by Gwen Mayo
Definitely not Evelyn. There was only one person she’d met that the man’s description would fit, but Cornelia had no idea why she would want to hurt Teddy. Evelyn must have enlisted her help. Was she a knowing or unknowing accomplice? “Thank you, Mr. Mercer. You’ve been most helpful.”
Farrell made the goodbyes.
Cornelia clasped his hand and smiled with gratitude and relief. “You’ve been a lifesaver, Sergeant. I don’t think I could have gotten this far without you. Would you mind if I called the Vinoy?”
Farrell’s cheeks pinkened. “No problem, ma’am.”
Uncle Percival still wasn’t back from his sojourn south. She left a message for him with the concierge, stating that she needed to speak to Miss Rivers again before returning to the hotel. Then, Cornelia filled out one of the cards on Farrell’s desk and handed it to him.
“This is the number of the Vinoy. We’re registered there under the name of my uncle, Percival Pettijohn. Below that is the number of Morgan Cosgrove, who is serving as Teddy’s attorney. If you don’t hear from me by tomorrow afternoon, please try reaching one of them.”
“If I don’t hear from you? Do you need for me to accompany you?” the sergeant asked.
She laughed. “No, I’ve spoken to this woman before. Chasing my uncle down, that’s another matter.”
Evelyn was relieved to see Miss Pettijohn leave the dealer’s office. She and Bobby were casualties of the fading sun; day gloves were no match for the damp air near the docks.
“Finally,” she said, and started the car. Their target boarded the next trolley, which was heading in the wrong direction for the hotel.
“What’s she up to now?” Bobby said, rubbing her hands together.
“I don’t know. Something’s given her a second wind.”
Cornelia disembarked at the stop near the Stevens Building, and walked briskly towards its entrance. It was twilight, and many of the nearby businesses were already closed. Luck was on Cornelia’s side, though. She discovered that the entrance was still unlocked, although the lobby was quiet and dimly lit.
The blinds were drawn across the interior and exterior windows of the real estate brokerage that dominated the first floor. She peeked between two displaced slats. The flyers on display had been neatly arranged for the following day, and there were no people visible. Nearby, the card shop was also closed for the evening. She undid the flap of her military purse before venturing further into the building.
Cornelia approached the only source of light remaining: the interior of the Movie Star Gallery. The sinks were spotless and gleaming, the combs and shears were clean and organized in neat rows at each station. She didn’t see anyone inside at first, but then the door to the small office opened and Lucy emerged. The younger woman carried a deposit bag and was already in her jacket.
She didn’t know yet how Lucy Rivers was involved with Ansel’s death, but she would find out. Perhaps Evelyn had asked Lucy to pick up the cap as a surprise for her husband-to-be. By now, though, Lucy would have deduced that she’d been used to purchase the murder weapon. Why hadn’t she told the police? Did she hope to have a hold over the heirs?
It was simpler and more sensible to conclude that Lucy herself was the killer.
She regretted declining the sergeant’s offer to come with her; two against one would have been much more intimidating. It couldn’t be helped now, though, and the young woman inside the salon had already noticed her.
Cornelia knocked on the door.
Lucy put the day’s receipts in her purse down and scowled. “The salon is closed,” she said, raising her voice. “Please come tomorrow.”
“It’s Cornelia Pettijohn, Miss Rivers. I need to speak with you again.”
The tall blonde—tall like the woman in Gene Cross’ description—came to the door and gave her a pretty smile through the glass. “I really can’t help you further, ma’am. And it’s a little late to be calling, if I say so myself.”
“I agree, but it can’t be helped. Someone dear to me is in trouble, and you’re the only one who can save her.”
“You’re talking nonsense.”
“Am I? I know who bought that captain’s cap. Let me in, or I’ll call the police.”
Lucy sighed and undid the lock. She was no longer smiling.
Cornelia entered, circling to keep a distance between them. “Thank you kindly.”
Lucy moved behind the counter and began taking off her jacket. “Tell me what you mean about calling the police.”
“You purchased the cap that killed Mr. Stevens. The clerk described you quite well. I also suspect that the watchman at the marina might be able to identify you as the mystery woman who put it on the Stevens’ yacht.”
“Maybe.” Lucy laid the jacket over the chair where her open purse rested. When she turned back around, she had a Brownie pocket pistol in her hand. “But there are a number of blondes in this town.”
This was what she got for pressing on instead of being sensible. She wasn’t dead, though, so Lucy wasn’t ready to shoot yet. Cornelia decided to draw her out. “Why did you dress like Teddy?”
“Oh. It wasn’t out of personal malice. I couldn’t be me, so I had to pick someone else.”
“Why her? As far as I know, she’s never met you.”
The salon owner gave her a tight-lipped smile. “She came into the shop, and Evelyn said she’d struck Ansel. I figured she had a good reason. She was shorter, but her build wasn’t that different from my own.”
“Do you realize how much heartache you’ve caused us?” Cornelia snapped. “Teddy could easily be put to death before it’s all over.”
“I’m sorry, but better her than me. Besides, she could have had an alibi. I take it that she didn’t have an alibi?”
“Innocent people don’t work on creating alibis.”
“Maybe they should. If she’d had one, we wouldn’t be in this situation now.”
“Yes, this is inconvenient for both of us,” Cornelia said, “but more so for me than you.” She dove for the corner where the counter turned at an L angle and reached into her purse for her sidearm.
“I don’t understand why she’d come here,” Evelyn said, staring at her father’s darkened building. “It’s after hours. There’s no one to talk to.”
Bobby Hornbuckle, face visible in the streetlights, gave her a sidelong glance. “Maybe she’s searching his office.”
“Oh, no, she’s not!” Ansel’s daughter cried, and flung the car door open. “That’s going too far!”
She ran towards the double door entrance, with Bobby close behind.
They stopped short when they heard the gunshots.
Lucy sprinted around the far side of the counter. Cornelia scrambled over the closest salon chair and took cover behind the sink.
Chunks of porcelain flew when the younger woman fired the tiny pistol.
The old nurse popped up, squeezing off her own shot. It missed Lucy and hit a poster of Gloria Swanson, blacking out the front teeth in the picture.
Each woman scuttled to new positions. Cornelia crouched beside a cabinet of shampoos, and Lucy concealed herself behind an enormous hairdryer that resembled a cannon.
Cornelia waited for Lucy’s next move. When she heard the clatter of heels, she lunged forward, pistol in hand, to discover that only the shoes were in the open. She instinctively dropped to the floor, toppling a permanent wave machine on top of her.
A sharp report from the Brownie cracked the window above the old nurse.
“Now look what you made me do!” an unshod Lucy cried, and advanced, pushing the dryer before her like a battering ram.
Cornelia crawled for the exit, but found her legs tangled in the wires and rollers that hung underneath the machine’s frame, like tentacles under a jellyfish.
“Call the police,” Bobby commanded, and sprinted for the building, pulling out her camera.
Evelyn turned, looking for the nearest café or open shop, and saw a man running across the
street towards her. He was vaguely familiar; she didn’t remember his name, but he was one of the reporters that had crowded around her family at the hospital. Unlike Bobby, he was armed.
“Call the police!” he also commanded, continuing his sprint towards the same entrance Bobby Hornbuckle was using.
“I got it the first time!” Evelyn cried, and headed for the Hotel Detroit.
Lucy peeked around the side of the dryer and saw Cornelia’s predicament. She pointed her pistol at Cornelia, and Cornelia pointed the service weapon back at her. Instead of escaping like a sensible person, though, Lucy circled round to the electric cord of the wave machine and plugged it in.
“Now, Miss Nosy Parker, you’re going to get it one way or another. Who have you been gossiping to about me?”
They continued to level their weapons at each other, but Cornelia felt the rollers touching her legs begin to warm up. She rolled on her back and tried using her free hand to pull the cords away. Her fingers met hot metal, and she jerked them away with a cry. Lucy laughed, and Cornelia glared up at her.
“The man at Westshore Yachts can identify you,” the nurse said. “I told him and Sergeant—a sergeant I tended during a war. I also told my uncle who you were, and where I was going. I told all of them.”
“Bushwa,” Lucy said. “If any of those men had known you were coming here alone, they would have insisted on coming. And only a Dumb Dora would have come here on her own.”
Then call me Dora, Cornelia thought.
chapter twenty
Cornelia was absent when the professor returned to the hotel with the missing Miss Orlov. The message she left cheered him, though; she must have found a lead on the mystery woman. Soon Theodora would be free, and things could return to normal. In the meantime, he and his passenger needed refreshment. It had been a long trip back from Sarasota.
He took his guest to the dining room, where they demolished a tray of stuffed celery, radishes, and crab salad. Cornelia still hadn’t returned when they finished, so Percival decided to contact their attorney and speed matters along. He obtained a separate room for his guest, then requested the courtesy phone.
A flash and bang echoed in the room. At first, Cornelia assumed she’d been shot, but Lucy was pointing the gun somewhere else. Bobby Hornbuckle was in the doorway, camera in hand.
Cornelia took advantage of the distraction and yanked on the device till the electric plug came loose from the wall. Pain seared through her legs where the rollers touched, and the air smelled of scorched fabric, burned flesh, and magnesium powder. She pulled the cords away, freeing herself.
The camera lay abandoned by the door. Lucy was chasing Bobby around the room. The reporter took refuge behind the counter and began flinging glass bottles from a storage cabinet. Several broke, and the stench of chemicals was added to the layers of odor already in the salon.
“Stop! Leave her alone!” Mitch Grant was in the doorway, aiming his own weapon.
The salon owner countered with her own weapon. “Get out of here!”
“Not a chance!” he said, shooting one of the sinks. Water gushed forth from a pulverized pipe. “Put down that peashooter!”
Her response was gunfire.
Mitch yelped and dropped. He dragged himself back through the doorway and behind it.
Cornelia drew a bead on Lucy, but Bobby stepped in the way. “You witch!” she cried, thumping her with one of the handheld dryers.
Lucy stumbled, stepped on glass shards with her stockinged feet, and shrieked. She spun round and went down. Bobby jumped on top of her and wrenched the Brownie away, pointing it at Lucy’s face.
“Hold her there,” Cornelia commanded. “I’ll see to Mitch.”
Mitch leaned against the wall, pressing a handkerchief against his side. “I see Bobby took care of her.”
“Yes, she has. Hairdryers are more formidable than I thought. Let me examine you,” she said, pulling his hand away. From what Cornelia could see through the rip in the shirt, the wound wasn’t bleeding too badly, but no shot to the abdomen could be trusted.
The front entrance opened, and Evelyn entered the lobby. She saw them and rushed over. “What happened?”
“I dropped in to have my hair done,” Cornelia retorted, “but the salon was closed.”
If Mr. Cosgrove was unhappy to be dragged from his home on a Friday evening, he didn’t show it. Detective Knaggs was slightly less enchanted. He looked as tired as the professor felt. A day of hammering iron into plow blades would have been easier.
“You couldn’t have come back from Sarasota quicker?” the detective grumbled.
“My apologies, sir, but we did have to wait for the ferry,” Uncle Percival replied, omitting the snack he and Rena had shared at the Vinoy. What the police didn’t know wouldn’t make them angry.
“Well, let’s get to it,” Knaggs said. “Miss Orlov, did this gentleman, Theodora Lawless, or any agents of theirs pay you to come make this statement today—tonight?”
“No,” Rena said. “If you doubt that she came into the store, I’m sure Mr. Berber still has the copies of the day’s receipts.”
Percival suppressed a smile as Rena sweetly gave her account of Teddy’s visit to the shop.
The feeling didn’t last.
“Would you repeat the time at which Miss Lawless left the shop?” Knaggs asked, a light glowing behind his eyes.
The small woman blinked. “Around three. It was a slow day and the conversation was pleasant.”
“And she left your shop?”
“Yes.”
“Which was located where?”
“It’s on First, near Central.”
“Not that far from the marina,” the detective mused aloud. The professor was sure it was aloud for his benefit.
Rena looked from one man to the other, confusion dawning on her elfin face. “Is there a problem?”
“Did Miss Lawless purchase any men’s hats?”
“We don’t sell men’s hats. She purchased three ladies’ hats, one of which I believe was for someone else.”
“My niece, Cornelia,” Percival said.
Knaggs turned and gave him the evil eye. “No comments during the statement. I believe there might still be a sufficient time gap for Miss Lawless to visit the Stevens’ yacht. The watchman said he couldn’t pinpoint the time.”
“Theodora wasn’t wearing a cloche hat when we returned from golfing,” the professor pressed.
“She could have worn one of her new hats,” Knaggs retorted.
“She wore the sun hat with the jacaranda blossoms out of the store,” Rena said. “I wrapped up her old hat with her other purchases. She didn’t buy a cloche hat.”
“You should have Mr. Cross come down,” Pettijohn said. “He could probably tell you that Theodora isn’t the one he saw at the marina.”
Knaggs pointed at the door. “Professor—please go sit in the waiting room. This is difficult enough without your interference.”
The old man flushed, making him look more like Santa Claus than usual. “I need to be here to represent Theodora’s interests.”
“No, that’s what Mr. Cosgrove is here for,” Knaggs said.
Percival began to reply but was interrupted by a loud thump on the door. Duncan popped his head in.
“Joe. There’s been a hullabaloo at the Stevens building, and Patrol is bringing in some of the people from our case.”
One of the officers took Mitch to the hospital, over his objections. This was a big story, and now Bobby would get it instead.
Cornelia applied cool wet compresses to her burns. The stink of chemicals permeated the salon. Her eyes watered, but compared to mustard gas, it was nothing. The young officer who arrested her had been kind enough to raid the salon supplies after he saw her legs. It wasn’t Dakin’s Solution, but it would have to do.
The battle had dealt scars elsewhere. Cornelia had leg burns and scorch marks in several places on her dress, but Lucy had received worse. The fluids for bleachi
ng and creating permanent waves in hair had created great welts on the salon owner’s cut feet and calves. Once the police had things under control, the old nurse had quickly advised them to let both Lucy and Bobby wash their exposed skin, but nothing could be done about the back of Lucy’s clothing. She had been taken to hospital wearing nothing but a beautician’s smock.
“You came here because you believed she killed someone. Why didn’t you call the police?” the young man asked, looking over his notes.
“Because your precious Detective Knaggs already had my companion in custody. You would have dismissed me.”
“So, you decided to apprehend her yourself? With the assistance of two reporters?”
She shook her head. “I came here to interview her, not apprehend her. The reporters were not assisting me, although they have both been enthusiastically pursuing story leads. They showed up in time to save me.”
“You acted alone.”
“Yes. Bad planning on my part. I thought Miss Stevens was the killer at the time, and Miss Rivers was merely an accomplice. Trust me, I regret my error.”
Evelyn, who was perched on one of the nearby client chairs, scowled. “You’re ridiculous. Why would I kill my own father?”
Cornelia met her eyes. “Because family members often have grievances, whether known to others or not. Your sister had an obvious motive, but you were the one determined to railroad Teddy for the crime.” I was equally convinced of your guilt, and I was wrong.
“Because she did it!” Evelyn cried. “My father had some backward ideas about Harry, but she’s the one who hated him. She was going to get away with it.”
“I can’t argue with your assessment of Teddy’s feelings,” the old nurse said, “but she’s had thirty years to plot a better murder than this.”
I can kiss my pension goodbye.
Chapter Twenty-one
Teddy squealed when they pushed Cornelia into the cell. “Sweetie! I’m so glad you’re here. I missed you!”