Don't Dare a Dame

by M. Ruth Myers

  Don’t Dare

  a Dame

  M. Ruth Myers

  (Maggie Sullivan mystery #3)

  © 2013 Mary Ruth Myers

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Contact www.mruthmyers.com.

  Published by Tuesday House

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Alan Raney

  Acknowledgment

  I would like to thank Jack Barstow for generously sharing family photographs and memories of his grandfather, Rudolph F. Wurstner. Chief Wurstner served as Dayton’s chief of police throughout the Maggie Sullivan era and was the nation’s longest serving chief of police. He was an innovator and an amazing individual. He’s also the only “real” person to appear in the Maggie Sullivan mysteries.

  One

  Two old maids who wanted to hire me had asked me to tea, so I’d treated my nails to a fresh coat of raspberry pink and put on a hat that matched and a Smith & Wesson that didn’t.

  Usually clients came to my office, but this afternoon I was glad to escape downtown Dayton. People had gone nuts over the 1939 World Series, crowding around the Daily News building to wait for the wire service boys to lower a sheet displaying the latest score out a window. Ten minutes away, the tree-lined street where I’d parked my DeSoto was lazy with autumn. I went up the steps to a square red brick house and turned the doorbell.

  “Listen, you dope, you need to come back later,” the woman who yanked the door open said in a rush.

  “Gee, people usually get to know me before they call me a dope.”

  Her hand went to her throat. Her cheeks blossomed. She was tall, maybe five-foot-eight, with black hair cut in a bob. I’d seen nuns gussied up more.

  “Oh! I’m so—. You must be the - the private investigator. Miss Sullivan.”

  “Maggie. Please.”

  “I do apologize. There’s ... a neighbor boy who’s a pest. Won’t you come in? I’m Corrine Vanhorn.”

  The tension in her manner seemed excessive for a pesky kid, and her gaze was fixed beyond my right shoulder. As I stepped inside I took a quick glance back. All I saw was a street so quiet I caught the thump of a black walnut falling.

  Inside, a shorter woman with permed brown hair hurried to meet us with hand outstretched.

  “Miss Sullivan, do forgive me. I had a phone call. Work. I’m Isobel, the one who spoke to you this morning.”

  The parlor she ushered me into made it obvious the Vanhorn sisters didn’t have to pinch pennies. It didn’t shout wealth, but it conveyed substantiality. An upright piano in one corner glowed with polish. In front of a spotless fireplace, matching needlepoint sofas and a couple of chairs surrounded a low table. The other furnishings were arranged somewhat severely around the perimeter. To my way of thinking, it made the room feel uncomfortably large. Then again, I lived in a rented room and the only stick of furniture I owned was my dad’s armchair.

  By the time I’d settled on one of the needlepoint couches and Isobel on the other, Corrine returned with a large silver tea tray. I was struck by the gracefulness of her movements. It wasn’t just the ease with which she carried the heavy load. She seemed to glide, back straight and head aloft, without glancing left or right. As she set the tray on the table between us, it was clear she owned this room. This was her domain. Like other pairs of spinsters, she was the sister who stayed home and kept house while the other one went out to work.

  This pair was younger than I’d expected. Corrine was probably nearing forty and Isobel looked several years younger. When Isobel contacted me, she’d told me she kept the books at a furniture store where she got off at noon on Thursdays, but I doubted they’d come by a place like this on a bookkeeper’s salary.

  “You may think it a bit odd, what we want you to do for us,” Isobel began hesitantly. “Some may even think harshly—”

  The doorbell rang. The sisters looked at each other.

  “You know who it must be,” Corrine said, struggling to hide her displeasure.

  “You didn’t reschedule a student—?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Well, I’ll get rid of him.” Isobel sprang up.

  Corrine set down a teacup she’d been about to fill. From the hall came the sound of an opening door, then Isobel’s voice, filled with irritation.

  “What are you doing here? We told you this afternoon wasn’t convenient.”

  “Convenient or not, I’m here to get Alf’s things. It’s bad enough you two threw him out of his own home—”

  “His home? This place wasn’t fine enough for him, remember? He had to build that big monstrosity. Don’t expect me to feel sorry now that he’s lost it with more of his bad investments. We’re busy—”

  “Too bad.”

  “We have a guest. Neal, you can’t come in now! Let go of me!”

  Corrine sprang to her feet. I was ahead of her. When we reached the hall, a struggling Isobel was kicking ineffectually at a good-sized man who held her by both wrists. She appeared more angry than scared, but she was a little of both.

  “The lady asked you to clear out,” I said sharply. “I think you should.”

  The man’s head jerked up. He was in his early forties with thin features. His eyes ran over me. They lingered more than they needed to in places.

  “Yeah? Who’s going to make me?”

  “Me, if I need to.”

  “She’s a private investigator, Neal. A detective.”

  Isobel fired the words with satisfaction. She used his stunned immobility to yank herself free. I watched comprehension seep into his eyes, followed by anger.

  “You spiteful little harpies! You really did it.” He rounded on Corrine, who was moving protectively toward her sister. “This is your doing, filling her head with nonsense all her life — all because you couldn’t be Daddy’s spoiled little favorite any more, you pathetic old hag!”

  Her mouth crumpled once at his final words, but her chin lifted.

  “Get out, Neal. You can come back anytime this weekend to get Alf’s things. Or he can come himself.”

  “I’m here now — and I’m sick of your run-arounds.”

  He started toward the stairs that rose along the left wall of the hall. I stepped in front of him.

  “The ladies asked you to leave.”

  Lots of men sneered inwardly at the idea of a woman who stood five-foot-two posing any kind of threat. Neal was more open.

  “Keep your nose out, toots, or it might get hurt.”

  I hated to persuade him, but Neal seemed like one of those guys who needed taking down a peg or two. I gave him a quick little kitten jab in the snoot. Not enough to break it, just enough to start blood gushing down to his chin and get his attention. He howled like I’d attacked the family jewels, and clutched his nose.

  I balanced on my toes in case I hadn’t convinced him.

  “Don’t drip on the rug on your way out,” I said.

  Neal decided not to test whether I could punch any harder. With a furious look he called me a name that wasn’t polite and sulked out, slamming the door.

  Two

  The corners of Corrine’s mouth gave an odd upward jerk that suggested delight.

  “That was magnificent!” she said.

  “He wouldn’t have hurt us.” Isobel’s voice wavered. “Neal’s our brother.”

  Both Vanhorn sisters looked white as skimmed milk.

  “Why don’t we go
sit down so you can explain why you asked me here,” I suggested.

  Corrine poured tea and we sipped it in silence. She moved a stack of small china plates from the tray to the table.

  “It - it has to do with when we were children,” Isobel resumed. “Corrine was twelve and I was eight.”

  I nodded and waited. The Vanhorn sisters needed time to recover. Corrine began to slice a fancy little cake she’d brought in with the tea, pivoting her knife at the center to make each piece precise.

  “As I’d started to say when Neal interrupted, others may think our interest odd, or - or wrong. But it matters a great deal to us.”

  Her sister handed the cake around on the china plates.

  “What Isobel is trying to tell you is, we want you to investigate our father’s disappearance. It was during the flood. We think — we’ve believed for a long time — that he was murdered.”

  “The flood?” I couldn’t remember anything that qualified as a flood. Then it registered. “The flood of 1913?”

  I set aside the plate I’d just received, too stunned for politeness.

  “By the man who became our stepfather,” said Isobel. “Alf Maguire.”

  My mind staggered. The Great Dayton Flood of 1913 had happened the year before I was born. I didn’t even qualify as one of the ‘flood babies’ born nine months later. These two women were talking to me about looking into something that had happened a quarter of a century ago. Moreover, they believed a man who apparently had lived in this house until recently was somehow involved.

  “You say he disappeared?” I was struggling to process it. “From what I’ve heard, a lot of people disappeared, swept away by the waters.”

  “We’re aware of that,” Corrine said primly.

  I drank some tea.

  “You realize odds of finding out what happened to someone that long ago would be low, even under the best conditions.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And those weren’t the best of conditions.”

  “No.”

  “We didn’t feel we could ask anyone to look into it while our mother was alive. It would have upset her,” explained Isobel. “She died last year. It’s taken a while to - to sort out—”

  “Our stepfather challenged her will,” Corrine said bluntly. “Two weeks ago the court finally ruled in our favor.”

  “It was nothing but spite, Alf wanting this house. Mama left him almost everything else. The business our father owned, investments, a much bigger house. She left modest bequests to Neal and Corrine and me. And she left Corrine this house. Where we grew up.”

  “She wanted to make sure I was provided for,” Corrine said. She sat erect and determined. “I earn a small income giving voice and piano lessons, which I couldn’t do if I had to rent rooms somewhere. And Mama knew that even apart from my age, few men would be interested in a blind wife.”

  It robbed me of speech even more than their request to investigate something that happened during the Great Flood.

  “Miss Vanhorn — Corrine — are you saying that you’re...?”

  “Blind. Yes.” She looked proud I’d needed to confirm it. “I had measles when I was four.”

  Her blindness explained why most of the furniture was placed around the edge of the room. I thought of how gracefully she moved. How confidently she’d managed the heavy tea tray. I realized, too, that she hadn’t been looking at something behind me when I arrived. Even now her unseeing eyes were fixed not on me, but a spot just beyond me.

  “You sure fooled me,” I said awkwardly.

  In part to recover, I moved to questions I needed answered to help me determine if there was any good reason to start poking around on the sisters’ behalf. As impressed as I was with Corrine, everything I’d learned so far made me suspect this was family grievances turned to imaginings, rather than anything involving an actual crime.

  “Let’s forget the tussle over this house for a minute,” I said. “What makes you think your father didn’t get swept up in the water and drown? There were plenty who did. I’m pretty sure some were never accounted for.”

  The sisters looked at each other. Except now I knew that Corrine couldn’t actually see her sister. It didn’t matter. Some invisible link connected them, communicating thoughts. Who’s going to tell it? this one asked.

  “A year or so before Papa disappeared, Alf started hanging around and flirting with Mama,” said Isobel. “Making her laugh. Saying she looked pretty. He even brought her flowers a time or two, and sweets.”

  “Your father didn’t object?”

  “He and Alf were second cousins or something like that. I don’t think Papa cared much for Alf, but you know how it is when relatives drop in.”

  I didn’t, actually. Both my parents had left kith and kin behind in Ireland.

  “Sometimes, though, Alf would stop by when Papa wasn’t around.” Corrine put in. “One summer — we think it was the summer before Papa disappeared — we were playing in the yard after supper. Neal was off somewhere, so it was just the two of us and our little brother Jem. No sooner was Papa out of sight than here came Alf sauntering down the street like – like he’d been watching!”

  So far I hadn’t heard anything to suggest murder. To buy me time to think what to say, I ate a bite of cake.

  “A couple of years after Alf and Mama were married — it was summer again — Alf and this great pal of his who’d stopped in that evening came out in the back yard,” resumed Isobel. “Neal and our stepbrothers George and Franklin had built a big tree house. For days they’d been lording it over us, bragging how it was just for boys and not letting us in it. Corrie had hatched a plan how when everyone else was in bed, we’d climb down the trellis and spend the night in the tree house. We’d have a good laugh at them when they came out and found us there the next morning.”

  “And you were up in the tree house?” I pictured a blind girl picking her way down a trellis, then climbing a tree.

  Both women nodded.

  “It must have been nearly midnight. We’d waited until we were sure everyone was asleep,” said Corrine. “Alf and his friend must have been here in the parlor, talking and drinking. They had a bottle when they came out, and they sounded a bit slurred.”

  “We think they were discussing whether to make some sort of investment.” Isobel swallowed. “All at once we heard Alf’s pal saying ‘You didn’t mind taking a risk when we saw a chance to feather our nests or to make a widow of the woman you wanted.’ Alf told him to shut up, what if the neighbors heard.”

  Corrine leaned forward, her cheeks aflame with excitement.

  “The other man laughed. He said so what? There was no evidence; it had all washed away a long time ago.”

  “That got us remembering,” Isobel said. “The night Papa went out and didn’t come back. We remembered how scared we were because he’d been gone for hours, and we didn’t know how high the water was going to get here. If it would come into the house. If we’d have to get on the roof. We wouldn’t leave Mama’s side, and all at once there was this pounding. It was Alf, and he was wild-eyed and – and almost chipper at the same time.”

  “Talking too fast.”

  “Yes. Asking were we all okay, did we need anything? Acting odd, almost like—”

  Something crashed somewhere in the house. Something that shattered. The women across from me froze.

  “The kitchen.” Corrine jumped to her feet. “Someone’s in the kitchen!”

  Her familiarity with her surroundings still was no match for sight. Isobel, who had both, shot out of the room with me at her heels.

  Running into the kitchen we both nearly stumbled on chunks from a thick white pitcher that matched dishes on a utility table next to the door we’d come through. Like the parlor furnishings, the table was flush to the wall. I flung my arms out to block Corrine as she caught up.

  “Broken china all over the floor,” I warned quickly. The back door stood open. I headed out.

  A wooden f
ence surrounded the back yard. At the far end, on the other side of the fence, a man in a hat was running away. I made for the gate. The lift-latch was oiled, with no trace of rust, but when I flipped it up and pushed, the gate didn’t budge. I put some muscle into the effort. No dice. Either the man had pulled something up to block the gate on the other side — a trash can, probably — or he’d come over the fence. Swearing mentally at the prospect of ruining my stockings, I hiked up my skirt and prepared to climb. A blood-curdling scream behind me froze me in place.

  I spun back toward the house. Somewhere along the way I’d drawn my Smith & Wesson. As I got closer, I saw Corrine kneeling in the grass beside some bushes.

  “It’s Giles!” she shrieked. “Merciful lord, someone’s killed him! Murdered him! He’s dead! Sweet little Giles is dead!”

  Three

  She cradled a big yellow dog in her lap, a Labrador maybe. Its coat was matted with blood from the slash to the throat that had almost severed its head. Tears drenched her face. Aimless and wild and glistening with red, her hands moved from her mouth to the dog, up to clutch at her head in despair, then back to stroke the shape in front of her.

  From inside I caught snatches of Isobel phoning the cops.

  “Please hurry ... intruder....”

  “He’s dead! Someone’s killed him! Oh, there’s so much blood....” Corrine wailed.

  She shook uncontrollably. All at once her arms thrust out. They groped. They hunted frantically.

  “Isobel? Isobel?” she cried in panic.

  I’d seen worse gore. I’d seen worse loss. Yet witnessing such frightened helplessness in a woman who moments before and against daunting odds had been in control of herself and her world hit me in the gut.

  “Isobel’s inside,” I said.

  Corrine shrank away from the sound of my voice.

  “It’s Maggie,” I soothed. “Maggie Sullivan. I’d come to see you, remember?”