“Yes.” He opened the door wider, and I took that to mean I could go inside.
Pushing past him, I stomped snow off my boots and looked around, thinking it was strange to be in Miss Giddings’s house. The place wasn’t fancy, but it was warm and tidy, unlike the house where I lived with my mother. Our place was cold and messy because Mom always seemed to have hard jobs, like cleaning the hospital, that left her too tired to fix things up at home. And I wasn’t much help either, which was probably my own fault.
It was too bad my mother couldn’t get an easier, better-paying clerk job, like Miss Giddings had.
Or could Mom do that?
Because she was pretty . . . and not too old . . .
“Who are you? And what happened to my mother?”
I’d been so busy coveting the clanking, hissing radiator, which was giving off glorious heat, and looking longingly at the furniture, which all matched, that I had almost forgotten Robert.
“I’m Isabel Feeney,” I said, sticking out my hand. Robert seemed uncertain, but he shook it. His fingers were cold, in spite of the radiator. And when we pulled apart, he wobbled. This was the first time I noticed that he had a brace on one leg. A big metal thing that looked as if it had gobbled up everything from just above his left knee to his ankle. I tried to pretend I hadn’t seen it. “Miss Giddings—I mean, your mother—is . . .” I started to say in jail, but that sounded too scary, so I said, “She’s at the police station. The man she was going to eat dinner with tonight got shot.” Robert’s eyes got huge, but he didn’t say anything, so I kept explaining. “I was there, selling newspapers, and she asked me to tell you.”
Robert Giddings was pasty to begin with, but he was like a ghost by the time I got all that news out.
“Your mother didn’t get hurt,” I reassured him. “But Charles Bessemer is dead.”
Oddly enough, Robert didn’t react to that part—didn’t so much as blink an eye—so I asked, “Did you know him? Mr. Bessemer?”
“Yes.” He nodded slowly. “I know who he is.” But I still couldn’t tell if he was shocked or sad. Maybe he didn’t feel anything. It seemed that way.
I peered more closely at Robert’s face, trying to study his eyes behind those glasses.
Was there even a chance he was a little bit happy about Mr. Bessemer getting shot?
“Did your mom go out with Mr. Bessemer a lot?” I asked, partly because I was curious, but partly because the silence was getting uncomfortable.
Robert nodded. “Yes. A lot, lately.”
He didn’t seem like he was going to share more—or ask questions. Apparently, Robert Giddings wasn’t exactly a chatterbox.
And what kind of kid didn’t care about somebody getting shot dead?
Or was his reaction strange?
I looked around the snug little room again, just right for two people, and it struck me that I wouldn’t know how to feel if my mother started going out on dates with a new man. I didn’t think I’d want a different father. Okay, I knew I wouldn’t want another father. Especially one who grabbed my mother the way I’d seen Mr. Bessemer grab Miss Giddings’s arm.
Why had a person as nice as Miss Giddings spent time with someone who treated her like that, even if she hadn’t known he was a mobster . . . ?
“When will my mother be home?” Robert finally piped up, interrupting my thoughts. When he asked about his mom, his voice sounded tight, as if he was worried about her. Or maybe that brace was hurting him because we were still standing. “Do you know?”
It was about time I told him the whole story—let him know that his mother was behind bars—but before I could say anything, there was a knock on the door. I was pretty sure Miss Giddings would’ve just walked into her own house, but I guess Robert wanted to see her so badly, he didn’t think about that, and he hobbled over to twist the knob, muttering under his breath, “That must be her.”
But of course, it wasn’t.
When Robert swung open the door, I saw none other than Detective James Culhane.
And he looked about as happy to see me as I was to see him.
Which wasn’t very happy at all.
Chapter 12
“YOU SEEM TO SHOW UP IN UNEXPECTED PLACES,” Detective Culhane noted as he came into the house followed by another detective in a big overcoat. I remembered from the police station that the second man’s name was Hastings. And although Detective Hastings might have been older, he was the assistant. At least it seemed to me that Detective Culhane was in charge. “I thought I had an officer drive you home,” he added, making it sound as if I was doing something wrong. “Why are you here?”
Detective Culhane might have intimidated most people, but I wasn’t doing anything wrong and had no reason to be scared. “I promised Miss Giddings I’d tell her son what happened,” I said, giving him a level stare. “And I keep my promises.”
Detective Culhane and I studied each other for a long moment. I could tell that he was a tiny bit impressed that I didn’t cower before him like a whipped puppy. “Go on home now,” he finally said. “Detective Hastings and I need to talk to Robert.”
Poor Robert had been overlooked for a minute, but I had a feeling he liked it better that way. He didn’t look too happy to be noticed. He also didn’t seem to know what to say, and he turned to me, as if I had all the answers.
Ten minutes before, I hadn’t known Robert Giddings from Adam, and we hadn’t exactly become friends during our brief conversation, but in a split second we reached an understanding. Without even talking, we managed to agree that we needed to stick together. That his mother was in big trouble, that it was kids against adults, and that I shouldn’t go home.
Turning back to Detective Culhane, I said, “Jeez! You’re gonna send a kid out in the dark alone, so late? You’re not gonna offer me another ride?”
A little muscle worked in his jaw. “You got here,” he said evenly. “You can get home.”
“Okay,” I agreed, slumping my shoulders and dragging my feet toward the door. “I just hope I don’t get shot!”
I had my hand on the doorknob for what seemed like forever—I really was going to have to turn it soon—when Detective Culhane said in a low, grudging growl, “Take a seat in the corner, Miss Feeney. And don’t say another word.”
I didn’t even say thank you, for fear that he’d count those as “other words” and boot me out into the snow. I just walked to where he was pointing and sat in a flower-patterned chair with a high back, near a radiator that was starting to give off too much heat, given that I still wore my father’s old wool cap. When I pulled it off, my mess of sweaty brown hair sprang out even wilder than before, so I kind of wished I’d just kept the hat on.
The heavyset, bald Detective Hastings stifled a laugh, pretending to cough into his hand, while Detective Culhane scowled harder at me, as if even my hair angered him. Then he turned to Robert, who was still standing by the door, and even though the room was pretty dark, lit by one electric lamp, I saw him glance at Robert’s leg. To my surprise, the tough, stern policeman’s expression softened just a tiny bit. He didn’t sound quite as gruff, either, when he urged, “Have a seat, Robert.”
I wasn’t sure if Robert’s leg actually hurt—he’d probably had polio, and I heard you couldn’t feel anything if it got your legs or arms—but it was painful for me to watch him hobble across the room, his head hanging down. We all studied him in silence, so the squeak that his brace made with every step sounded like a scream. I breathed a sigh of relief when he finally sank down onto a wooden rocking chair, close to the lamp.
Detective Hastings started to sit too, but one sharp look from Detective Culhane sent him springing back to his feet. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbled, his face red.
Yup. Detective Culhane was definitely in charge.
He returned his attention to Robert, and any compassion he’d felt for a kid with a bad leg was either gone or hidden. He spoke bluntly. “Your mother was at the scene of a shooting this evening. A man n
amed Charles Bessemer is dead.”
Robert nodded. “Yes.” He pointed at me. “She told me.”
Well, thanks so much for remembering my name.
“I’m Isabel,” I reminded Robert—forgetting that I wasn’t supposed to speak. Detective Culhane gave me the evil eye. “Sorry,” I muttered, sounding like Detective Hastings, who I swore shot me a sympathetic look from where he stood near the fireplace. “I’ll stay quiet now,” I promised—making the mistake of talking again.
Detective Culhane didn’t respond. He resumed speaking with Robert. “What do you know about Mr. Bessemer?”
Robert adjusted his spectacles and raised big, uncertain eyes to Detective Culhane. “I don’t know . . . I think he sells . . . sold . . . automobiles. Packards. He drove a new Packard. The neighbors would always come out and admire it when it was parked here.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that story,” Detective Culhane muttered. “Anything else?”
“Mr. Bessemer has . . . had . . . a daughter, named Flora,” Robert noted. “I only met her once, but she was going to be my sister, I guess.”
So Miss Giddings had been engaged. And poor Robert had been about to get not just a new father but a sibling, too. Living next to Butchie McLaughlin, who had seven of those, I could really understand why Robert hadn’t seemed overly upset about Mr. Bessemer getting shot. Brothers and sisters looked like nothing but trouble to me. And from the sour expression on Robert’s face when he said Flora’s name, I had a feeling she wasn’t exactly charming.
Detective Culhane didn’t seem interested in Mr. Bessemer’s offspring, though. “Did your mother and Mr. Bessemer ever fight?” he asked. “Did you ever see them argue? Or see Mr. Bessemer push or hit your mother?”
Robert must’ve been a smart kid. I could tell that he was figuring out the stuff I hadn’t told him. I knew he was grasping that his mother wasn’t there—and the police were—because she hadn’t just seen a shooting. She was a suspect. A woman who’d maybe been pushed around one too many times.
Robert stayed very quiet. But the way he swallowed, really hard, said way too much.
I was confused.
Seriously . . . why had Miss Giddings wasted her time with a man who’d been mean to her?
I was trying to figure that out when Detective Culhane asked another question that I thought would finally begin to clear everything up.
“Does your mother own a gun, Robert?”
It was adults against kids in that room, and Robert looked at me again for some sort of silent advice.
Fortunately, I had heard Miss Giddings tell the police that she would never, ever own a gun, so I smiled and nodded at him, as if to say, Just tell the truth!
Which, apparently, is what Robert did. Only his truth was different from Miss Giddings’s.
As I watched with a sick feeling in my stomach, Robert raised his nervous green eyes to meet Detective Culhane’s shrewd blue ones and said, weakly, “Yes. Yes, she does.”
Chapter 13
I’D BEEN TOLD TO SIT IN MY CHAIR WHILE ROBERT SHOWED the detectives where his mother supposedly kept the gun she’d sworn she didn’t have, but I couldn’t stay still. I had to know what was happening upstairs in Miss Giddings’s bedroom.
My own mother always said curiosity was going to get me killed, which didn’t stop me from creeping over to the staircase and crawling, on all fours, up to the top.
What if Robert needed me?
Plus I just had to know why Miss Giddings had lied. She must have had a good reason.
“. . . in this drawer?” Detective Culhane was asking when I got within earshot.
I peeked down the hall and saw light coming from an open doorway.
“Yes,” Robert confirmed as I crawled closer. “In there.”
By hugging the wall and staying in the shadows, I was able to find a safe spot where I could see most of what was happening. Detective Hastings stood next to the bed, yawning and eyeing the soft-looking quilt as if he wanted to lie down, while Detective Culhane reached out to open the top drawer of Miss Giddings’s bureau.
If intruding on a lady’s most private belongings bothered him, it didn’t show. In fact, Robert and I were the only ones who blushed when Detective Culhane pulled out a bunch of “unmentionables” in a big clump in his hand.
Well, Detective Hastings looked uncomfortable too. He made a “harrumph” sound into his fist and looked down at the floor.
Detective Culhane didn’t even seem to notice that he was holding lacy things, the straps dangling down from his fingers. He gave Robert a sharp glance. “You’re certain this is where she kept the gun?”
Robert nodded. “Yes, sir. She told me never to touch it.” He got redder. “She joked that she knew I’d never go in that drawer.”
In spite of the bad circumstances, I thought that was pretty funny, and I almost laughed. I also wondered how a bubbly person like Miss Giddings had gotten such a drab kid like Robert, who didn’t seem to find that logic even slightly amusing.
Detective Culhane wasn’t laughing either. He turned to poor Hastings, who was stifling yet another yawn. “The gun’s not here now,” Detective Culhane told his assistant. “There’s nothing in here but undergarments.” While Robert and Hastings squirmed again, he crammed the lacy stuff back into the drawer. “Did you ever see your mother move the gun?” he asked Robert. “Did she ever take it with her?”
Robert shook his head. “No.” He paused, then added uncertainly, “I don’t think so.”
Boy, did old Hastings—who I was starting to like, even if he hardly said a word—look disappointed when Detective Culhane turned and ordered him, “Telephone the station and get some uniformed officers over here. I want this house searched thoroughly for that gun, in case she did move it.” It was clear that he believed the weapon had already been found, though—in an alley, next to Charles Bessemer’s body. “You take over the search, Hastings,” he added grimly. “Because I need to talk to Miss Giddings again.”
“Yeah, sure,” Detective Hastings agreed, with one last, longing glance at the bed. Then he looked at Robert. “Do you have someplace to stay tonight, son?” he asked kindly. “This may take a while, and you’ll need some sleep.”
They started to confer quietly while I began to backtrack down the hallway. Any second now, Detective Culhane, who was deep in thought, rubbing his jaw and staring into the drawer of undergarments, would come downstairs, expecting to find me in a chair, probably dozing off.
Then again, maybe he’d known I’d been crouching outside the room the whole time. Without even glancing in my direction, he said, “Stand up, Miss Feeney. I’m not going to watch you crawl down a flight of stairs like an awkward cat.”
There was no use trying to pretend I wasn’t hiding, so I got to my feet.
And before I could apologize—again—Detective Culhane came over to the door and clapped one powerful hand on my shoulder, steering me toward the staircase. “I’ll take you home now.”
It was a nice offer, but I couldn’t help feeling that I’d just been arrested for the second time that night.
I was also probably pressing my luck when I twisted around to look up at Detective Culhane’s grave countenance and asked, “Can I at least talk to Robert before we go?”
Chapter 14
“HEY, DO YOU REALLY HAVE A PLACE TO SLEEP TONIGHT?” I asked Robert after pulling him into the kitchen, where we could talk in private. I could hardly believe Detective Culhane had given us time alone, but he’d grunted “one minute” and left to wait in his automobile. “You could come to my house,” I offered, even though my mother wouldn’t be happy with me bringing home the son of a lady who’d be all over the papers as a murder suspect the next day.
What will Maude write? Something good, of course, after our talk . . .
I shook off my worry and asked the silent Robert again, “You need a place to stay?”
“No, thanks,” he said. “I have an aunt who lives a few blocks away. She might help
me out, at least for tonight.”
I couldn’t help thinking, Nice aunt! Because what kind of relative “might” help a kid for one stinkin’ night?
“Detective Hastings is going to take me there and explain what happened,” Robert added.
“Yeah, he seems all right,” I noted, with a glance at the door in case the other detective hadn’t really gone outside. “Unlike you-know-who!”
Robert looked to the door too. “Yes. Detective Culhane’s intimidating.”
“Nice word.” I peeked at Robert’s brace. “You read a lot, huh?”
That probably wasn’t the right thing to say, but Robert didn’t seem to mind. “I have a lot of time, and I like books.”
“I read too,” I admitted. “And write. Sometimes.” Then I blurted a secret I’d told only one other person, just recently in a coffee shop. “I’m going to be a reporter someday.”
Robert didn’t act like that was strange. Maybe he had secret dreams too. Had plans to do things that, because of his leg, people would say he couldn’t do, just like most people thought a girl couldn’t be a real reporter. Regardless, he and I looked at each other—really sized each other up—for a long time. “My mother’s in big trouble, isn’t she?” he finally ventured, quietly.
I could’ve lied to make him feel better, but he deserved the truth. “Yeah,” I said. “But I’ll help you both.”
“What can you do?” Robert asked. He wasn’t being rude. He honestly wanted to know.
“I’m not sure.” Then I thought of Maude Collier. “But I know somebody who can at least give me information. Someone who will talk to your mom if they keep her in jail.”
Robert looked queasy. “Do you think that might really happen?”
“I don’t know,” I said. But I read the newspapers—followed the cases Maude covered—and I knew that some accused criminals spent weeks or even months in jail, waiting for their trials. Robert didn’t need to worry about that yet, though, so I asked another question that was bothering me. “Are you sure your mom had a gun?”
Isabel Feeney, Star Reporter Page 3