Isabel Feeney, Star Reporter

by Beth Fantaskey

  It seemed like something a bitter, lonely lady would do . . .

  I was wondering all those things when the front door opened again and I heard footsteps on the porch. Then, lo and behold, Johnene Giddings strode down the steps in her stiff-backed, prim, purposeful way.

  The only problem was, I still didn’t know if there were other boarders around—or which room was Aunt Johnene’s, if I did get inside.

  I was trying to figure out what Maude Collier would do in my situation, when the best thing possible happened—although at first it seemed like the worst thing that could’ve gone wrong.

  Right over my head, somebody opened a window, leaned out, and said in a surprisingly cheerful tone, “Why in the world have you been hiding there for an hour, you little spy?”

  Chapter 76

  “ARE YOU SURE YOU WANNA HELP ME?” I ASKED THE VERY nice young woman, Dolores Siebley, who’d let me into the boarding house and was leading me up a set of creaky stairs right to Johnene Giddings’s room. The whole place had that funny odor of cabbage I’d smelled on Aunt Johnene the first night I’d met her, and the atmosphere was pretty dreary, with lots of mismatched, old-fashioned furniture. But Miss Siebley seemed happy to live there. “I don’t want you to get in trouble or kicked out,” I noted.

  “Oh, this is very exciting,” my guide said, wrapping her bathrobe closer around her. She was a stenographer most days, but at home with an illness this morning—although she looked pretty healthy to me. I couldn’t blame her for wanting a day off, though. I might’ve played sick once or twice in my life too. “I can’t believe you’re investigating a murder!” she added, looking over her shoulder at me, her eyes gleaming. “We all know Johnene’s sister is in jail, but Johnene pretends like nothing’s wrong.”

  I probably should’ve made up some fake reason for needing to get into Aunt Johnene’s room, but I’d been so surprised when Miss Siebley’d popped her head out of the window that I’d blabbed quite a bit of the truth. But apparently, Aunt Johnene was unpopular enough that at least one of her housemates didn’t mind letting her possibly get drawn into a murder case. Miss Siebley didn’t even seem to care that I was only a kid, maybe because I’d mentioned that I had a history of helping Detective James Culhane, Homicide Division.

  He’d love that, if it ever got back to him!

  We had arrived at the landing, and Miss Siebley sighed and shook her head. “What type of person doesn’t help her own sister—and a poor, crippled boy?” Then she reached for a doorknob and twisted it. “Well, here you are. I don’t know what you’ll find, but if it helps that sweet woman I’ve seen in the newspapers get out of prison, that’s just wonderful. It’s so hard to believe John­ene has such a lovely sister. Colette looks so sad in the photographs!”

  “Are you reading Maude Collier’s articles?” I asked, confused. “In the Trib?”

  “Yes,” Miss Siebley confirmed. “All of us girls are—when Johnene’s not around. It’s so thrilling!”

  I finally understood why Maude could go overboard trying to make her readers see that murderesses weren’t all wonderful—even if she was wrong about Miss Giddings. In spite of all the things Maude had written to make Miss Giddings look guilty, Miss Siebley still thought she was “lovely.”

  “I guess I better hurry up,” I said. “I don’t want to get caught nosing around here.”

  “Don’t worry. Johnene should be away most of the day,” Miss Siebley assured me. “Secretarial school is serious business!”

  “Oh, good.” Feeling a little less nervous, I entered the room, which was very sparsely decorated. The single bed was neatly made, the patchwork quilt on top perfectly smooth, and there was nothing but an empty water glass on the nightstand. The closet was narrow and the chest of drawers small. It certainly wouldn’t take long to go through everything. Yet reaching for a drawer, I hesitated. I had no right to touch Aunt Johnene’s things. Then I pictured Miss Giddings going to the gallows, and Robert crying and alone—not to mention Detective Culhane holding a bunch of undergarments, as if he hardly cared. Maude wouldn’t have thought twice about nosing around either.

  Pulling open a drawer, I gingerly rooted through some personal items of the nature that Detective Culhane had handled. Except not as frilly.

  “What are you hoping to find?” Miss Siebley asked, craning her neck so she could see from where she was leaning against the door frame. “Something in particular?”

  I wished she would leave me alone, but clearly she wasn’t going to miss a thing. “I’m not really sure,” I said. I didn’t want to alarm her by mentioning a gun. “I thought she might keep a diary . . .”

  “I don’t have a diary.”

  My whole body froze. And when I turned slowly toward the bedroom door, I saw Miss Siebley pinned against the frame, her eyes wide and one hand over her mouth, as alarmed as I was to find Johnene Giddings standing in the corridor, arms crossed, mouth a thin line, and fury in her eyes.

  “I wish to speak to Robert’s friend,” she said in a low growl. Stepping into the room, she addressed her housemate but glared at me. “Leave us alone, Dolores.” I was already terrified, but my knees really started knocking when Aunt Johnene added, “And close the door on your way out.”

  Chapter 77

  “I SHOULD CALL THE POLICE,” AUNT JOHNENE THREATENED, stepping closer to me. I was already trapped against the bed, so all I could do was lean back. She stuck her finger right in my face, her eyes the merest slits. “You have no right to be here!”

  I was scared, but I noticed that she wasn’t rushing to call the cops. “If they come here, they’ll start asking about the gun again,” I warned her. “They’ll poke around too!”

  “I’m not under arrest,” she snarled. “I’m not even a suspect!”

  “Maybe you should be!” I snapped. She was starting to make me angry, wagging that finger around and acting like she was perfect, when really she was the opposite. “You’re jealous of Miss Giddings, and you probably shot Charles Bessemer—or tried to kill your own sister! You want that house—and a husband—so bad!”

  Of all the rash things I’d said, that was probably the most reckless rush of words to come spewing out of my big mouth. Aunt Johnene bent down even closer to me, so my knees buckled against the mattress and my backside thudded down onto the quilt. She probably wasn’t happy about me messing that up, either. “Get out of here,” she growled through gritted teeth. Her voice was quiet, though, no doubt so Miss Siebley, who was probably right outside the door, wouldn’t hear her tell me. “And you watch yourself, young lady. People like you, and Charles Bessemer, and my sister, who go out looking for trouble . . . You might just wind up dead in an alley or at the end of a noose too!”

  Chapter 78

  I WANTED TO TELL MAUDE OR DETECTIVE CULHANE ABOUT how Aunt Johnene had threatened me, just like Albert Rowland had done, but by the time I was done selling papers, it was pretty late. I was also sure that Detective Culhane would tell me I deserved to be chewed out. And even if I found Maude at the Trib, which was possible, she might not approve of what I’d done either.

  Or would she think I was brave and enterprising?

  Regardless, I decided to go home, and I let myself in to my dark, empty house.

  At least I thought nobody was there, until—before I could even turn on a lamp—somebody who was sitting in the shadows asked quietly, “Who in the world is Maude Collier, Isabel? And what does she want with you?”

  Chapter 79

  “SHE . . . SHE’S A FRIEND OF MINE,” I TOLD MY MOTHER, who had waited for me in our worn armchair with an envelope in her hands and a deep frown on her face. “I met her . . .” How could I explain it without mentioning the murder? “I met her while I was selling papers,” I said vaguely. “She’s a reporter for the Trib. A really good one!”

  My mom didn’t know much about my job, and she must’ve believed that reporters and the kids who sold newspapers on street corners mingled all the time. She didn’t question my explanati
on. But she still wasn’t happy. She tapped the envelope against her palm, clearly trying to stay calm. “Did this Maude Collier take you to a prison, Isabel? Because it seems as if you wrote a story about visiting a killer in the county jail!”

  My mouth got very dry. “Is that what’s in the envelope?” I asked with a nervous glance at the letter. “That dumb thing I wrote?”

  “Yes, Izzie,” Mom confirmed. “There’s a story in your handwriting, all marked up, and a note from your ‘friend’!”

  “Oh gosh, Mom!” I forced a smile, acting like she was being silly, worrying about me. Stepping closer, I held out my hand and told a pretty bad lie, only so she wouldn’t get more upset. “I didn’t really go to the jail. Do you think they’d let kids in there?”

  I saw uncertainty in my mother’s eyes, but she didn’t give me Maude’s note. “I still need you to explain this.”

  I took just a second to formulate a new fib, then said, “Sometimes I take the facts in Maude’s . . .”

  My mother gave me a funny look, and I quickly changed that to, “I mean, I take Miss Collier’s articles and rewrite them in my own way. She wants to help me with my dream of being a reporter. She’s really nice.”

  There were a lot of holes in that story—because half of it wasn’t true—but my mother didn’t seem inclined to ask me more about the article itself, or the jail visit. She mainly looked pained, as if I’d said something to hurt her. Her forehead was all furrowed, and the lamp she’d turned on, next to the chair, made her fine hair a frizzy halo. “You . . . you told this woman that you want to be a reporter?” she asked, studying my face. “Really?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “She thinks I can do it too!”

  I thought Mom was upset because I was interested in doing a job mainly done by men. Or that she believed I was setting a goal I’d never reach. But when she lowered her head and muttered, “I didn’t know that, Isabel. Didn’t know you dreamed of things like that . . .” I realized that she was hurt that I’d confided in another adult. A woman. And an obviously accomplished, educated one at that.

  All of a sudden I was hurting too. For her. “Hey, Mom . . .” I knelt down in front of her chair, trying to see her face. “It’s just a silly dream . . .”

  “No, it’s not silly,” she said, smoothing the envelope on her lap, as if it were no longer evidence of me sneaking around to prisons, but something precious. Her head was still bent, so I couldn’t tell for sure, but I was afraid she was crying. “It’s a lovely dream, Isabel. One your father would have been proud of. I hope this Miss Collier can help you achieve it.”

  My eyes got a prickly feeling that I hated, and I didn’t know what to say.

  Mom finally raised her eyes, and they were rimmed with red, the way Miss Giddings’s had been. “Miss Collier mainly said your work was very good,” she told me, quietly. “She says you have talent. And from what I read, you do have your father’s way with words. He would be so proud of you.”

  We got silent then, both of us probably thinking how different tings might have been if Dad were alive. I really wanted to hug my mother. But I couldn’t quite bring myself to do that. It was almost like I was afraid. If I wrapped my arms around her, I’d feel how fragile she really was. How close to completely breaking. And she didn’t hug me, either. She just patted my arm. “You should get some sleep, Izzie. It’s very late.”

  I stood up, taking the envelope with me. “Hey,” I said, finally realizing that it was strange for her to be home and in a housecoat. Worry tickled my stomach. “How come you’re not at work?”

  “My hours were cut back,” she informed me. “I’ll have two evenings a week off now.”

  That was the best and worst news imaginable. My mother desperately needed a rest. But we desperately needed money, too. I tried to make it seem like a good thing, though. “That’s great,” I told her. “You shouldn’t have to work all the time.”

  She tried to smile as if she agreed. “Go on to bed, Isabel,” she urged. “I’m going to stay up for a while. I’m not used to sleeping at night.”

  “Okay. Good night.”

  My mother planned to be awake, but she reached up and turned off the light, probably to save a few pennies on the electric bill, so I felt kind of guilty when I went to my room and switched on my bedside lamp. But I just had to know what Maude had said about my story. Yet as I read her comments, which were mostly encouraging, I kept wondering why I was able to come up with ideas to help Miss Giddings but I couldn’t seem to help my mother, to save both our lives.

  Chapter 80

  THE GUARD NAMED MORSE ROSE FROM HIS CHAIR WHEN Flora and I dragged a big suitcase full of Miss Giddings’s clothes through the doors at the Cook County Jail. “Oh, no,” he said, wagging a finger. “Not again . . .”

  But he stopped protesting and let his jaw hang open when he saw that we had a new kid along with us. A boy who was hobbling across the floor, dragging his left leg, and huffing so much that I was honestly afraid he might keel over. But Robert Giddings was determined to see his mother, and he had refused to turn back, even when Uncle Carl had practically insisted.

  Of course our chauffeur had obeyed Flora, who didn’t seem worried about Robert at all. “Just drive,” she’d ordered her uncle.

  And Flora wasn’t intimidated by Morse, either. She stepped up to the desk and batted her eyelashes, using her little-girl charm, which didn’t quite mask the threat in her words. “You’re not going to turn away a boy who can barely walk or breathe, thanks to polio, after he’s dragged himself all the way here to see his poor mother on the eve of her murder trial, are you?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. “Are you really going to send a crippled kid home without even letting him hug his mama—who might be hanged?”

  Chapter 81

  “THAT ‘MAMA’ STUFF IS SICKENING,” I ADVISED FLORA, who was leading the way through the jail. Although Robert had two crutches, I kept one hand on his elbow. Flora had convinced Morse that we were both needed to help him—not that she was doing anything to prop him up. Her hands were in that fluffy muff again. I was dragging the suitcase, too.

  I had to give Flora Bessemer credit, though.

  She’d been right. Nobody could deny a kid who’d had polio a chance to see his mother before she might get sentenced to death. And apparently nobody could deny anything to an orphan whose father had been murdered. Especially an orphan who happened to have blond curls, blue eyes—and a pretty forceful personality.

  Of course, Morse hadn’t been sympathetic to me. Flora’d just convinced him that I was a “strong” girl, “used to hard labor,” whom Robert could lean on when necessary.

  Getting irritated with her in spite of how well her plan had worked, I added, “Nobody over five years old uses ‘mama’!”

  “Oh, adults love it when children use ‘mama’ and ‘papa,’ ” she said, pulling one hand from her muff to wave it at me dismissively. “I use it whenever I want to appear weak or helpless.”

  “Why . . . would you want to do . . . that?” asked Robert, who was weak and helpless.

  “To get what I want,” Flora informed him.

  Robert wasn’t listening. He’d broken free of me and managed to pick up the pace, his brace squeaking in a quicker rhythm as he hurried down the corridor. And I guess I was wrong about kids our age avoiding the use of childish nicknames. Before I spotted Miss Giddings, Robert cried out, “Mama!”

  Chapter 82

  “I DON’T THINK CLOTHES WILL HELP,” MISS GIDDINGS SAID AS Flora held up something called a “silk crepe” dress, which sounded to me like a dessert you’d eat in France. A nice guard had opened the cell so Robert could lie down on the cot. He was wheezing something terrible, and Miss Giddings was distracted, fussing over him. She hardly seemed to care about the clothes, and she bent to smooth her son’s hair again. “Robert . . . why did you come here—”

  “Look, he’s here already, so why don’t you pay attention to these outfits?” Flora interrupted. “You need
to look good for the trial.”

  Miss Giddings sank down on the bed and rested one hand on Robert’s bad leg, as if she needed to be connected to him. I hated the lack of spark in her eyes and the defeat in her voice. “The evidence all seems against me,” she reminded us. “I don’t see how a nice skirt or some hose will do anything.”

  “A nice skirt can do everything!” I said. “Don’t you ever read those newspapers I sell you?”

  “Yes, but . . .” Her gaze remained locked on Robert.

  “Haven’t you read Maude’s articles about how women who dress nice don’t get convicted?” I continued, remembering one case in particular. “Didn’t you read about how Sabella Nitti came to court in ripped stockings, with no makeup on, and got convicted of murder? Then, when she got a second trial, she put on lipstick and a pretty dress, and now she’s free. Maude wrote all about it!”

  In fact, Maude had seemed very frustrated by Mrs. Nitti’s overturned death sentence.

  “Maude’s always writing about how women use the jail to spruce up,” I added. “And they all win their cases.”

  Miss Giddings stroked Robert’s braced leg, growing thoughtful. “I have heard the other women talking about how important appearance is for a trial. But it seems so . . . manipulative. And wrong.”

  Flora rolled her eyes. “Oh, please! How is it any different from putting on these same clothes to sell a man a suit at Marshall Field’s?”

  Miss Giddings’s cheeks flushed. Let’s face it—she’d not only sold Charles Bessemer some clothes, she’d snagged him, too. Maybe away from her sister.

  As if any man would ever stick with Aunt Johnene once he got to really know her. I pictured the rage in her eyes as she’d confronted me in her room, and I suddenly confessed, “I . . . I tried to find the gun—at your sister’s house, Miss Giddings.”