She stole something of a delicate nature? You wanted it back without a commotion?”

  “Oh, nothing of an illegal sort. It’s a personal issue that’s none of your business.”

  “Well, you’re certainly not giving much to go on . . .” One look at Emerson’s tight expression told Rudy it would be fruitless to press the issue. He let it go for the moment. “What else can you tell me about the crime scene? Who’s the other victim? But please, I don’t think I can handle any more pictures. Any witness accounts? Reports of anything strange before or after the crime?”

  “Even with sizeable assets at our disposal, the police have provided little in the way of leads. There may have been two witnesses, although they are not officially acknowledging that. The little information we have originated with one departmental source we cultivated early on. That source has dried up, spooked by something or someone. As we feared, politics have entered the picture. And politics and money make strange but powerful bedfellows. Our mole won’t risk discovery by verifying anything else for us.”

  “What did they give you?”

  “One witness. Muriel Fitzhugh down on the wharf. Her husband died back in the summer and she’s trying to keep their business afloat. Literally. Lost her house and now lives on their fishing boat, the Sunrise Pelican. She initially told police she heard some scuffling and screaming. Then changed her mind and said it was just some of the religious pilgrims getting overexuberant.”

  Rudy jotted it down and underlined the name twice. “All right. I’ll start there. And the other victim? A young male?”

  “Correct. They found a bicycle and a Western Union hatband at the scene. They feel certain the second victim was a delivery boy. No name, but a townie. It shouldn’t be too hard to nose around and find out who’s missing a kid.”

  “Excellent,” Rudy said, adding that information below Muriel Fitzhugh’s name and putting the number 2 in a circle in front of it. “Western Union logs everything that comes in and goes out. Anything else?”

  He glanced up from his writing pad. Emerson was gazing out the large conservatory windows toward the beach. If Rudy were to guess, he supposed Emerson was seeing something much more distant and different than the gray undulating waters of the Chesapeake Bay. “Anything else, Mr. Emerson?”

  Emerson turned sad, thoughtful eyes on him. “Unfortunately, no.”

  Where can I find you if I have further questions?”

  “I’ll be here at the Bayside for the next week. Meet me here a week from today. If you’ve made significant progress before then . . .”

  Rudy agreed and got up to leave. Emerson’s expression had shifted to something harder, less wistful. “Sorry, did I miss something?” Rudy asked.

  “When we first spoke, I was under the impression that greed was your motivation in taking the case. Yet you haven’t broached the subject of payment. Don’t you want to know what I’m offering in compensation? Or have I misjudged you?”

  “Expensive suit, latest Italian shoes, and a valise I’d value at more than the sum total of my First National bank account. I’d venture to say that you’re the agent of someone who could buy and sell you many more times over. And their motivation in solving the case is no doubt deeply personal. I’m sure the payment is more than sufficient. Would you prefer that I negotiate?” He sat again.

  Emerson laughed wryly. “That would be out of the question. But I’ve done business long enough to know that a man’s motivations are as important as what he promises to do.”

  “The fact that you’re here talking to me tells me that you haven’t been able to dig up any dirt on me, so why don’t we just leave it as, my motives are pure. The satisfaction of nailing an individual so depraved will more than outweigh what you could offer me.”

  Emerson nodded but Rudy sensed he was still trying to figure him out. “I’ve given you a thousand dollars in that information packet. Twice that much more when you’ve brought me what I’ve asked for.”

  Rudy nodded. No amount of money could ever compensate him. Justice, that’s what he yenned for. They parted with a handshake and a good day. It sounded hollow and inappropriate considering the circumstances, but sometimes etiquette was all one had.

  As he exited the conservatory, Rudy’s eyes momentarily drifted to the stairs before he snapped them away. He fled the building, pushing his way through the rich woman’s entourage as they packed her belongings into her car. She sat contentedly in the rear seat of an elegant dark green touring car, blocking the passage of a line of irate drivers idling cars in the driveway.

  Rudy managed to reach the street before tears began streaming down his face, puddling at the corners of his lips and continuing down around his sharp chin. His hand went to his heaving chest and found Emerson’s envelope pressed there. If he found Emerson’s reconnaissance to be accurate, he would nail Shoemaker’s carcass to the nearest buoy.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fitting in a Little Softball

  Shoe eased into the Evening Star building from the alley. The place was eerily quiet, the printing press silent, the linotyper absent. It was as if someone or something had throttled the life out of the place and left behind a corpse. He shook away the thought as the gruesome images in Emerson’s pictures flooded his brain. He gently closed the door. The last thing he needed right now was an assignment to pull him off his investigation. He headed toward the massive shelves housing the huge rolls of newsprint.

  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

  Shoe froze, his head slowly rotating toward Tanner’s voice. Relief washed over him as he realized it was booming from the other end of the building, and it didn’t seem to be moving his way.

  He moved to the paper supply and stood before the huge rolls, considering how best to proceed. He didn’t need a whole roll—just enough to plot out and connect his leads. He tilted one sideways and attempted to roll it away from the others, but he quickly righted it again when it almost toppled over on his foot. How on earth did Perkins move these unwieldy things? His gaze roved the nearby shelves searching for inspiration and fell on sheets of newsprint already cut and stacked. He abandoned the rolls for the stack, which upon examination he found to be pages of comic strips: Gasoline Alley, Buster Brown, and others. He hated to steal Perkins’ work and get him fired, but then the printing error caught his eye: a thick black line running the length of the Buster Brown strip that cut bodies in half and obliterated dialogue bubbles. No way the Star would release a mess like this.

  “Perkins!”

  Holy hell. Tanner again, only this time he was coming Shoe’s way and there was nowhere to hide. Shoe would look rather foolish if Tanner discovered him trying to blend in with the supplies. He came out from behind the printer and waited as Tanner approached from the front of the press room.

  “Shoe!” Tanner said, all smiles. “Just the face I was hoping to see today. Wasn’t quite sure how to get in touch with you now that you’re back. Too bad you weren’t here a minute earlier. Just finished upfront doling out plum assignments to the chosen few. Not to worry, though. I saved you a humdinger.” He shoved a piece of paper at him.

  Shoe read through the chicken scratching. “Calvert Cliffs? Way down on the peninsula?” He checked Tanner’s expression for amusement. Surely he wouldn’t play him this way.

  “That’s the perfect story for you,” Tanner said, reading his mind. “I know you’re probably chomping at the bit for something more challenging, but this story requires a little finesse. I need someone I can trust who won’t go stumbling in and cause a commotion. Know what I mean? It’ll be an e
xclusive and I’ll give you the byline.”

  It was the crap assignment nobody else wanted. “Just so I have it right . . . you want me to go down and interview this fellow from the National Museum about the fossils in the cliffs. ’Zat right?”

  “You got it!” Tanner motioned for Shoe to follow him into his office. “How much do you know about the University of Chicago’s Oriental Institute?”

  “Absolutely nothing. Should I?”

  “No, not really,” Tanner said, taking a seat at his desk. “It was founded by an archaeologist named James Henry Breasted, and he had a close associate, Nicholas Darby. Breasted eventually headed east to make a name for himself in Mesopotamia and Egypt. Interesting fellow, hobnobbed with the likes of Gertrude Bell and T.E. Lawrence. Darby stayed local—relatively speaking—and labored in relative obscurity out in the American Southwest. He’s managed to attach himself to the National Museum in Washington, D.C., and they’re studying marine deposits down at the cliffs. He contacted me late last week about doing a story. He was a bit circumspect about what they were finding, but adamant that it was earth-shakingly important.”

  “A fame whore,” Shoe said, still reeling from the notion that Tanner would think he was the least bit interested in this claptrap.

  “For sure. I imagine it’s hard to hear about peers like Howard Carter and his impressive Egyptian discoveries in the Valley of the Kings and not covet the attention.” He stopped to light a stogie. “Don’t get me wrong, Shoe, I don’t think this is anywhere near as exciting as King Tut’s tomb, but the time is ripe for a story like this. Go down and get the basics. Spin a bunch of bones in Southern Maryland into something more glamorous than Lawrence of Arabia, and the story will get picked up all over the place. It’ll be good for everybody.”