Isabel Feeney, Star Reporter

by Beth Fantaskey

  “Miss Giddings is about to be tried for the crime, but Isabel has loyally defended her in spite of my doubts, which I have expressed in a series of newspaper articles. Izzie has been investigating too—apparently more than any of us knew.” Maude smiled at me, just for a second, and I knew she admired how I’d tried to find the gun. Then she turned back to my mother. “You should be very proud of Isabel, for it seems that—given the evening’s events—perhaps she’s been correct about Miss Giddings’s innocence.”

  Had I just heard right? Or had the blow to my head messed up my hearing?

  “I . . . I don’t understand,” Mom said, still clinging protectively to my arm. “Are you saying—”

  “It’s possible that someone else did kill Charles Bessemer,” Detective Culhane explained. “Because it seems odd that Miss Giddings is in custody but someone is still committing violence in that alley.” He finally asked for my recollection of the events that had landed me in the hospital. “Isabel, what exactly happened?”

  I rubbed my head again, trying to remember details. “I decided to go through the alley to return my unsold papers because I didn’t want to be a coward. But halfway through, I heard something move—just like Miss Giddings said happened to her.” My heart began to race, as if I were being chased again. “I started to run, but my stupid boots were so big . . .” I suddenly recalled something. “The person chasing me had trouble running too. I heard someone breathing really hard, and I thought I might even get away. But I tripped, and the next thing I knew, my arm was being yanked and twisted, hard enough to pull me back. Then . . .” I lightly rapped my head, which was a mistake, and concluded flatly, “Thunk.”

  “Fortunately, that skull is apparently uncrackable,” Detective Culhane noted.

  “James!” Maude spoke sharply, but her eyes twinkled.

  Hastings coughed into his hand, stifling a guilty chuckle too.

  My mother, who was not accustomed to potential hom­icides, especially ones involving her daughter, was not laughing, and Detective Culhane must’ve seen the disbelief on her face. “Sorry,” he told her. Then he addressed me again. “Is there anything else you can recall, Isabel? Anything you heard or saw?”

  “I didn’t see anything, really. I sure as heck wasn’t going to look over my shoulder!” My cheeks flushed. “And once I started screaming, I hardly heard anything else.”

  “Your screams saved you,” Hastings reassured me in his kind way. “Somebody heard you and called the police.”

  That did make me feel better. I’d been getting embarrassed, looking back on how I’d shrieked like a baby.

  “Is that it, Isabel?” Detective Culhane asked. “You can’t tell me more?”

  “Just that I was threatened by Aunt Johnene and Albert Rowland. Aunt Johnene said I might end up dead in an alley if I kept sticking my nose where it didn’t belong.”

  My mother gasped, and Detective Culhane and Maude shared a look that said, for once, both of them were taking me seriously. “I’ll look into it,” Detective Culhane promised.

  “I think that’s it,” I said, wanting to close my eyes and rest again. All at once, though, I remembered something. Not anything I’d seen or heard, but something I’d smelled. I didn’t know if it was important, but I added, “There was a funny stink, too, right before I got knocked out.”

  At some point Maude had pulled out her trusty notebook, but she stopped writing, clearly intrigued. “A stink?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It was odd, but familiar . . . I was gulping for air, and I smelled it . . .”

  Detective Culhane was waiting, his arms crossed again, and I struggled to remember more. But my head was really starting to ache. “Sorry,” I finally said, shrugging. “The last couple of seconds, right before I got hit, are kind of a blur.”

  “Izzie . . .” My mother’s face was ashen. “This is all so much . . . I don’t know whether to be angry at you for getting mixed up in a murder, or proud of you, or . . . or just sick to think that I didn’t even know what you’ve been up to while three other adults were well aware. And to think what could have happened . . .”

  I didn’t know what to say or do. The hurt in her expression, as she grasped just how incredibly removed she was from my whole life, rendered me silent. And she was jealous, too, of my relationship with the educated, independent, commanding reporter who knew more about me than she did. I could see it all in her tired eyes. “Mom . . .”

  Thankfully, Maude spoke up. “Isabel didn’t want to worry you. She kept everything quiet to protect you.”

  “She shouldn’t have to protect me,” Mom said softly, bowing her head. “I should protect Isabel. And I haven’t—”

  “Mom, it’s okay,” I said. “I work days, you work nights . . .”

  That wasn’t helping, but my mother raised her face and squared her shoulders. “Well, at least I know what’s going on now.” She addressed Detectives Culhane and Hastings. “And I promise you that Isabel won’t have anything more to do with your murder investigation.”

  “And you will be investigating, right?” I asked Detective Culhane. “Because if you think there’s a chance Miss Giddings isn’t the killer . . .”

  “I will talk with Johnene Giddings and get to the bottom of the crime against you,” he assured me. “But Colette Giddings’s trial starts in one hour, and there is still quite a bit of evidence that could convict her.”

  I jerked upright, which sent an arrow of pain shooting through my skull. “One hour?” I asked. “Really? It’s morning?”

  “Yes,” Maude confirmed, checking her wristwatch. “I’m headed to the courthouse now.”

  “Izzie!” my mother cried as I swung my legs out from under the sheets without even thinking about what I might—or might not be—wearing, with two men in the room. Luckily, it was my usual pants and shirt. Mom grabbed my shoulder. “What are you—”

  “I gotta testify!” I informed her. Then, although I knew it might hurt my mother more and put a friend in a very difficult position, I needed to do the right thing by Miss Giddings, whose life was at stake, and I begged Maude, “Please! Take me with you!”

  Chapter 88

  “THERE IS NO WAY MY DAUGHTER IS TESTIFYING AT A MURDER TRIAL,” my mother objected, rising, as if she were going to physically stop Maude from taking me. Not that Maude had volunteered yet. Mom appealed to the detectives. “She’s already been injured as a result of this mess!”

  “I understand your concern,” Detective Culhane sympathized. “But we don’t know for certain that the crimes are related, and Isabel was at the scene of the murder. She is a key witness.”

  It didn’t help to remind my mother that before I’d been attacked, I’d nearly seen a homicide. Mom squeezed my arm again, more tightly than before. “She’s not going anywhere.”

  I tried to shake free and bend to get my boots, which were peeking out from under the bed. She held me in place, though. “Mom, let go . . .”

  Maude cleared her throat, so we all looked to her. “Mrs. Feeney, if I might say something?”

  My mother didn’t give any indication that she was eager to hear a reporter’s two cents, but Maude continued in her calm, convincing way. “I’ve covered dozens—literally dozens—of murder cases just like this one . . .”

  Wow.

  “And the evidence against Isabel’s friend is fairly substantial. I might not be convinced that Colette Giddings is innocent, yet. But Isabel has consistently raised doubts in my mind. Made me wonder if perhaps Miss Giddings isn’t the killer. Izzie merely wants the opportunity to convince a jury, too, and possibly save her friend from the gallows.”

  My mom was a nice person. Probably too nice, which is why the world knocked her around so hard. But at that moment she stood up to one of Chicago’s most powerful women, reminding Maude Collier that while she might have been a big-shot journalist, there was one key position Maude could never hold. “You are not Isabel’s mother,” Mom said evenly. “Not her mother. And you don’t know wha
t’s best for her.”

  Maude’s cheeks reddened, and I thought she avoided looking at Detective Culhane, who probably wanted kids that Maude couldn’t have without giving up everything else. Still, Maude didn’t completely lose her composure. “I know that I’m not her mother,” she agreed. “I was just trying to explain—”

  “Or trying to get a good story.” Mom cut Maude off. “Because surely a young girl testifying at a murder trial is a curiosity, right?”

  My mother was savvier than I’d thought. But I told her, “Maude wouldn’t use me like that.”

  “I promise you, I’m not looking for a story,” Maude said. “I promise.”

  Mom crossed her arms over her chest. “Yet you had your notebook out a moment ago.”

  I couldn’t believe how tough my mother was being, and I was suddenly very proud of her. Maybe she didn’t have nice clothes or an expensive, fashionable haircut or a job that made her famous, but all at once, I really grasped how hard she worked to protect what was left of our family.

  Yet I had a responsibility to Miss Giddings, and I knew that in her heart, my mother would want me to do the right thing. I tugged her arm, forcing her to listen to me. “Mom . . . a lady’s life is at stake, and I know things that could help her.” She wasn’t convinced, and I added, “You’ve always taught me to ‘do unto others.’ And Dad gave up his life trying to protect other people.”

  I glanced at Detective Culhane, who had removed himself from the conversation, and saw that he was nonetheless listening intently, one hand rubbing his chin.

  I really wondered what was going on behind his blue eyes, which didn’t give away much.

  If he were in my mother’s place, would he react like a father, protectively, or like a soldier, and say I should do my duty?

  I had a feeling it would be the latter.

  “Mom.” I tugged her arm again. “Dad would want me to go.”

  All at once, Hastings, whose presence I had nearly forgotten, spoke up from his corner. “She’s trying to do right by her friend, Mrs. Feeney,” he said quietly. “I think you should let her.”

  Mom turned to him and opened her mouth to protest one more time. Then her expression softened, and I knew I’d won. “I can’t go with you,” she told me, her voice taut with emotion. “I have to finish my shift before I can leave the hospital.”

  “Maude’ll take me,” I said without first asking the woman who I did believe was my friend, even if she would also feel obligated to put my story in the paper. Fortunately, Maude nodded, and I turned back to Mom. “I’ll be okay.”

  “I’ll watch out for Isabel too,” Detective Culhane offered. “All she needs to do is answer a few questions today. I’ll almost certainly be called upon to do the same, as I’ve done countless times before. It will be fine.”

  I had been assaulted in a dark alley, and my entire head was wrapped in gauze, so my mother could have been forgiven for worrying that something might still happen to her only daughter. But even having money and a chauffeur and a bulletproof car couldn’t guarantee anybody safety in Chicago, where gangsters often battled it out with machine guns on the street corners, hitting innocent bystanders, too.

  Heck, let’s face it. Nobody was safe anywhere from wars, or polio, or the influenza that had taken Detective Culhane’s wife, or a million other terrible things. All most of us could do was go out the door every morning, do what we needed to do, and look out for each other as best we could.

  “I’ll be back in time to sell the evening edition,” I promised my mother, hoping that was true. “Don’t worry, okay?”

  “Okay, Isabel.” She forced the tiniest smile and, for the first time in a long while, smoothed my hair—except that my curls were hidden under a big bandage. Still, it felt nice. “Just watch what you say, all right? You don’t always think before you speak.”

  I smiled too. She did still know me. Then I shot Detective Culhane a warning look, silently telling him not to agree about my big mouth, because I knew he was tempted.

  “Come along,” he said with a wave of his hand. “I’ll drive you both to the courthouse.”

  “And I’ll wait for you to finish your shift, Mrs. Feeney,” Hastings volunteered. “Then I can take you home—or to the trial, if you’d like.”

  I realized, suddenly, that Hastings might have been quiet, but it wasn’t necessarily because Detective Culhane was in charge. Hastings had his own important role to play, keeping people calm and helping them through the confusion and fear related to a murder investigation.

  “Let’s go, Isabel,” Maude prompted. “We don’t want to be late.”

  Crouching, I pulled on my boots, then followed Maude and Detective Culhane out the door. But before we got halfway down the corridor, I ran back and threw my arms around my mother. And for once I actually thought before I spoke, and I knew I said the right thing. “I love you, Mom.”

  Then I ran off, my head and my heart pounding, to have my say in court.

  I just wished I was as confident as Maude and Detective Culhane about my safety, because something I couldn’t quite put my finger on continued to bother me.

  What had I smelled right before I’d blacked out?

  And why did it worry me?

  Chapter 89

  THE TRIAL HAD ALREADY STARTED BY THE TIME WE GOT THERE, but Maude and Detective Culhane didn’t seem worried about being late or concerned about the crowd, which was pretty big. I guess they’d attended plenty of hearings and knew their way around a courtroom. The uniformed bailiff who guarded the door, keeping out some folks who hadn’t gotten seats, was obviously familiar with my escorts, too. As soon as we walked in, he nodded and said quietly, “Miss Collier. Detective. I can find spots for you.”

  “Isabel, here, is a witness, George,” Maude noted, placing an arm around my shoulders.

  Bailiff George nodded again, then crooked his finger, indicating that we should follow him. We walked right down the middle aisle, toward the judge, practically to the front. When we reached the third row, we all stopped, and George leaned down to have a quiet conversation with some folks who didn’t seem too happy to have to stand up and leave. But I heard the bailiff tell them that if they didn’t go at his urging, the judge would kick ’em out.

  I mumbled “Sorry” to them, but Detective Culhane had his stone face on, and he placed one hand lightly on Maude’s back, guiding her into the bench, then waved me in too. Apparently I didn’t merit the more gentlemanly gesture.

  Sitting down, I scooched over to make room for him, and when he was seated, I could finally pay attention to what was happening—which wasn’t much. The judge was talking to the jury, telling them about their “obligations” and “reasonable doubts,” so I looked around the courtroom, searching for familiar faces.

  I quickly found Robert, who I wasn’t sure would be there, and he gave me a funny look. It took me a second to realize that he was no doubt wondering why my head was all bandaged up. Since we couldn’t talk, I shrugged and waved, and he offered me a small, sad, scared wave in reply. My heart sank, because even from across half a courtroom, I could see that he had that bluish tinge around his mouth, which concerned me for two reasons.

  He was already in bad shape, and the day was just beginning.

  And what if he distracted his mother, who would be worried about him?

  Robert was sitting next to none other than Aunt John­ene, who was dressed like a schoolmarm in a prim, ruffled blouse and had the pursed-mouth, prissy expression to match.

  Had she come hoping to watch her own sister get sentenced to hang?

  And was she not surprised to see my injured head?

  Or had she, maybe, expected that I wouldn’t be there at all?

  I couldn’t tell. Then, glancing between aunt and nephew, I was struck by a bizarre possibility.

  Would Aunt Johnene drag Robert to a trial on purpose, hoping to kill him? That little house she wanted to buy, if her sister was out of the way, would be a lot roomier without a sickly b
oy in it . . .

  That theory seemed pretty far-fetched, but then again, Aunt Johnene was cold to the core. Cold enough that I honestly believed she might be responsible for the bump on my head.

  I had the urge to stick out my tongue at her. But I was afraid she might also be a witness because of the gun, and it probably wouldn’t help to make her more bitter and angry than she already was, so I turned away.

  That was when I spotted somebody I’d never, ever expected to see at the trial.

  Robert’s father, Albert Rowland. He was dressed in a suit, as opposed to a bloodstained apron, and I could almost see why Miss Giddings had fallen for him. I was wearing a bandage turban, like Valentino in The Sheik, but Mr. Rowland actually bore a striking resemblance to the movie star who made every woman swoon.

  As I studied him, I tried to figure out why he was there, then recalled how Miss Giddings said her husband had given her the missing gun. I also remembered how Detective Culhane had claimed that not all guns look alike.

  Was Mr. Rowland a witness too? Would he take the stand to identify the weapon that had been found in the alley?

  And if so, could he be trusted to be honest?

  Because if he really hated Miss Giddings—or was the killer himself—he might have reason to fib . . .

  Robert’s father must’ve felt me staring at him. He shifted to look at me, and his eyes narrowed with recognition. Unhappy recognition.

  Okay, maybe Miss Giddings shouldn’t have fallen for a mean butcher, no matter how handsome he was. Albert Rowland might’ve had an alibi—at least one that Detective Culhane believed—but there was nothing kind in those dark eyes. I still thought he might’ve hurt me and killed Charles Bessemer, too.

  I turned away first and looked straight ahead to where Miss Giddings sat, at a big table with the man I assumed was her lawyer.

  Could I even call him a man, though? He looked more like a kid—a nervous child, playing dress-up in a suit with wide shoulders he didn’t quite fill. Leaning close to Miss Giddings so they could confer quietly, he fidgeted with his necktie. Robert, who also wore a jacket and tie, looked almost as mature as Miss Giddings’s defender.