“Smart, aren’t I?”
“Help me load the dishwasher, will you?”
“Sure, as long as I don’t have to handle any knives. I’m a little leery of them these days.”
“You hand me everything but the knives. I’ll get them later. How’s that?”
He swiveled, faced me, and gave me the Gurn Grin. I threw it right back at him. We stood there for a moment, basking in each other’s grins.
“Man, I do love you, Liana Margaret Alvarez. You are worth just about anything to me.”
“Enough to tell me who you really are and what you really do?”
“Probably.” He turned away again and opened the door of the dishwasher. “Rinse the stack of dishes and hand them over.”
We both worked for a time, not saying a word, not looking at one another, but there was something sure and easy about it. I felt oddly content, even happy.
“Lee.” Gurn’s voice broke through my thoughts and dreams. My back was still toward him, but I held my breath.
“I want you to come to North Carolina with me and meet my parents. I told them about us. It’s time you met.”
I stopped what I was doing and turned around to face him.
“It’s a long plane ride,” he continued. “There’s a lot of time for me to tell you…some things.”
I swallowed hard, almost unable to reply. Finally, I said, “I would love that.”
≈
Also by Heather Haven
The Persephone Cole Vintage Mystery Series
•The Dagger Before Me
•Iced Diamonds
•The Chocolate Kiss-Off – Coming soon!
A 1940s holiday vintage mystery series taking place on the streets of New York City, with a five-foot eleven, full-figured gal named Persephone ‘Percy’ Cole. She’s a trail-blazing female detective with the same hard-boiled, take-no-prisoners attitude as Sam Spade, Lew Archer, and Phillip Marlow, but with a wicked sense of humor. A lover of pistachio nuts, Marlene Dietrich pants suits, and fedora hats, this one-of-a kind shamus blazes a trail for all other lady dicks to follow.
Read on for a taste of the
Persephone Cole Vintage Mysteries!
The Dagger Before Me
Book One
Royal Theatre
Presents
The Tragedy of Macbeth
Chapter One
Persephone Cole’s hand hovered over the ringing telephone. Waiting for the third ring was almost too much effort, like everything else in this heat, but Percy had a thing about answering a phone on the first ring. Sucking in a hot, sticky breath, she was ever aware of the oppressive temperature. She dripped with it. Eight-thirty-five a.m., eighty-three degrees, and climbing. Humidity high enough to wash your socks in. Welcome to Indian summer on the lower east side, one of the hottest ever recorded.
Percy reached over and turned off her only source of moving air, a small, beat-up oscillating fan that sounded like her eight-year old son’s bike the time he put a clothespin on the spokes of the back wheel. Looking up at the wall, her gaze focused on her newly framed private investigator’s license, barely a week old.
New York State Department of Licensing,
Private Investigator, Persephone Cole
Effective Date: October 15, 1942
Pride filled her at being one of New York City’s first female P.I.s, instead of merely a secretary. Of course, technically she was both now, but a little extra work never scared Percy. She took a slug of tepid water - no ice to spare in weather like this -- and picked up the receiver. She pushed back in her chair, lifted and crossed her legs, resting them on a corner of the desk. She’d relax if it killed her.
“Good morning,” she said, going into professional work mode. “Cole Investigations, Persephone Cole, private investigator speaking.”
There was a beat, where both parties were silent. Then a male voice asked on the other end of the line,
“Is this Cole Investigations?”
That’s what I said, bub. “Yes sir, it is.”
“Who’s this?” The voice was gruff, almost rude.
What are you, deaf? “This is Persephone Cole, private investigator.”
“You sound like a woman.” He barely disguised his astonishment.
And you sound like an ass. “That’s right. This is Persephone Cole, private investigator for Cole Investigations.”
She pulled her crossed legs off the desk, and leaned forward, her large, five foot-eleven inch frame causing the chair to creak in protest. Strands of long, flaming red hair broke free of the rubber band atop her head, damp locks sticking to her forehead and neck. Everything stuck to everything in weather like this.
“How may I help you?” She tried to keep her voice sweet. It was an effort.
“You can help me by handing the phone over to a man. Who’s there? Give me Gil or Pop Cole.”
“Gilleathain is deceased and Pop is out of the office on a long-term assignment.”
“Crap.”
“Uh-huh. So can I do something for you or not?” If you hang up, you might just be turning down the best ‘man’ for the job. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
He let out a long hissing sigh, as if parceling out his breath in accordance with his thought processes. Percy blew down the front of her blouse waiting for him to either hang up or tell her what the hell he wanted. The cast iron phone felt like it weighed a ton, and if this was a big venture into ‘no thanks’ land, she’d just as soon end it now and get it over with. There was some grub in the kitchen with her name on it.
I’m starving. Oatmeal and canned peaches with diluted condensed milk ain’t doing it for me. Maybe there’s something else. Even Spam sounds pretty good right now.
While he thought, she pulled out the ever present sack of pistachios from the pocket of her trousers and threw it on the table. Still holding the earpiece with one hand, she rooted around inside the bag with the other. She popped a nut into her mouth and separated the meat from the shell with her teeth.
“Very well,” he finally said. “I don’t have time to try to find another agency, if there is one. Besides, from what I understand, every available man seems to be tied up or drafted. It’s such a nuisance.”
“The war’s a hassle, but don’t let it get you down.” She picked the shells out of her mouth, continuing to chew the nut as silently as possible.
If he heard what she said, he ignored her comment. “I knew the Cole Brothers from when I was starting out years ago. The boys helped me once before and they were honest. Are you honest?”
“I can be.”
“I guess it’ll have to be you, God help me. My name is Dexter Wainwright. You know who I am, little lady?”
“I do. You’re a hotshot Broadway producer and you can call me Miss Cole. Now we got the introductions out of the way, what can I do for you?”
“Last night one of my actors fell from the overhead catwalk and broke his neck. He’s dead.”
“That’s too bad. I hope he had an understudy,” Percy added.
Clearly taken aback, Dexter Wainwright gurgled. “No. Yes. What? Yes, of course, but that’s not why I’m calling.”
“Then get to it.” She popped another pistachio into her mouth.
“The police don’t believe it was an accident. They want to close my whole show down. It’s the…ah…Scottish play. Maybe you’ve seen it? We’ve been in previews for the last four weeks.”
Like I have a buck-fifty to throw away on your show. “No, I haven’t, but I’ve read about it in the papers. Macbeth, right?”
“Uh-huh.” He grunted. “It happened sometime around midnight. I don’t know what the hell Carlisle was doing in the theatre at that time of night.”
“Getting himself killed, for one thing.”
“I have until eight o’clock tonight to find some answers or the police are threatening to lock the doors.” He paused for a moment. “You know, I think you might be a wiseacre.”
Percy let out a chuckl
e. “Could be, but like you say, everybody else is drafted or tied up. If you want me, it’s the going rate, fifteen bucks a day plus expenses. You got that?”
“Got it.”
“Good. You’re at the Royal Theatre, right?”
“Right.”
“I’ll be there in an hour. And Mr. Wainwright…”
“Yes?”
“When I get there, you’re going to tell me the truth. All of it.”
“I…I…”
Percy hung up on a stuttering Broadway producer.
Chapter Two
Elsie, you were right. Since we dare not be seen together, this is the perfect place to leave messages for one another. No one will suspect a thing. I received a letter yesterday about father’s estate. After death taxes, debts, and mamma’s illness and funeral, there is nothing left. You and I are on our own. I saw one of the warning missives you sent out and it was cleverly done. From now on, no more warnings, dear sister; we will simply do. Wainwright will pay. They will all pay. I miss you.
Evelyn
Chapter Three
Percy blew an errant wet curl off her forehead, and left the parlor, office, carrying the empty water glass. She trudged down the long hallway of the railroad apartment on the lower east side she and her son shared with her mother, father, and much younger sister, Sera.
Sera’s real name was Serendipity, named after arriving unexpectedly fifteen years following the first two children spaced one year apart. Percy’s older brother, Adjudication, married and became a lawyer, no doubt influenced by his given name. Stuck with Adjudication, Persephone, and Serendipity, the three Cole offspring went by the nicknames of Jude, Percy, and Sera, except to parents who called them by their given names.
Pop’s Christian name was Habakkuk, for the biblical prophet. Everyone called him Pop. Mother’s was Lamentation. Everyone called her Mother. When these two met, their first names convinced everyone who knew them, theirs would be a marriage made in heaven. Forty-three years later that was still true. Percy christened her eight-year old son, Oliver, putting a minor chink in the Cole family tradition of odd first names. She hoped.
Percy pushed the swinging kitchen door open and went inside. Mother sat at the table, peeling and cutting up potatoes. Her long, untamed white hair was contained for once, twisted and clipped off her face and neck in the heat. Worn down as a rule, people often remarked that between her wild hair, thin body, and daffy personality, she reminded them of a Dandelion caught in a windstorm. Naturally, this was not said in the woman’s presence.
Persephone looked at the woman who bore her with great affection. “Mother, you’d never know by looking at you the east coast is in the grip of a killer heat wave from Florida to Maine. And in the middle of October.”
“There you are, Persephone.” Mother gave her a bright smile. “If you’re taking a break from the office, come help me peel potatoes. Your father wants potato salad tonight. I think I remember the recipe.” Her shoulders hunched over, as if burdened by a sudden thought.
“Oh, dear, I can’t recall if it’s two pounds of potatoes or two pounds of fresh dill. I was thinking of throwing in some parsnips. They’re white, too. You don’t suppose it’s two pounds of mayonnaise, do you? No,” she answered herself. “That would be too runny.”
“My money’s on the potatoes, Mother. Work with that. I’d scratch the parsnips, if I was you.”
“Oh, dear, I have so many of them and they’ll just go bad.”
“Any cold sodas left in the fridge?”
“You might check, dear. It’s hard to keep them around with so many of Serendipity’s gentlemen callers.”
“Guzzle them right down, do they?” Percy crossed the worn linoleum of the large kitchen floor and faced the old refrigerator, the top cooling coils vibrating more than usual. The morning sun streamed through the large, paned-glass window facing a courtyard four stories below.
“Jeesh, it already feels like a steam bath in here.” Percy moved from the refrigerator to the window, and pulled down the aging shade. “That’s better.”
“I’m worried about your father, Persephone.” Mother stopped her peeling. “Twelve-hour shifts, working all night trying to catch these vandals. He never does sleep right during the day. Destroying the Lord’s house is not a nice thing to do. I don’t care if you are an atheist. Or is it agnostic? I can never remember which one is what. What they need is a little faith.” She shook her head and clucked her tongue, picking up the paring knife again.
“I think the problem is too much faith, Mother, coupled with strong feelings of self-righteousness. Then they start swinging a pickaxe. Pop won’t be doing the job much longer, anyway. He said the rabbis are pulling the plug next week on the project. Running out of money. But we’ll be okay. I just got a client, and I plan to get a lot more.” Percy opened the refrigerator door. She clucked her tongue, as well, but for another reason. “This stupid thing is almost as warm inside as it is out. I know this is your pride and joy, Mother --”
“Your father got it for me brand new, Persephone,” her mother interrupted. “It was the only present I ever wanted, a nineteen twenty-seven Monitor Top refrigerator. And we were the first ones on the block, too.”
“And now it needs to be fixed.”
“Maybe, but I’m not keeping anything perishable in there, Persephone. I’m using the Schlitz cooler in the corner by the larder.”
“So what is this, a glorified closet? We should unplug it. Save ourselves the noise and electricity.”
“If you wish, dear. Serendipity is bringing more ice on her way home from work for the cooler. She’s working half a day.”
“Before she runs off to an air-conditioned movie. That’s the only date she’ll go on these days.” Percy reached down and pulled the plug out of the wall socket. The kitchen fell into an agreeable silence.
“She does like it when the boys take her to an air-cooled movie house. I’ve never been to one myself. I wonder how they chill the air? It must be done with ice. Did you say you have a client?” Mother stopped peeling potatoes again and looked at her eldest daughter.
“I did. I have. Is there any fruit around? I’m hungry.”
“On the table.” Mother pointed to a bowl in the center. “What kind of a job?”
Percy glanced into the fruit bowl. “Oh, not these old apples again.” She picked one up, took a bite, and made a face. “I swear, this batch came over on the Mayflower. Where is all the fresh fruit these days?”
“The best pickings go to our boys overseas. You know that, my dear. You’re just enjoying yourself complaining.”
“Along with the best dairy, meat, and vegetables.” Percy mumbled, as if her mother hadn’t spoken. “Except for potatoes and rice. That’s why I’m shaped like the Hindenburg, not because I can’t control myself. It’s the war’s fault I’m fat,” Percy joked.
“Persephone, dear, don’t you say that about yourself. You’re not fat.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“You’re zaftig.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“Such a sad day for the airship industry when that beautiful ship caught fire.” Mother looked away, musing. “After that you couldn’t ride one at all; they just went away. Poof! I’ve always wanted to, you know, ride in an airship. Float through the air like a bird.” She continued peeling potatoes and throwing them into a bowl of water. “Tell me about your new client, dear. Is it more secretarial work? Not that it surprises me someone else would want to hire you. You are very good at organizing an office. You’ve done wonders for your father’s filing system, but --”
“I’m going to cut you off at the pass, Mother. You’re beginning to wander, and I’ve got to leave for midtown sometime this century. No secretarial work. Detecting, Mother, and don’t tell Pop.”
“Persephone, you know how your father feels --”
“Yeah, well, too bad,” Percy interrupted, taking another bite of the apple. “Mother, I’m thirty-five years old. Thre
e. five. In five more years I’ll be forty. I don’t have to tell you, time passes like that.” She snapped her fingers.
“That’s what calendars are for, dear.” Mother’s tone was one of cheer, coupled with imparting helpful information. “So we can keep track. I can get you one, if you like.”
Percy knelt down in front of the older woman. “Mother, what I really mean is I been working for Cole Investigations for seventeen years. I helped Pop and Uncle Gil solve a lot of cases, too, between us chickens.”
“Your father always said you were a big help.”
“Now I want to be out there doing it for myself. I’m tired of sitting behind a desk answering a phone and saying, ‘Cole Investigations, may I help you?’ I want to be Cole Investigations…along with Pop, of course. It took me eighteen months of studying nights and weekends to get the P.I. license. And I paid two hard-earned bucks for it. Now I got the chance. Percy Cole has a brain, and she wants to use it.”
“That’s lovely, Persephone, just lovely. You have such a way with words.”
“But will they work on Pop?”
“I wouldn’t count on it, dear.” Mother shook her head. “You know your father, once he makes up his mind. What are you going to be doing, Persephone? I hope it isn’t dangerous. You have a young son to think about.”
“Naw. A cake walk, Mother. A little trip uptown to a Broadway theatre, talk to the producer, and head on home. You’ll never even know I’m gone.”
Big words, toots, but what the hell.
“I still don’t think your father will be happy.” Mother mused again then picked up a potato and dug out one of the eyes with the knife.
“That’s why we won’t tell him. Besides, I haven’t been paid by Cole Investigation for three weeks. Why? No moola. I’ll bring in fifteen bucks a day doing this. Pop’s only getting five a day and he won’t see any of that ‘til the job’s over. But that’s Brooklyn for you.”
Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries) Page 72