Murder at the Million Dollar Pier

by Gwen Mayo

  “Don’t call me ‘sweetie’ in front of the guards. They’ll separate us.” She sat down on the bench and groaned.

  Teddy plopped down beside her and stared at the bandages on her legs. “What happened? Did you get into a catfight with that evil Evelyn?”

  “No, I was almost sentenced to death by permanent wave machine. Don’t touch those; I feel lucky to have received care before they hauled me off.”

  “I’ll have my attorney see about having a doctor visit in the morning. It’s so wonderful to be with you again.”

  Cornelia was glad that one of them was happy.

  Teddy tittered.

  “What’s so funny?”

  She pointed at the scorch marks on Cornelia’s skirt. “You said you weren’t going to burn that dress. So, what did happen?”

  A familiar male voice interrupted. “That’s what I’d like to know.” Detective Knaggs stood outside the cell. Behind him were Officer Duncan, Uncle Percival, Mr. Cosgrove, and a strange small woman.

  “I see the circus has arrived,” Cornelia grumbled.

  “Yes, and it’s sitting in a cell,” Knaggs snapped. “You trespassed in the Stevens Building after it closed and got into a shooting match with the sole person unlucky enough to still be there.”

  “I did not trespass—” Cornelia began, but Cosgrove stepped forward. “Miss Pettijohn, not another word. Your uncle has engaged me to represent you as well as Miss Lawless.”

  “You three should all be named Lawless,” Knaggs muttered.

  Cosgrove requested that he be left alone with his new client. At Teddy’s insistence, he agreed to let her remain if she didn’t interrupt. Uncle Percival, however, was shooed away. As Cornelia gave him her account of events, he began pressing his fingers to his temple. She wondered if he were prone to headaches.

  “You went there to ‘interview’ her? For what purpose?”

  “To see what she knew. I had discovered where and by whom the captain’s cap was purchased. I was convinced—wrongly, I realize now—that Evelyn had killed her father and used Miss Rivers to procure the murder weapon.”

  “In other words, you were investigating the crime yourself. Miss Pettijohn, such matters should be left to the police or private agents.”

  The old nurse puffed up like a bullfrog. “The police fixed their sights on Miss Lawless immediately and stopped looking once they found a way to charge her. As for private agents, we are strangers here. My uncle has the contacts to get references for a decent attorney, but we didn’t know of a local Hercules Poirot.”

  “I’m glad you find me decent, Miss Pettijohn. You could have requested that I find one for you.”

  “It was faster to do the footwork myself.”

  Cosgrove sighed. “Not really. You and your uncle have caused a great deal of ruckus in town. The Yacht Club has complained.”

  Teddy blew a raspberry. When the attorney glared at her, she covered her mouth.

  Cornelia gathered herself before replying. “Mr. Cosgrove,” she said, “perhaps we have caused a great deal of trouble. Perhaps it’s in our blood; my uncle has been arrested several times due to the ruckus his inventions generate. In the event of this evening, however, I did not trespass. I knocked on the door and asked permission to enter. I wanted to know why she purchased and planted the hat that killed Mr. Stevens.”

  “So, you were angry and armed when you went to her shop. This doesn’t help your case.”

  “But I was also not the first person to draw my weapon. Miss Rivers produced a pistol after I informed her that I knew she’d bought the cap.”

  “Do you always expect to get into shootouts with the local hairdresser?”

  If a look of contempt could kill, her attorney would have dropped dead from the one Cornelia gave him. “I am a woman traveling around a strange city alone. I’ve done that many times before; I know how dangerous it can be.”

  “That’s why you should have left it to professionals.”

  Cornelia almost used a word she’d learned in the barracks. “Sir, when it comes to facing danger, I am a professional. I’ve driven ambulances through war zones, slept in tents, abandoned buildings, and sometimes on the ground because there was no shelter. I’ve sliced my way through jungle with a machete, waded into swamps and climbed into muddy trenches to treat wounded soldiers. Then there were the vermin rats, lice, and flies, mosquitoes with yellow fever. Compared to those, interviewing a beautician was nothing.”

  The attorney leaned against the bars of the cell. He rubbed his temple again. “I can’t argue with that, I guess. But this isn’t a war zone or the Army. Maybe it’s diplomacy or delicacy that I’m thinking of.”

  “I do lack those qualities,” the old nurse admitted. “I can stay here for now, Mr. Cosgrove, but I do need to get back to my post in Colorado in a short time. If you could assist me with that, I would appreciate it.”

  “No,” Detective Knaggs told Cosgrove a few minutes later. “I’m not releasing either one of them tonight. Right now, I don’t have a statement from the lady in the hospital or from the three witnesses, who seem to have all coincidentally been present when the incident happened. I’ll get Grant’s account when I get the Rivers lady’s, but I probably won’t talk to the other two until morning.”

  “This is an outrage,” the professor said, interrupting the attorney’s reply. “First my fiancée, now my niece? You, sir, are allowing the true murderer to go anywhere she pleases, while these innocent women are harassed and locked up.”

  The detective growled, disgusted. “I’ve got physical evidence—your fiancée’s hair comb.”

  Professor Pettijohn started to argue.

  “She identified it, sir. And before you say anything more, let me tell you that your niece’s story sounds like a lot of malarkey. She went into Miss Rivers’ establishment armed and shot up a bunch of private property.”

  “My fiancée”—Pettijohn said firmly—“was wearing a hat, as was the ‘mystery woman’. She wouldn’t be wearing a decorative hair comb as well. Look at it, detective. Do you think that would fit under a woman’s hat? Someone put that comb on the Nittany Nob on purpose.”

  “Perhaps she did, as some sort of statement. You ever think of that?”

  “Now you’re insulting her. I’ve a mind to speak to your chief.”

  “He’ll be here in the morning, like everyone else important. Unless he decides to run for election, too,” Knaggs said. “You can come back then. If you prefer to stay, I can probably find you a billet in the men’s jail.”

  “I’d prefer not to have a third client in jail,” Cosgrove said, tapping Professor Pettijohn’s arm. “Come with me, sir. We need to get Miss Orlov to her lodgings for the night. It’s become rather late.”

  The elfin woman straightened at the sound of her name. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Professor. I’m sure she’s innocent.”

  “It is I who should apologize to you,” Pettijohn said. “I’ve left you to fend for yourself instead of seeing to your needs. I am sincerely sorry.”

  There was a chill in the air when they exited the police station and walked to the nearby parking area. The professor offered Miss Orlov his coat, but she declined.

  “Where do you suggest we go from here, Cosgrove?” the professor asked. “Detective Knaggs is proving rather obstinate.”

  “We need to account for that short time during which our good man assumes Miss Lawless sprinted to the waterfront, shopping bags and all. The trolley wouldn’t have been fast enough, and a taxi would give them a witness.” The attorney opened the door for the professor’s birdlike guest, then hesitated. “Miss Orlov,” he asked, “May I inquire further about the hats you sold my client?”

  “Yes, you may,” she replied. “What do you need to know?”

  “Did any of them have a decorative piece, perhaps one with rhinestones?”

  “No, sir,” she said. “These were hats for daywear; a sparkly item would be more appropriate for evening wear.”r />
  “And the one she wore into the shop?”

  “A straw sun hat with a spray of tiny silk roses. I’d say it was a Marie Louise creation or inspired by one.”

  Cosgrove smiled. “You know your hats.”

  Rena made a tiny curtsy.

  “So, then …” the attorney said, glancing over at the professor, “for Miss Lawless to have left this hair clip on the yacht, on purpose or not, she would either be carrying it in her purse, or need to run back to the hotel.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Cosgrove, but she couldn’t have had it in her bag,” Rena said. “Miss Lawless was carrying a small straw bag that day. I admired the way it matched her hat. But the size was all wrong. It was the kind of bag designed for a lipstick, a compact, a lady’s handkerchief, and a little mad money. She would have never put a dressy comb in a bag like that. It would have been ruined.”

  “Besides, she didn’t have it any more.” Professor Pettijohn added. “She lost it the first evening we were in Saint Petersburg, along with her temper. Cornelia told me it came free of her hair and slid under the Stevens’ table.”

  Cosgrove pulled his coat collar more tightly around his neck. “Then there are two avenues to pursue. When I can meet with the ladies again, I’ll see if I can get more information about where the captain’s cap was purchased. The salesman would be a good witness to call.”

  “I presume the other is to find out who picked up the hair comb and how it got aboard Mr. Stevens’ vessel.”

  “Yes. But please don’t go off investigating on your own again, Mr. Pettijohn. There is a lot of bad association between your family and the Stevens family. I cannot emphasize enough the necessity of avoiding another altercation. Whoever picked up that comb was at that dinner table the night this all began. I’ll get a private investigator on it first thing tomorrow.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Saturday morning’s Saint Petersburg Times bore a banner headline: “Shooting at the Stevens Building”. Below it, in smaller type, was the subheading “Times Reporter Wounded”. Patrons at every table of the Vinoy dining room were reading the article.

  At the Stevens’ table, the reading was over, and the discussion had begun. Florence was having an intense conversation with her eldest daughter.

  “You could have been killed! What would Grandpa McKinley say about your taking the law into your own hands?”

  Evelyn, face pinker than the façade of the hotel, dabbed at her eyes with her napkin. “Mother, please lower your voice. People are staring.”

  Which was true, except for one retired professor. The young man attending Pettijohn asked him if he desired coffee, orange juice, or both, but was ignored. The old man did not have his hearing device in his ear and was too busy reading the continuation of the article on Page Two to notice the waiter.

  Miss Orlov, also seated at the table, gave the youth an embarrassed smile.

  “I’d appreciate a coffee,” she said. “Perhaps when you come back, the gentleman will be ready to order.”

  A few minutes later, Pettijohn folded the paper and set it down long enough to turn on his hearing device. “Mr. Grant is dedicated to his craft. He phoned the article in to the Times from his hospital bed.”

  The attendant returned with Rena’s coffee and he requested a cup for himself. “Please bring me an Eggs Benedict with a side of toast and some jelly. And bring my guest whatever she desires.” His blue eyes were brilliant with anticipation. “This is going to be a busy day.”

  “Is it good news, then?”

  “Mr. Grant reports that when he entered the salon, the owner was attempting to perforate Miss Hornbuckle with her pistol. I’m certain Miss Rivers had a good reason to be aggrieved. Miss Hornbuckle has that effect on people.”

  “Does your Mr. Grant say why the salon owner brandished a pistol?”

  Professor Pettijohn looked thoughtful. “No, he doesn’t. In his telling, Mitch makes it clear that Miss Rivers—the salon owner, that is—was the threat and not my niece.”

  “That is good news.” The elfin woman peered closer. “I still don’t understand why the press was there in the first place. Does he explain that?”

  “I presume they were both there to be nosy,” Pettijohn opined. “He doesn’t delve into that, but perhaps he was short on time. The article was completed by his editor, who states that Mitch Grant was taken to surgery. Since the headline says ‘wounded’ rather than ‘killed’, I would venture that the surgery was a success.”

  Rena nodded. “I suppose our next stop is the hospital.”

  Professor Pettijohn’s eyebrows rose. He hadn’t expected Miss Orlov to take such a keen interest in joining the investigation. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather enjoy the amenities of the hotel? There is quite an assortment of amusements you can charge to the room.”

  “I came to help Miss Lawless,” she replied. “It wouldn’t be right to indulge in luxury while she’s locked in that awful cell.”

  “In that case, I’ll have the car brought round after we eat.”

  Detective Knaggs was at the hospital before breakfast. If the interference of the Pettijohns wasn’t bad enough, Grant had managed to get his hands on a telephone and call in his story in time to make the morning news. His murder case was being overrun by amateur detectives who didn’t have the good sense to leave police work to the police. He had a good mind to lock the lot of them up until that Lawless woman’s case went to trial. The statements he’d received from patrol had the earmarks of an argument gone wrong, but Grant had made the incident sound like an armed killer was on the loose, and the Pettijohn woman was some sort of hero.

  He found Grant’s ward without much trouble. The curtain hooks rattled a good deal more than he expected. In his peripheral vision was a nurse headed his direction, but he was too intent on giving the crime reporter a piece of his mind to acknowledge her.

  Knaggs stopped mid-growl when he caught sight of Mitch. The reporter was as pale as wood ash. Bottles hung on both sides of his bed and were attached to tubes on his arms. If not for the slight rise and fall of Mitch’s chest, the detective would have taken him for dead.

  “You’re going to have to come back later if you want to speak to my patient,” a middle-aged nurse who bore an uncomfortable resemblance to the Pettijohn woman announced. “The doctor left strict orders that he was not to be disturbed.”

  “What happened? The officer that accompanied Mr. Grant said he wasn’t hurt bad. He walked in under his own steam.” Knaggs fiddled with his hat, not looking at the nurse or Mitch. “Shucks, the man even called his newspaper from the hospital.”

  “Abdominal wounds are like that. It may look innocent enough at first sight, but inside there’s almost always damage to the hollow organs. Mr. Grant was a lucky man to have a military nurse there when he was shot. If she hadn’t applied pressure to that wound, he would probably have lost too much blood to survive surgery.”

  “But he is going to be all right?” Knaggs couldn’t believe he was worried about a crime reporter. Mitch was a pain in his backside. He wasn’t a bad sort though, for a reporter.

  “Why don’t you check back in tomorrow?” the nurse said. “We’re giving him enough morphine to sleep through today.”

  “What about the woman who was brought in with him?”

  “Woman? Oh, the blonde with all those chemical burns. Ward four. That’s where all the burn cases go.”

  Knaggs put his hat back on his head and headed the direction Grant’s nurse had pointed. He wondered if he was going to find her drugged to the gills and out cold, too.

  The nurses in the burn ward went about their duties in somber silence. Cries of pain came from behind curtains, and Knaggs felt the hairs on his neck prickle. He’d landed in one of the hospitals for a bullet wound during the war, but felt fortunate when he heard the shrieks and moans of dying men scalded by mustard gas. The survivors were often scarred for life, inside and out.

  It did no good to dwell on that; he had a woman to in
terview, whether victim or murderess. Knaggs softly asked to see Miss Rivers, and a nurse led him to a curtained area removed from the other patient berths.

  “Sorry for the walk, but our other patients are all male at the moment. We wanted to offer her privacy.”

  Knaggs steeled himself as the plump woman pulled the curtain back. He hoped Miss Rivers would be decently covered.

  Instead, he saw an empty bed.

  Professor Pettijohn arrived at the hospital. He stopped at the front entrance to let Rena out. A taxi driver was busy assisting a bandaged woman wearing a smock into a taxicab, so he parked behind him and went around to open the door for his guest.

  Rena stood near the doors until the professor returned from parking the sedan. “That poor woman who just left,” she said. “Bandaged from head to toe. Each movement caused her great pain, you could tell.”

  “You would think that a reputable hospital would have kept her abed longer.”

  “Perhaps it was an issue of money. They charge quite a bit these days.”

  The professor held the entrance door open for Rena. “Where do you think we should begin, Miss Orlov?” Pettijohn asked. “With Mr. Grant, or Miss Rivers?”

  “I believe we’ve already read the best portions of Mr. Grant’s account,” Rena said. “So, I would suggest visiting Lucy Rivers.”

  “Very astute of you.” Pettijohn approached the patient information counter. “Pardon me, ma’am,” he said to one of the women there. “Could you advise us how to get to the burn ward? My niece was brought in last night.”

  The receptionist peered at him through thick glasses. “That would be Ward Four,” she said. “If she’s bad off, though, you may not be able to see her.”

  “Oh, I pray that is not the case. My dear darling niece. Even speaking to her nurses would be a relief. Her mother in Kentucky is frantic for news.”

  Pity crossed the woman’s face. “Perhaps I could have one of them come down.”