Good Year For Murder

by Eddenden, A. E.

  Published in 1988 and

  Reprinted in 2000 by

  Academy Chicago Publishers

  363 West Erie Street

  Chicago, IL 60610

  © 1988 by A.E. Eddenden

  Printed and bound in the U.S.A.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any way without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Eddenden, A. E.

  A good year for murder.

  I. Title.

  PR9199.3.E32G66 1988 813’54 87-35179

  ISBN 0-89733-476-0

  To MKI

  FEBRUARY

  Russia began a concentrated attack against her small neighbour, Finland. The younger generation hummed, or tried to imitate, Bonnie Baker’s rendition of “Oh Johnny”. Joe Louis successfully defended his heavyweight boxing crown with a unanimous decision over a little-known South American, Arturo Godoy. W. C. Fields, under the stage name of Cuthbert J. Twillie, traded insults and compliments with Mae West in the film, “My Little Chickadee”. The number one radio star was Chase and Sanborn’s hand-carved truant, Charlie McCarthy. And Mrs Gertrude Valentini, junior Alderman from ward six in Fort York, received a dead, unplucked chicken in an unmarked cardboard box. It was hand delivered on the fourteenth, St. Valentine’s Day. Appropriately, the bird had an arrow through its heart. On opening the parcel, Mrs Valentini fainted.

  All these items were reported by the city’s influential, and only newspaper, The Fort York Expositor. The one about the chicken heart was allotted the smallest space (one column x ten agate lines) because it was really the least important item; except, of course, to Mrs Valentini.

  MARCH

  On St. Patrick’s Day, Emmett O’Dell, also a politician, returned from a late council meeting to his home to find his pair of white toy poodles dyed a brilliant paddy green. The dogs were otherwise unharmed, even quite frisky, but, except for their eyes, were the colour of sunlit emeralds. They had been kept outside, as usual, in their elaborate doghouse (drapes and broadloom matched those in his wife’s bedroom) and therefore relatively easy prey for a prankster.

  The Fort York Expositor gave this item more space (two columns x twelve agate lines) partly because Mr O’Dell was a senior Alderman in his ward but also because his brother-in-law, who enjoyed embarrassing his wife’s relatives, worked in the news department of the daily paper.

  APRIL

  April Fool’s Day fell on a Monday. It was also the Mayor’s birthday, a fact made much of by his opponents and detractors.

  Phinneas ‘Fireball’ Trutt was an ordinary man for a mayor; medium height, spindly, uncoordinated arms and legs protruding from his round body, thick shock of white hair atop his red face, bulbous nose and always, his lower lip pushed out in a vacant expression that constantly seemed to ask, “What’ll I do now?”

  After twenty years as a professional fire fighter, he had entered the mayoralty race last election and surprised everyone, including himself, when, more through the incompetent campaign management of his rivals than Trutt’s political wisdom, he slipped through the democratic check system into the highest seat on Fort York’s Council.

  Once he was sworn in, it was discovered, much to the enlightenment of City Hall society, that his shortcomings had obscured his strongest trait… a tactless, brutal honesty. Mayor Trutt had offended Council members, insulted visiting dignitaries, ruffled the feathers of almost every support group in the city and unwittingly set the stage for his April Fool’s Day misadventure.

  Because of his frank approach to all problems, it was no secret that the Mayor himself had a problem. He had an irrational, bowel-watering fear of fire. Whether he had joined the Fire Department many years ago to overcome this fear, or left to escape it, was not clear now even to him. But everyone knew about his phobia.

  The intricate fire alarm system in his house, with the outside sirens and inside bells, had actually been the subject of a fifteen-minute local radio show. And at three o’clock in the morning of April 1, the system showed its merits. In less than a minute after it sounded, Mayor Trutt was out of bed, down the stairs and standing on his front sidewalk. The cooler heads in the family (his wife and children) smelling no smoke and seeing no flame, methodically searched the house while the Mayor, shivering in the early-morning breeze, remained at a safe distance. His oldest boy, nineteen, who enjoyed a curiosity and mechanical aptitude that had skipped a generation, found a short circuit in the alarm system on the outside back wall. Swinging from the copper wire that had caused the trouble was a tiny doll, a jester. Its miniature, pliable fingers clutched a piece of white paper that bore the simple, printed message, “April Fool”.

  This time, The Expositor devoted a half page to the story, partly because it was about the Mayor, but mostly because an anonymous phone call was made to one of The Expos’s photographers shortly before the alarm went off. The story made both the early and late edition on April Fool’s Day. And the picture was a good likeness, really. It showed that the Mayor slept in the raw. In fact, if he hadn’t covered his private parts with the blue satin souvenir cushion of Their Royal Majesties’ 1939 visit that he’d grabbed in his flight, the picture couldn’t have been published at all.

  Probably the most interested citizen of these events, other than the prankster, was Traffic Inspector Albert V. Tretheway* of the Fort York Police Department. He had read about the Valentine’s Day chicken with great interest; the green poodle story had given him—to use his own vernacular—a twitch to his professional colon; and when Mayor Trutt became the official 1940 April Fool, Tretheway was convinced that this was more than a series of unrelated pranks.

  “I almost expected this.”

  “Eh?” Jake, or really, Jonathan Small, Constable Second Class, shook himself from a snooze he was enjoying after another one of Addie’s satisfying but heavy dinners. He sat up, cleared his throat, blinked and rubbed his eyes. “Expected what?”

  “This Mayor Trutt thing.”

  “Oh?” Jake noticed that Tretheway was studying the late edition. “How about that picture?”

  “God bless Their Majesties,” Tretheway said.

  They chuckled as conspirators with this new fuel to heap on the ever-smouldering fires of police/firemen rivalry. Jake stopped chuckling.

  “You say you expected this?” he asked.

  “Something like it.”

  “How come?”

  “The other two could be a coincidence. Two unrelated happenings. But a third one makes it a series.”

  “You think there’s some connection, then?”

  “Bet my pension on it.”

  “Why?”

  Tretheway shifted his bulk uncomfortably on his elbows and leaned forward in his oversized chair. Ashes rolled down his chest onto his stomach. He belched finally and settled back.

  “Mrs Valentini. O’Dell. Mayor Trutt.” Tretheway ticked the names off on his stubby fingers. “They’re all politicians.”

  “That’s true,” Jake said.

  “All the tricks took place on holidays.”

  “True again.”

  “And once a month, don’t forget.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s a pattern. Why didn’t something happen on Ash Wednesday? That’s a holiday.”

  “Maybe the prankster’s religious.”

  “Maybe. But if it is a pattern, nothing more’ll happen this month.”

  Jake, becoming interested, dug his wallet out of his back pocket. “Let’s just check.” He took out a small calendar. “April … Passover, Good Friday, Easter.”

  “I think we’re safe for April.”

  “How about May?” Jake w
ent on. “Mother’s Day, Ascension, Queen’s Birthday.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Eh?”

  “The twenty-fourth of May. Queen Victoria’s Birthday.”

  “How come?”

  “It seems right,” Tretheway said. “Firecracker Day. I think that would appeal to him.”

  “Him?”

  “Or her.”

  “But the same person.”

  “Yes.” Tretheway pulled deeply on his cigar. Then for a full minute he blew out what Jake called thinking smoke rings. Jake waited.

  “There’s a flair here,” Tretheway said finally. “A showmanship. The same in all three. Almost a boastful trademark.”

  “You seem worried. He hasn’t hurt anyone.”

  “No. Not so far.” Tretheway heard Addie coming and quickly turned the newspaper picture of the exposed Mayor face down. Addie’s entrance was announced by the rattle of fine china as she pushed the tea trolley across the hardwood floor of the dining room and onto the parlour rug.

  “Tea time, gentlemen,” she said.

  Tretheway pushed himself up from his chair as he did whenever a lady entered the room, even his own sister, and Jake, rising also, once again marveled at the physical spectacle of his boss.

  Tretheway’s weight hovered between 280 and 340 pounds depending on the time of year. It was unevenly distributed over his 6′5″, big-boned frame. His green eyes were squeezed beneath heavy, black brows, as black as his thick straight hair (not counting the greying sideburns he shaved off daily) and his oversized nose, surrounded by tiny blue crisscrossing veins, hung over a pair of almost invisible lips. When he smiled, or more likely grimaced, two rows of small ragged teeth appeared. From there, his ruddy clean-shaven chins folded usually into the black-braided collar of a senior officer’s tunic. But in the comfort of his own parlour, they fell into the undone ‘V’ of his collarless regulation shirt. His chest was large, his stomach larger; his rear was wide and flat (a challenge to the police tailor) and his legs, muscular from years of competitive hammer throwing, ended in relatively small feet, size twelve. When he moved, the unlikely overall impression was a peculiar natural grace that sometimes comes with obesity.

  Jake admired Tretheway. He envied him too, probably because he himself was bald, 5′8″, 140 pounds and considered awkward unless he was driving. Jake looked from the Inspector to his sister. Adelaide Tretheway was slightly smaller than her brother, weighed slightly less and was much prettier, but at a distance, unfortunately, resembled Tretheway in a wig and a dress.

  “Sit down, you two,” Addie said in a voice that Jake regarded as pure music. “Here’s your tea.”

  She handed Tretheway a large, full mug and gave Jake an ordinary cup and saucer. The tea was black and strong, the way Tretheway preferred, and by now Jake shuddered hardly at all when he swallowed it.

  “Any treats?” Tretheway asked.

  “Of course.” Addie handed Tretheway a formidable slab of bright yellow cake slathered with icing.

  “Jake?”

  “Thanks, Addie.” Jake accepted his piece, eyeing Tretheway’s huge slice. Addie used to give her brother two normal pieces of cake until she discovered it embarrassed him.

  “Now.” Addie sat down and pulled her full skirt well over her knees to her large but what Jake considered well-turned ankles. “What about that prankster, Albert?”

  Jake winced. In the five years he had been the Inspector’s driver, assistant, boarder, and confidante (in that order) he had never heard anyone, except Addie, call Tretheway by his first name. His peers and superiors called him, simply, Tretheway and Jake used the titles Inspector, Sir, or Boss, depending on both their moods.

  “You really should do something about it,” Addie went on.

  “Me?” Tretheway said. “What can I do?”

  “Addie,” Jake said. “When you get right down to it, all he’s done is play a few tricks. Everybody’s laughing about it.”

  “Well, maybe.” Addie stirred her tea, spilling some into the saucer. “All the same, I’d feel better if he weren’t out there … somewhere.”

  * pronounced Tre-thew-y

  MAY

  On the twenty-fourth of May, Firecracker Day, Tretheway’s prophecies and Addie’s fears were realized. Although not an earth-shattering event (the main news story was France defending her soil against her traditional German enemy), it was still more serious than the first three.

  Between the Mayor and the eight city Aldermen, (two from each of four wards) was a supposedly unifying, guiding and exemplary body of three Controllers. William Lion MacCulla, Mac to his close friends, was the junior member of this board. The designation “junior” had nothing to do with age (MacCulla was thirty-six). It meant only that he had received fewer votes than the other two Controllers and more than the fourth, fifth, and sixth unsuccessful hopefuls who, in the last election, were two obscure communists and an interesting, lame-duck, write-in candidate named Herbert Drake. Mr Drake came fifth, or closest to MacCulla in the polls on the strength of a memorable slogan: “Even a Lame Duck Could Do Better”. After the election it was discovered that Herbert Drake was an actual lame duck called Herby, which some Fort York University students had nursed back to health over a hard winter. MacCulla took it well enough (better than the communists) because he had graduated from the same University not long ago with a degree in European History.

  Controller William Lion MacCulla was slight of frame and about the same height as Jake—5′8″. His face was puffy, but pleasant. He affected rimless gold glasses which he constantly adjusted or polished. His fingernails were always clean. He was big in Boy Scouts, organized shopping or pleasure trips for older constituents and fought for more benches at bus stops. With this image, MacCulla captured the sympathy and votes of the over-sixty citizens of Fort York. In political circles, he was known as the old lady’s darling and not too many of his colleagues took him seriously. From the top of his curly, greying hair to the tips of his small, elegantly pointed shoes, he exuded an old-school charm that had been fashionable in days gone by. He spoke with a lisp.

  Controller MacCulla lived alone, halfway up Fort York’s mountain (elevation 290’) in a gracefully proportioned old house that had been remodelled into fashionable apartments. They boasted luxuries like ten-foot ceilings, thick sound-proof walls, silver leaf doors and deep fireplaces. It was the fireplace that caused the trouble.

  At seven-thirty on the cool holiday evening, according to the police interrogation of a witness who was passing MacCulla’s apartment at the time, there was a flash of light, an overlapping series of muffled explosions and a manly scream. The smoke poured out of an elegant ground floor casement window followed by Controller MacCulla who jumped the six feet to the grassy slope below. With his Scout uniform smouldering, he ran the quarter mile to the Emergency entrance of St. Joseph’s Hospital in his stocking feet.

  The hospital kept him for about two hours. They treated him for mild shock and second degree burns to his hands, left forearm and knees. His knees were scorched because of the inadequate protection provided by the regulation Scout shorts he was still wearing after the Victoria Day parade.

  The firemen, called in by the same alert witness, had little to do in the way of fire-fighting. It was more of a housekeeping job. They swept up bits of blackened twigs, charred wood and small pieces of curly red paper. Most of the force of the explosion had been confined to the deep fireplace or immediately in front of the hearth. When MacCulla finally left the hospital in late evening, assisted by some of his concerned Scouts, he was greeted at his apartment by two Fort York detectives. They investigated and reconstructed the unfortunate event to the satisfaction of their superiors.

  Because of the holiday, and some not unusual confusion in The Fort York Expositor news department, no reporters arrived until the next day, Saturday. So the story that the public read was a short, garbled version of the truth. It appeared in the special “Expo Flashes” box reserved for late-brea
king local news and contained the adjective “mysterious” more than once—a tactic used by the newspaper’s re-write men whenever they were short of space, facts or imagination. The full true story came out later that night in between euchre hands at the Tretheways’.

  The Tretheway homestead was a large, solid brick three-story building on a quiet crescent in the west end of Fort York. Almost everything in the house was slightly oversized—bedrooms, verandahs, bathtubs, toilet seats, sunroom, cupboards, closets, root cellar—which suited the Tretheways admirably. It was a natural boardinghouse. And when Adelaide came from England to join her older brother Albert she recognized this immediately. They bought the house in 1923. It was considered an ambitious purchase for a young constable, but a thousand pound inheritance from a favourite aunt was more than enough to pay the down payment and remodel the house so that it could accommodate the economically necessary boarders.

  Tretheway had second floor quarters of his own and so did Addie. This still left room for five or six boarders and, although there was a high natural turnover, there was seldom a vacancy. They were mostly Theology or Arts students, but in the last few years the number of uniformed boarders had increased.

  Addie tried to make it their home and in most cases succeeded. Jake was the only more or less permanent guest; that is, he was the only one who wasn’t going home from school or away to the war. And the social high point of the house (barring special occasions such as Christmas or New Years’) was the Saturday night beer-drinking, cheese-eating euchre sessions. The boarders played for money, but the stakes were low. “Just enough to keep your mind from wandering,” Tretheway used to say.

  Tretheway and Jake, of course, were regulars. Addie played sometimes, usually when the students were away or studying for exams, and there were semi-regulars too: policemen friends, neighbours, or members of City Council, among others, who would come uninvited, but welcome, to take pot luck at the tables. One of the frequent contributors to the pot was Controller William Lion MacCulla.