by Gwen Mayo
Arthur had never been a churchgoer, but the local parson had come immediately to assist, and his neighbors had been invaluable. He thought about what needed to be done as he kept pace with Evelyn, who strode with purpose down Bayshore Drive. Let’s see—would they bury him here, or send the body back to some family tomb? How did you even ship a body? How long would the police keep it?
She halted abruptly at a trolley stop. He was puzzled, since there was a stop directly in front of the hotel.
“Where are we going, dear?” Arthur asked.
Evelyn turned, and stared at him intently. He saw tears in her eyes for the first time. She’d borne the trauma of last night with seemingly no emotion at all, but he saw emotion now, and it was fury.
“Arthur, do you still want to marry me?” she snapped.
“Of course I do!” He tried to take her hand, but she wasn’t cooperating.
“Nothing has changed how I feel,” he added.
She moved closer and hissed: “Then help me send that woman to the chair.”
“Woman? Which woman?”
“The one who killed Daddy.”
They rode the trolley without talking. The other passengers didn’t notice; the locals were chattering about work, and the visitors were busy consulting their maps. Evelyn pulled the cord to stop, and they disembarked. She headed towards a brown building with purpose. To his surprise, it was the headquarters of the Evening Independent.
Introducing herself as the daughter of Ansel Stevens, the man who had been murdered the day before, got the secretary’s attention quickly.
“I want to speak to Miss Roberta Hornbuckle,” Evelyn demanded.
“The—but miss, she’s just the society reporter. Wouldn’t you prefer to speak to—”
“Miss Hornbuckle. She’s the reporter I’m most familiar with, and the one in the best position to help me.”
“Let’s see if Mr. Webber has more integrity than Mr. Hale did,” Professor Pettijohn said. “The house should be about two blocks down on the right.”
“I hope the street is more level there,” Teddy said.
“If not, we’ll keep looking,” the professor promised.
The agent was waiting for them when Cornelia stopped in front a two-story prairie style house with a pair of oak rocking chairs on the front porch. He got out of one of the rockers when he saw them stop, and hurried down the walk to greet them. The man reminded her a little of the young land agent who had come to their rescue in Ocala when her car’s water pump sprang a leak. Mr. Webber was tall and lean with sandy hair curling out from under the ubiquitous straw boater every man in Florida seemed to own.
“You must be Mr. Pettijohn,” he said, holding out his hand to the professor. “It is good to meet you in person.”
“Professor Pettijohn. Retired.”
“My apologies. Professor Pettijohn.” Webber led them into the house and pointed out the large living room with red oak floors and a substantial fireplace. “All the floors are oak," he said, "except for the solarium. Those are slate to help regulate the temperatures.”
Cornelia glanced through the door to the solarium and noted the ivory rattan furnishings with jungle print pillows. She could picture her uncle soaking up the sun while reading the morning paper.
Their agent pointed to a door at the back of the foyer. “The ladies will be interested in this. There’s a large kitchen through there with all the modern conveniences, including an electric refrigerator.”
“Excellent,” the professor said, heading for the door.
Teddy joined him but went to the sink to test the taps. “City water?”
Webber nodded. “The best part is, you never have to worry about the pipes freezing here.”
Uncle Percival examined the refrigerator, peering into it more than once. “I’ve been considering purchasing one for my home kitchen. A man must keep up with the times. Don’t you agree, Corny?”
Cornelia was surveying at the steep stairway. “Are there any bedrooms on this floor?”
“Not on this floor, but there are four ample-sized bedrooms and a full bath upstairs.”
The professor looked from his agent to the shiny white refrigerator and back again. “I’m sorry, Mr. Webber, that won’t do. It is a fine house, but we must have at least one bedroom on the ground floor.”
“I’ll see if I can find you something more suitable, then. Do you like this neighborhood?”
“Yes, I do. I also like the house design, outside of needing a downstairs bedroom. If you do locate such a house, we can be reached at the Vinoy under the name of Percival Pettijohn.”
chapter eleven
When Detective Knaggs arrived at the station, there were already several messages connected to the Stevens case. Two were interview requests from the local newspapers, but the others called for an arrest. Three messages were from prominent clients of the business, demanding that Harrell Brockman be clapped in irons, two were from the Stevens family, demanding the arrest of Theodora Lawless, and one was from the mayor’s office, demanding that someone be arrested because the tourists wouldn’t feel safe.
He closed the door to his office and reached for the phone. He paused, withdrew his hand, and frowned. What was the point of calling his chief? This was the guy’s first week on the job. By the time his superior figured out what was what, somebody else could be resting his butt in the Chief of Detectives chair. The division had been through three chiefs in as many months. Who knew how long this one would last?
Instead of sitting, Knaggs put his hat back on and headed for the door. Sooner or later he would have to talk to the chief, but he would like to be positive of someone’s guilt first. He needed to interview everyone involved, not just the son and Miss Lawless.
Brockman was at the top of his list. He had not provided the police with an alibi yet. Ansel Stevens’ spat with Brockman had been near the hotel, but not in it. The young man couldn’t have easily tampered with Stevens’ clothing because the Vinoy was restricted. Miss Violet was there, though, being kept away from her suitor after the girl’s recent arrest. The way the two of them were sneaking around, who knew what she would do for Brockman? It wouldn’t be the first time a young girl had been tempted into wrongdoing by an older man. Some of the most heinous crimes he’d seen were twisted acts of love.
As he drove across town, he thought about his own daughter. How would he feel if she brought a Jewish man home to dinner? Knaggs wanted to believe he would be more understanding than Stevens, but the sign posted at this end of the Gandy Bridge sprang to mind. “No Jews wanted here,” was a powerful message.
As a father, would he be any less resistant than Stevens? He wasn’t the kind to burn a cross in a man’s front yard; what would he do to protect his little girl from the hateful side of such a match? He pushed those thoughts out of his head as he neared the construction site.
Arthur wasn’t convinced that barging into the offices of the Evening Independent was going to help them prove Miss Lawless was a murderess. He wasn’t even sure the woman had anything to do with his future father-in-law’s death, but his fiancée was adamant that the silver-haired nurse had killed her father. He took the seat furthest from Roberta Hornbuckle’s desk and tried not to look as uncomfortable as he felt.
Evelyn’s voice dropped an octave as she leaned closer to the society columnist. “The old man claimed they were both his nieces, but the Lawless woman isn’t related to the Pettijohns at all.”
The reporter, Miss Hornbuckle, took notes.
Arthur hadn’t remembered her name, but she’d attended their engagement party and had written a flattering portrait of him. She’d called him a successful businessman and lamented the fact that one of the area’s most eligible bachelors was taken. He couldn’t help wondering why they were here.
“Are you certain they’re not related?”
Evelyn nodded. “Yes, her family comes from Pennsylvania like ours. There are some relatives on her mother’s side from New York and New Eng
land, but no one from Kentucky.”
“That sounds like information the police should have,” the reporter said. “Why would she be traveling with them to Florida? Why would any of them feel the need to lie to the police?”
“I was hoping you could find out,” Evelyn said. “I don’t know much about Theodora Lawless in the present … but I can share some juicy tidbits about her past. I was there when Mother told the whole sordid story to the police.”
Harry Brockman didn’t look up when Detective Knaggs pulled his Ford into the gravel drive. He was on the roof hammering a layer of tar paper over the plywood. The young man’s white shirt was transparent with sweat and clung to his arms like a second layer of skin. The dark hair that showed under his Greek fishing cap was as wet as his shirt, but not a button was undone. His tie hadn’t even been loosened. He had removed his suit jacket, but not his vest. His hammer tapped out a steady rhythm; each arc of Brockman’s arm drove another roofing tack into place.
He was doing the same hard labor as his crew, but nobody would mistake young Brockman for a common laborer. Knaggs had a certain grudging admiration of the young man. He could see how Mr. Stevens’ youngest child would be smitten with Brockman, ears notwithstanding.
Knaggs unfolded himself from the Ford and closed the door. The sound of the door closing caught Brockman’s attention. Knaggs waved him down from the roof and waited for him at the base of the ladder.
“I’ve got a few questions,” Knaggs said, when Brockman reached the ground.
Harry took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his face and neck. “What can I do for you, detective?”
“You can start with what you were doing the night before the race.”
“Of course.” He motioned to a group of folding chairs under a cluster of live oaks so old that ferns grew from the tops of the branches. Harry took a blanket off the top of a washtub and pulled a Coke from the ice water. “Can I offer you a cold drink?”
Knaggs eyed the bottle.
“There’s jars of water too, if you don’t care for sugar.”
The detective wondered if there were bottles of beer tucked deeper in the layers of ice.
“Coke’s fine,” Knaggs said.
Harry pulled a bottle opener from his pocket and popped the cap off the Coke before handing it to the detective. He pulled another from the tub and took a long swig before settling into one of the chairs.
“The day before the race was the Shabbat,” Harry said. “I spent the night at the Jacobs’.”
“The Jacobs?”
Harry smiled. “I have a small kitchen on my boat, but I’m not a particularly good cook. Even if I were, I don’t have the time to prepare Shabbat meals or a place to store them. So, I made a bargain with Hyman Jacobs, the president of our congregation. I supply him with labor and materials to fix up the storefront we use as a temple, and he invites me to his house for the Shabbat. Once a week, I spend the night in a real bed.”
“What time did you arrive at Mr. Jacobs’ home?”
“The first time was around eight in the morning.”
“The first time?”
“Yes. I had breakfast with them and visited for a few hours. After lunch I had an appointment, so I went out for a while.”
Knaggs took out his notebook. “Where was this appointment?”
Harry’s face colored. “I met Violet.”
“I see.”
“I just met her downtown. She had some coffee and we talked.”
“Where did you have coffee?”
“I didn’t. Ordering anything would be a violation of the Shabbat.”
Knaggs groaned. This was almost as bad as talking to Miss Lawless. “Where did you not have coffee, then?”
“That cafeteria downtown, I can’t remember the name. I’m sure you know the place. The whole block smells like fried chicken.”
Knaggs made a noncommittal noise. “And next?”
“We took a walk. I escorted her back to her hotel. Then, I went back to the Jacobs’ home for dinner.”
“The family could verify that you were not at the marina the night before the race?”
“Of course. Hyman took me back to my boat the next morning. He and the family all stayed to watch the race.” He paused. “They were very kind when it ended.”
“What about Miss Violet? Her father was adamant that she end your relationship. Instead, she was seeing you behind her father’s back.”
Harry’s smile vanished. “Are you asking me if she killed her father? That’s outrageous. Violet wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“She did want you to win the race. Maybe she didn’t mean to kill her father. Are you sure she didn’t want to put Daddy out of commission and out of your lives?”
Harry was on his feet. “Violet wouldn’t think of harming her father! She is the sweetest, kindest soul alive. I won’t have you impugning her character.”
“Mr. Brockman, it is my job to question everyone’s character. I would be a sorry policeman if I didn’t.”
“You have a sorry job.”
Knaggs sighed. “That may be, but someone put poison on Mr. Stevens’ cap.”
The sun was still high in the sky when the three snowbirds returned to the Vinoy, and Teddy announced that she was going to swim.
“In February?”
“Yes, in February. The water couldn’t be any colder than Steamboat Lake in Colorado, and the air is probably the same temperature.”
Cornelia remembered the scandalous swimsuit Teddy had purchased. “Perhaps we should swim tomorrow. Aren’t you tired?”
“I’m tired of waiting for agents who don’t come, tromping up and down stairs, and turning faucets on at strange houses to see if the plumbing works. A nice splash in the ocean and some sun would be quite restorative.”
“I agree,” the professor said. “We’ve been in Florida for two weeks, and we have yet to visit the beach.”
What could she do? The lunatics outnumbered the sane. They went to their respective rooms, and she donned her sensible swimdress and new beach shoes while Teddy pulled the straps of her suit—more like a corset trimmed with ruffles—over her bare shoulders.
“You said you would wear a robe with that,” Cornelia reminded her.
“Yes, I did.” The younger woman examined her hats, which were beginning to pile up around the room, and chose the new straw one she’d brought home from her shopping trip on Saturday. There was always a selection process Teddy adhered to while dressing, even though the outcome was almost invariably her most recent purchase.
They returned to the shared sitting room, and Cornelia was confronted with her uncle’s beachwear. His striped silk beach robe hung loose over a bathing suit cropped a good two inches above his knees. He’d always been a peacock, but this… Her gaze raked over the brilliant blue bathing suit that exposed pale skin and masses of leg hair as snowy white as the piping on his suit. She could barely fathom a man of his years appearing in public in a suit that exposed his knees. He was as bad as Teddy.
“Uncle Percival! You will catch your death of cold.”
The professor puffed up in response to being scolded like a child. “I don’t intend to swim, Corny, even though it’s warmer today. I might wade if it’s not too windy at the shore.
“When we get to the front desk,” he added, “we can make the arrangements for chairs and an umbrella.”
“And I can call Shirley to see if she can join us,” Teddy said. “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” the professor said. “We can request more chairs. Corny, would you mind carrying my tripod again?” The question was rhetorical. He wasn’t wearing his hearing device and turned away before she could answer. The professor tied his farmer’s hat under his chin and fastened his robe. “Are we ready, ladies?”
Shirley was pleased to be invited to an afternoon at the beach. She arrived with an armful of towels and her own umbrella, and had brought her mother with her, a pleasant surprise. Anna Whe
eler had a stylish bob, but it was nearly as gray as Cornelia’s.
Uncle Percival immediately rose and offered her his seat. “Please take my chair, madam. Perhaps we can procure an extra one from the hotel.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Shirley said, “I brought a towel to sit on. You get comfortable again, sir.”
“I’m pleased to meet you all,” Shirley’s mother said. Her voice, like her daughter’s, bore the lilt of a southern accent.
“I’m glad you could join us, Mrs. Wheeler,” Teddy said. “It’s a lovely day, especially for February.”
“Call me Anna, dear. February is my favorite month here. Much better than back home; it’s supposed to be rainy and cold in Knoxville today.”
“I suspect Kentucky would be the same,” the professor said.
“Kentucky! Well, I’ll be. Whereabouts?”
Percival smiled. “Midway, madam, although I lived and taught in Lexington for many years.”
The social niceties went on for a bit, then Teddy stood and removed her terrycloth robe. Her limbs were exposed to the sun, bare and alabaster. “I’m ready to get in.”
“Me too!” Shirley said, taking off her own robe. The swimdress—nay, the slip—she wore was pink and even shorter than Teddy’s. “How cold do you reckon the water is today?” she asked, putting on her beach slippers.
“I’m sure it’s freezing. Are you coming with us?” Teddy asked Cornelia.
Cornelia rose to her feet, feeling dowdy and prudent at the same time. She did not remove her robe or sun hat. “Of course. Someone has to play fire extinguisher.”
The water was as cold as she supposed it would be, but it didn’t stop Teddy from splashing and squealing in the surf beside Shirley, who was decades younger than her. Almost everyone in the ocean was young; their elders had the sense to stay on shore and enjoy the sun. All the elders but Teddy and her, of course. Short swimdresses and exposed skin, male and female, surrounded them. Even the girls in the Philippines had worn longer shifts to swim in during the hot summers.