by Gwen Mayo
“Well, I’m afraid I need to look into Ansel Stevens’ garden. Somebody wanted him dead, and Teddy’s freedom depends on my finding that person. Can you tell me what else you’ve learned about him and his family?”
“Not that much. He and his family are from Pennsylvania. I reckon they came down here to make money—it’s the local hobby. He has a wife, two daughters, and a son, according to the papers.”
“Teddy and I knew the son from the Great War. He was wounded, and we were among his nurses.”
Shirley’s eyes widened. “Teddy didn’t tell me she’d been in the War. I assumed when she referred to visiting France, it was because she could afford to.”
“No, we were there to help the young men who were wounded. Would you be kind enough to let me know to whom you spoke about the family? I don’t really know anyone here, so I don’t have much of a starting place.”
“I asked someone I knew, Lucy Rivers. I saw the Clara Bow-style curls on the dark daughter and guessed—correctly—that it was her work. Clara Bow’s an actress,” Shirley added.
“Yes, I saw her in a film with William Powell last year. Where would I find Lucy?”
“And give her the rest of our trade?” the girl teased, stopping when she saw Cornelia’s scowl. “She owns the Movie Star Gallery. The bad news is that her salon is in the Stevens building—as in Ansel Stevens. You might run into the family there.”
“I will deal with that if I have to. Just tell me where it is.”
“You’re really brave,” Shirley said. “Let me apply some Nail White, and I’ll write out directions while you’re drying.”
The Gallery was also busy; it was Thursday afternoon, and many of the young clients were preparing for social events over the weekend. The business was at least triple the size of the Wheelers’. Cornelia counted six stylists, one manicurist, plus two sales girls at a counter stocked with products and cosmetics.
She approached the counter. “Would it be possible for me to speak to Lucy Rivers?”
“Lucy’s with a client at the moment,” one of the women said, not lifting her eyes from a schedule book. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Do you want to set an appointment for a cut?” The attendant then raised her head and saw, really saw, the middle-aged, square-jawed woman standing in front of her. “Oh, I’m sorry, ma’am … are you the mother of one of her clients?”
“No,” Cornelia said, “but if I could buy a bit of her time today, I would appreciate it.”
The attendant excused herself to go check, and after the exchange of a sum that would have paid for a styling and a tank of gasoline, Cornelia was led to a cushioned seat near a stylist’s station that was larger than the others.
Lucy Rivers was directing the air of a metal hairdryer onto the mud-encrusted tresses of a client when Cornelia sat down. Cornelia knew the substance was likely henna, which was much in vogue these days due to the influence of Miss Bow, but it looked like mud to her.
After applying the mud, the stylist wrapped the hair with a towel “to keep in the heat.” She left the client reading a magazine and approached Cornelia, who stood.
“Hello, I’m Lucy Rivers. You’re the second person to buy my time this week,” she said, looking down into Cornelia’s eyes. “I must be famous.”
The second person? Cornelia was trailing in someone’s wake. How would Teddy handle this? She managed a smile. “Your work is distinctive. You do remarkable work with curls.”
“Thank you,” Lucy said. Unlike Violet or her previous client, Lucy had no curls. Her hair was peroxide blonde, as short as a man’s, and brushed back from a perfectly oval face. Powder covered but could not entirely conceal freckles. Her bare arms were tanned and muscular. Cornelia didn’t know much about hair dryers, but the device Lucy had wielded looked as heavy as a machine gun. It was mounted on a metal rod attached to a wheeled base instead of the tripod the heavy guns used, but the shape was similar. “So, how can I help you?”
“I’m looking for information. On the Stevens family.”
“Again? You know the family works upstairs; you could go up there if you have questions. Are you a reporter, too?”
Cornelia had a question ready, but the words took her aback. Reporter? “No, but I’m familiar with a few of them. Male or female?”
Lucy grinned, revealing a small gap in her teeth. “Male. I didn’t think men kept track of women’s fashion.”
“He must be dedicated,” Cornelia said, nodding. She would bet it had been Mitch Grant. “I understand that most of the family only comes down during the winter. The son lives here year-round and works for the business. What about the wife and the daughters?”
“You get right to the point, don’t you? I don’t know what the wife does, but Violet lives here in Saint Petersburg with her brother. She works for the business, too. Probably more than the brother. He has a new thing going with some speedboats.”
“Indeed. What about the other sister?”
“She and the dapper have been working in the office for a couple of months, I think.”
Confused, Cornelia asked, “Dapper?”
The question earned another grin. “Dad of a flapper; that’s Violet’s term for him. I got the impression that she’s feeling crowded these days. I read in the paper how her father didn’t like her fella, and he was racing Mr. Stevens for the right to see her. Romantic. That could be right out of a movie.”
“Does she talk a lot about him? The young man.”
“Oh yes. He sounds like the eel’s hips, coming from New York to live on a yacht down here.”
Cornelia was unaware that eels had hips. “Did the mother also work in the office?”
“Not that I know of. She has Violet running from work to this and that cultural event, so she’s probably not the type. Is that all you need to know?”
Since Cornelia still didn’t have an idea who the real killer was, she needed to know a lot more. If only she knew which questions to ask … “Do you do the mother or the sister’s hair, perhaps?”
“Her sister became my client last week. I finally got to snip off that horrible Charleston cut. The mother probably goes to her hotel’s salon. Matronly but nice, ya know.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, Cornelia thought. In order to resemble Teddy, Evelyn’s heavy blonde hair needed to go. “That was a daring style, but becoming to her. How did you talk her into it?”
“I didn’t have to; it was her idea. She said she wanted to do something a little wild before she got married. Men can get all possessive once they’ve put a ring on a girl. You can’t blame her for wanting to make a decision or two on her own. Her instincts were right; it was the berries on her.”
So, it was Evelyn’s idea. I knew it! Cornelia’s mind raced, looking for something, anything else to ask. “Do you know anything about her father or brother?”
Lucy hesitated, then said, “I’m sorry for staring. I’m thinking about that bun. You could do with a new cut yourself. That bun is too severe.” She extended her hands, creating a frame. “You have good thick hair; a darkening rinse and a trim around the face would take twenty years off of your age.”
Cornelia felt her cheeks pinken. “Thank you for the suggestion, but I’m still in service to the Army. They frown on such things. What you see is regulation.”
“I bet the men would be happier if they didn’t. If you can’t have anything modern, have you considered trying a French Twist when you’re off duty? Not one of those elaborate Victorian dos, just pull all of it back into one twist. It would have a softening effect and be more attractive.”
“Thank you for the advice. Could you tell me more about Evelyn’s father?”
Lucy frowned. “He was my landlord; I said hello to him in passing, but he was gone most of the year. I’m more familiar with the son, but not much.”
Chapter sixteen
The professor took the trolley to the Yacht Club, which was only a short hop away. The basins o
f colorful yachts made for a pleasant view. When he arrived, he introduced himself to one of the secretaries as a prospective resident of Saint Petersburg, and he was invited to speak to a representative of the Club.
Soon, he was ensconced in a comfortable chair that overlooked the yacht basin and the bay. In the distance, the pier was once again taking shape. Percival could have enjoyed the view for an hour, but he was here on a mission. He focused on the young man who occupied the office.
“Thank you for seeing me. I’ve been on many riverboats and steam vessels in my time, but I would like to learn more about yachting, perhaps try my hand at it. I’ve been watching them elegantly glide across the waters from the Vinoy, and I think sailing would be a perfect way to enjoy life in retirement.”
“Oh, I quite agree,” the young man, name of Lafferty, said. “And this area is perfect for it. You can explore the Bay and the Gulf of Mexico easily from here, and Sarasota isn’t that far away, especially when you can get there by water.”
“That does sound convenient. I understand Sarasota is rather a lengthy drive by car.”
“You could cut down on the distance by taking the new ferry to Bradenton, but why bother when you can sail from our port to theirs?”
Both men laughed.
Lafferty gave him a tour of the headquarters, detailing the advantages of membership. “We have regular smokers, usually on Monday or Tuesday nights, card nights, plus various dinners, dances, and balls. Our Ladies’ Auxiliary is also quite active. Are you married, sir?”
The old man puffed out his chest. “I’m engaged to a lovely woman. She loves parties and dancing.”
“Congratulations, and it sounds like she would enjoy a membership as well.”
The next part of the tour was outside, where Lafferty took him on a walk to the marina basin. It was the central basin, not the northern one where the Nittany Nob had been docked. The professor let Lafferty blather about slips and rentals for a short time, then stopped him.
“These vessels are very fine, but I think the yachts in the basin closer to the Vinoy are closer to the sort I would want to purchase. I’ve been eyeing them from the veranda each day. Could we go up there? I would appreciate your guidance.”
Lafferty succumbed to the flattery, and they took the young man’s car up the street. A short time later, they were ambling alongside the expensive vessels in the north basin. The walking surface was irregular, so the professor used his cane for additional stability. The sun glinted off the decorative ball, shaped like the head of a wildcat. This was no accident; Percival wanted the workers to notice and remember him.
“Visitors from all points of the compass come to enjoy the warm waters of the bay,” his host said. “You’ll find vessels from many ports here.”
“I would enjoy broadening my own horizons,” Pettijohn admitted. “I come from a landlocked state. The yachts themselves seem to come in a broad variety. Do you give lessons in sailing?”
“At your service,” Lafferty said with a slight bow, “and we even have yachts you can rent. No point in making a purchase if you don’t know what you’re comfortable with yet.”
“Oh, that’s quite marvelous,” the professor replied. “May I see them?”
Viewing the rental vessels took a good bit of time, especially with the number of questions the professor asked. He led his guide around the basin, feigning interest in specific vessels, so the workers would get a good look at him. When Lafferty gave signs of winding up the conversation, Pettijohn threw out an offhanded query.
“I’m wondering; these vessels are all roped in their slips, but it’s hardly like they’re padlocked. What’s to stop a stranger from boarding a nice one and sailing away with it?”
“Ah,” Lafferty said, and pointed. “The marina has men to watch over the yachts day and night. Plus, there are the regular workers. If someone they don’t recognize approaches a boat, they inquire what business that person has on the dock.”
“There must be many people who come to explore, though, sight-seers and the like. And perhaps there are deliveries. Or are deliveries made to yachts?”
“Delivery men have to check in with the patrol first. Between the police, the marina employees, and the marina guards, your vessel would be secure, sir.”
“That’s good to hear,” Professor Pettijohn said. “I am reassured.”
The men bid their adieus. Lafferty returned to the Club, and the professor purportedly returned to the Vinoy to consult with his fiancée.
From a distance, Evelyn sat on one of the green benches the city provided for its white citizens and watched the entrance of the Yacht Club. She’d thought Pettijohn would confer with the attorney, or perhaps engage a private detective. Instead, he was investigating things himself. He had to be; why else would he visit the Club after his fiancée had been arraigned for murder?
She moved to a closer bench, marveling at the level of self-deception love could create. The mystery woman had clearly been Miss Lawless: a stylishly dressed woman with a cane and light hair? It had to be her.
Mr. Lafferty, a gentleman she recognized from previous visits to the Club, left the building with Professor Pettijohn in tow. They crossed to the marina and began touring it, Lafferty pointing out features while Pettijohn nodded. The old man must have evinced an interest in yachting as a ruse.
When they got into Lafferty’s car, a wave of disappointment rushed through her. Was she going to lose him now? Oh, why hadn’t she requested her father’s car be brought around instead of hiring that cab? The vehicle went north, so Evelyn briskly walked that way. Perhaps the man from the Club was merely driving him back to the hotel.
She continued her walk, heading north, and stopped at the sight of Lafferty’s car parked near the yachts next to the hotel. Evelyn scanned the vessels and caught sight of the old man’s cane. The sly old coot had maneuvered his way into the scene of the crime. She slowed her walk and entered the park in search of another seat.
Twenty minutes later, Lafferty got into his car alone and left. The old man returned to the Vinoy. Evelyn was torn between following him or speaking to Lafferty herself. She decided it was best to stay on her original trail.
Once Lafferty was gone, the professor strolled to the Vinoy and enjoyed a cup of coffee, resting his legs. Thus restored, he returned to the northern yacht basin. After studying the men working there, he approached the one that appeared most likely to be the watchman.
“Good afternoon,” he said, and introduced himself. “I’m the insurance appraiser for West Coast Casualty, Incorporated. We are the insurers for the pier they’re building here.”
The man looked puzzled. “I didn’t know you could insure a pier.”
“You can insure anything of value,” the professor said. “You may have seen me at the pier late last week, inspecting the property.”
“I did.” The younger man gazed at the pier, brushing a fly away from his collar. “You were there with a camera and a woman. I didn’t know women could use movie cameras.”
Pettijohn leaned closer. “She’s my niece. I try to throw a little work her way. Spinster.”
“Ah.” The nodded wisely, “I have a maiden aunt. The old dear spends the season working as a nanny to the spoiled offspring of one of those Yankee couples.”
The professor’s southern accent became slightly more pronounced. “I’m glad I have it on film now, considering what happened last weekend.”
“I bet! Damaged, and it’s not even finished yet.”
“It’s better off than the poor vessel that rammed it.” The professor pulled out a notebook. He didn’t really need one, but it made him look more official. “The pylon is still sound, but they’ll have to replace some of the supportive beams and repour a section of concrete. So, tell me, are you one of the men who patrol here? May I have your name?”
“What for?”
Pettijohn made a dismissive shrug. “The company wants more information on the circumstances of the incident, so they requested
that I learn more about what happened with the yacht, the Nittany Nob. You probably saw me speaking to Mr. Lafferty about it a little while ago. He was kind enough to take me on a short tour.”
“Oh yes! I did see you with him. Striking cane you have.”
“Thank you. The wildcat is the mascot of the University of Kentucky, or at least that’s what it’s called now. I taught engineering there when it was still the Agricultural and Mechanical College. You said you were one of the watchmen?”
“Um, yes I am. Sorry. Irvin Murray.” He stuck out his hand, and the professor shook it.
“Pettijohn. Pleased to meet you. Most of the details I need are routine. The Nittany Nob was moored here before the race last Sunday, I believe. Did you see the person who delivered the captain’s cap?”
“I wasn’t here. The guy on duty was Gene Cross, the weekend man.”
The professor wrote the name down. “Gene Cross. Does he only work weekends? I can get his information from Mr. Lafferty, but I’d rather speak to him in situ, where I can see what we’re talking about.”
“He works tonight, should be here around seven.” Murray grinned. “Of course, it’ll be dark then.”
“I’ll bring my niece to protect me.” They both laughed, and then Pettijohn looked at his notebook. “So, the cap was delivered here. Do people bring gifts to the marina frequently?”
“It’s not unusual for yachtsmen to send items they want on board for a planned cruise, especially if they’re taking guests out or they want to fly a special flag.”
“I see. Where do the owners pick those items up?”
“Sometimes we store the items at the office, sometimes we put them on the yacht, especially if it’s something the owner will be using shortly.”
“Which category did this item fit into?”
“Gene said the lady put it on the boat herself. But you should double-check with him.”
Evelyn took a seat on one of the benches again. Pettijohn had returned to the yacht basin and was speaking to the staff. He was in better physical condition than his cane implied. Hours had passed, and the afternoon sun was sinking low. She wished she’d brought a book with her, although it would have defeated the purpose of observing the enemy. Maybe she should have called Arthur for company, but no … he’d missed enough days of work. Her father had been the one to press for their match—she hadn’t been as interested—but Arthur was proving himself such a dear during this horrible time. He must really love her.