Gin and Panic

by Maia Chance

  I allowed that to sink in. “It must be the same murderer, right?” I said. “Because two murders so closely tied together would be awfully coincidental.”

  “As occult detective Hugo Quinn observed in ‘The Case of the Broken Scarab,’ an apparent coincidence only means that one is still missing a piece of the puzzle. Glenn knew too much about the treasure, perhaps, or saw something he should not have.”

  “You know, I think it’s high time I telephoned Eustace. I’d nearly forgotten, and this is all on his dime.”

  “Indeed. The original investigation for which he hired us has suddenly grown a good deal more complicated.”

  More complicated and, quite possibly, more dangerous, because while a single murder was one thing, a second murder smacked of a desperate killer.

  * * *

  I went to the telephone in the little hallway off our kitchen, nudging aside the box of Lillian’s unmailed wedding invitations with my toe. Were those—oh dear—were those dust bunnies gathering inside the box? I really must get cracking on that.

  I dialed 0 and asked the operator to put me through to Montgomery Hall. The manservant, Mwinyi, answered “Hello?” in his richly accented baritone.

  “Hello, this is Mrs. Woodby. Could I please speak with Lord Sudley? It’s urgent.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  I waited, wondering if Theo planned to give Mwinyi his walking papers. Servants as decorous and discreet as Mwinyi were difficult to come by. I knew this well from my former days as a Society Matron.

  “Lola?” This was Eustace on the line. “Mwinyi said you had an urgent message. Are you quite all right? I’ve been worried sick ever since you disappeared this morning.”

  “I’m all right, but I’m afraid the news is pretty grim.” I told him all about Glenn’s death by cyanide poisoning at the radio station, ending with Berta’s discovery of Lost Treasures of the United States in his valise. “Have you heard of the Montgomery treasure?”

  “Oh yes. Rudy enjoyed boasting about his legendary treasure and his ghost whenever he got really drunk. I fancy he felt it lent his estate an aura of history and mystique.”

  “Mrs. Lundgren and I feel that Glenn’s death and the treasure must be bound up somehow in Rudy’s death, so we’d like to pursue these new angles as part of our ongoing murder investigation.”

  A slight pause. Then, “Yes, of course. It’d be foolish to ignore any of the angles.”

  “We’ll be motoring back up to Carvington tomorrow to follow up on a few leads, although naturally we won’t be staying at Montgomery Hall—”

  “Try the Old Whaler’s Inn on Church Street. The locals speak well of it. Smashing fried oysters there, I’m told. And—” Eustace cleared his throat. “—the missing diamonds?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “You really are superlative, my dear girl. Now, do ring me up the moment you’ve booked into the inn.” Eustace ahemed again. “The truth is, Lola … well, forgive me for my absolutely wretched timing, but, well, the thing is I … You see, it didn’t quite sink in until after you’d left this morning without saying good-bye and I was suddenly overcome by the bleakness of your absence and … my dear girl, I’ve quite fallen in love with you and I’m simply perishing to see you again. Is that horribly improper of me?”

  For some reason, I sounded like a breathless stage ingenue as I replied, “Of course it isn’t inappropriate, you silly boy. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I hung up the earpiece with fumbling fingers.

  Well. Imagine that. Lord Sudley was in love with me. Tall, manly, handsome, smartly dressed, and country-estate-owning Lord Sudley.

  This was a real crush, wasn’t it? This dazzled, smug sort of feeling? Wasn’t this a tender green sprout of True Love?

  I went in a fog to the kitchen and sank into a chair.

  “Mrs. Woodby, you look as though you have been struck on the head with a skillet,” Berta said.

  “Lord Sudley said he’s in love with me.”

  Okay, I hadn’t expected Berta to squeal with delight and beg to be my matron of honor. But I thought some form of congratulations were in order.

  Berta only placed her coffee cup carefully in its saucer and said, “Such fascinating timing.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You telephoned Lord Sudley to inform him of Glenn Monroe’s demise, and he chose that moment to profess his love?”

  “I think he was too jittery to tell me in person.”

  “You do not wonder if he is attempting to distract you?”

  “Distract me from what? You seem to require a lot of reminders that Eustace isn’t one of our suspects. He’s our client.”

  “I do not trust that man, Mrs. Woodby.”

  “You trust his bank checks.”

  “Oh, but we have not attempted to cash them yet. I wonder how Coral will react to Glenn’s death.”

  Changing the subject, was she? Swell. “She seemed to be equally peeved by and fond of him.”

  “I think we have been remiss not to have looked into either Coral’s or Glenn’s backgrounds.”

  “Hold on a tick—you’ve just reminded me of something.” I got my detecting notebook from my handbag and dashed back to the telephone. I flipped to the page upon which I’d jotted Jillie Harris’s number, picked up the earpiece, and dialed 0. “KL5-1711,” I told the operator.

  After three rings, a woman said, “Hello?”

  “Miss Harris?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was guarded.

  “Miss Harris, my name is Lola Woodby. I’m a private detective investigating the death of Rudy Montgomery—”

  “Who gave you my telephone number? Someone at the studio?”

  “Yes, and I’m afraid, as of this evening I’m also looking into the death of Glenn Monroe.”

  That silenced her.

  “Were you aware of his death?” I asked gently.

  “Yes—Betsy from the studio telephoned me about an hour ago—and it’s a crying shame! Poor little Glenn never did anyone any harm. Sure, he could be a pill and he always was the very first to criticize what a girl was wearing, but—say. How come you’re calling?”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions, but it would probably be best to speak in person.” Inspiration struck. “I don’t suppose you’d like to join my detecting partner and me for a drink at the Moody Elephant this evening?”

  “Would I? My latest feller’s up and left me for some tootsie he met at a soda fountain, and what with Glenn dying, I don’t feel like being alone tonight. Meet you there in, say, about an hour?”

  “Peachy.” I rang off.

  Fueled by too much coffee, I set about dolling myself up for the Moody Elephant. By the time I’d finished my makeup, wriggled into a midnight blue velvet Lanvin, slipped on my highest Pinet pumps, and emerged from the bathroom, Berta was waiting grimly in the sitting room with her coat buttoned and her handbag on her knees.

  “It sounded as though you were competing for the gold medal in the pole vault,” she said.

  “Not every lady has the ability to bake her way into men’s hearts.” I patted my perfectly waved bob. “The rest of us must resort to lipstick and high heels.”

  “Mr. Eccles, the lawyer, has yet to taste my baked goods, Mrs. Woodby.”

  I shrugged on my fur-collared coat. “I’ll bet he hasn’t,” I said. As a sort of punishment, I suppose, a tiny moth fluttered out of my fur collar. I shooed it away.

  18

  Macdougal Street was only a few blocks from our apartment, which goes a long way to illustrate the sort of neighborhood Washington Square was. It wasn’t dangerous—or at least, I always slept like a log there—but things weren’t precisely respectable, and miles from swanky. Artists, immigrants, show business types, and the more enterprising sort of criminals bumped shoulders there, and you could buy the nicest French pastries and Italian cured meats.

  Caffè Agostini buzzed with late-night customers and coffee vapors. Light shone from the green-painted
storefront, and inside, the spectacular espresso machine imported from Italy, Caffè Agostini’s claim to fame, gleamed and hissed.

  Berta and I approached the woman wrangling the espresso-machine levers. “Would you kindly direct us to the powder room?” I said.

  She looked us up and down through the steam. “Sorry.”

  Berta leaned in conspiratorially and said, “I understand it is a very moody powder room. One frequented by, strange to say, elephants.”

  Incredulity slackened the woman’s face. “You pair?”

  “We’re thirsty,” I said.

  The woman shrugged, and tipped her head toward a rear door.

  The door led to a dim little hallway, which terminated at yet another door. We knocked, and a round peephole slid open.

  “Whatcha lookin for?” a gravelly voice said through the hole.

  “I would think that is obvious,” Berta said, unbuckling her handbag and drawing out a waxed paper packet of gingersnaps. Spicy, buttery scents blossomed into the air. “Open the door, and these cookies are yours.”

  And we were in. Magic.

  A freight elevator took us underground, and we found ourselves in a brick-walled cavern filled with jazz, smoke, and raucous voices. Musicians strummed and wailed onstage at one end of the room, and scantily dressed girls twirled and kicked their legs. Some of the tables were occupied by men and women playing cards—poker, I deduced by the hand gestures.

  I craned my neck, searching for Lem Fitzpatrick as we squeezed through to an empty table and gave our drink orders to a waiter.

  “Ah,” Berta said. “There is Jillie Harris.” She twiddled her fingers, trying to capture the attention of a beautiful, laughing blonde a few tables over who was surrounded by rapt men.

  “How do you know that’s Jillie?” I asked.

  “Because her likeness has appeared on the cover of Radio News on more than one occasion. Oh good, she is coming our way.”

  Jillie Harris slunk over in a gold dress with a martini in hand. She leaned over our table to be heard through the hubbub. “You’re the detectives who telephoned?”

  “Please, Miss Harris,” Berta said, glancing around, “we do not wish to call attention to our vocation in such an establishment.”

  “Oh, of course.” Jillie slid into the empty chair beside me. “Hi. You must be—was it Lucy?”

  “Lola,” I said. “Lola Woodby. And this is my partner, Mrs. Lundgren. Thank you for agreeing to speak with us.”

  “Well, it’s just awful what happened to Glenn, and I’d like to do whatever I can to help lock up the killer. I mean, gee whiz, a murderer lurking around the WPAF studios?” She shivered her powdered bare shoulders. “That’s where I work.” Jillie had dangling diamond earrings; a neat little head of bleached finger waves; eyebrows painted to be long, tapered, and wistful; heavy kohl; and a glistening crimson Cupid’s bow as symmetrical as a real lip line. Oh, Jillie was lovely, but while men see a woman like that and go gaga for her, a woman—at least one who knows her way around a vanity table—goes gaga over her paintbrush technique.

  I said, “Miss Harris, do you have any idea who might have poisoned Glenn?”

  “He was, well, he wasn’t well liked in general, because he was always a bit too snide, but he wasn’t ever truly unkind to anyone. He’d make comments, little pinpricks, stinging a nerve, you know, but never going deep enough to really wound … No, I can’t imagine who could’ve poisoned him. It must’ve been someone really off their rocker, don’t you think?”

  “One must be insane to commit a murder,” Berta said, “although at times it is a temporary insanity, born of desperation.”

  “Golly, you’re giving me the creeps.” Jillie gulped her martini.

  I decided not to let on that Berta was quoting, verbatim, “The Lost Lass of Cairn Gorm.”

  “Have you ever met Glenn’s friend Coral Moore?” I asked. “She lives up in Connecticut on the Montgomery estate.”

  “No, but Glenn told me all about her. They were friends for ages—since they were kids, I figured, though I never heard all the details. Maybe they were next-door neighbors?”

  “That’s funny,” I said, “because Coral told me they met in New York as adults when they were both working onstage.”

  “Maybe I got it wrong. My memory’s got more holes than a doily. Anyway, I never could make it up to Connecticut on the occasions Glenn invited me along—seems there were wonderfully wild parties up there.”

  “Do you know why Glenn would’ve been upset if…” I searched for the most delicate phrasing. “Why would Glenn have been nervy if Coral threatened to tell the radio station producer why he dropped you?”

  Jillie blinked her mascara-laden eyes like a fawn in the headlights. “Don’t you know?”

  “Know what?” I asked.

  “That Glenn was otherwise inclined.”

  “Oh.” Oh.

  “Glenn didn’t want his producer to know—he didn’t want the public to know. It would’ve ruined his career.”

  “But I saw you on his arm with some frequency,” Berta said. “In the gossip columns and radio magazines, I mean to say.”

  “Well, sure. We were friends, and it was good for his career to be seen with a pretty girl on his arm. Listen, you can’t believe a thing you read in the magazines. It’s all made up.”

  The waiter arrived with Berta’s brandy alexander and my highball, and we dipped in. When Berta came up for air, she asked Jillie, “Did Glenn ever mention a treasure to you? At the Montgomery estate?”

  “Treasure? Gosh, no—but that could explain why he was spending so much time up there. And I thought it was because he’d met a cute fellow or something. Come to think of it…” Jillie tipped her head. “There was the fellow we ran into one day at City Hall.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Well, Glenn and I were walking along just in front of City Hall—headed to the Forham Grill, I guess—and a scrummy dark-haired fellow was hurrying up the steps. Glenn called out to him—gee, I wish I could remember his name—and they exchanged a few pleasantries about Connecticut and the people up there, so I figured the fellow was from that neck of the woods. It was all really rushed and awkward, though. I had the feeling the fellow was just itching to get away, and he did as soon as he could without even looking my way once.”

  Jillie wasn’t used to being overlooked by men; her brown eyes flashed.

  Berta said, “Was his name Theo?”

  “That’s it! Theo. All brooding and nervous. Wearing eyeglasses.”

  What could Theo have been doing at City Hall in New York? He lived in Connecticut.

  “When was this?” I asked Jillie.

  “Oh, sometime last month.”

  “Do you know the address of Glenn’s home in the city?” Berta asked.

  “Of course. Four-twelve at the Branson Building on Central Park West. Why?”

  “No reason,” Berta said in the dotty-maiden-aunt voice she wheeled out when she wished to evade questions.

  I took a sip of highball and saw, over the edge of my glass, Ralph walk in. The jazz trumpets suddenly sounded like they were underwater. Eustace, Lord Sudley, might be worldly and powerful, but he simply didn’t have Ralph’s style and grace. No one did. But I’d learned the hard way that style and grace aren’t sturdy foundations for a life together.

  “Lola?” Jillie said. “You all right? Need a glass of water?”

  Ralph spotted me and didn’t take his eyes from mine as he snaked through the tables.

  “Evening, kid,” he said. “Mrs. Lundgren.”

  “Now I’m getting why you couldn’t breathe,” Jillie said to me.

  “Well, well, what a surprise,” I said to Ralph.

  He sank into a chair. “Evening, ladies. Thought I’d find you here. Say, I saw Fitzpatrick over there at the gambling tables. I’d like to help you two sort out your little, ah, situation with him. Why not strike while the iron’s hot? Maybe Lola and I oughta approach him first—that all rig
ht, Mrs. Lundgren?”

  “Fine,” Berta said.

  Jillie leaned over the table toward Ralph, forcing me to tilt back. “Are you a private detective, too? Because if you are, I’ve got an urgent case for you.”

  Ralph treated her to one of his heart-stopping smiles. “Oliver. Ralph Oliver.”

  “Jillie Harris—call me Poopsie.”

  Was this a joke?

  “All right, Poopsie. What’s your poison?”

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  “What I’m having is fun.”

  “Okay!” I yelped, scraping my chair back and standing. “Time to go and speak with Fitzpatrick.”

  Ralph lifted an eyebrow. “Okay, Mrs. Woodby.” He stood. “Poopsie, Mrs. Lundgren, please excuse us.”

  Jillie pouted. “Don’t take too long.”

  I stormed toward Lem Fitzpatrick’s table, Ralph right behind me. “What do you mean by flirting in front of me?” I whispered hotly over my shoulder.

  “You’ve let me know loud and clear that you hate me, how you don’t want anything more to do with me if I’m not game for wedding bells, so as far as I’m concerned, I’m free as a bird.” Ralph said all this in an easy, calm tone, and I got the heart-crumpling feeling that he wasn’t simply attempting to make me jealous. No, he really believed we were through.

  Which is what I wished for. Of course it was. And Eustace, Lord Sudley, was in love with me. It was all this dratted cigarette smoke that was making my eyes water.

  * * *

  I had met Lem Fitzpatrick before, and he isn’t the sort of fellow you bring to tea with Granny. Oh, he’s good-looking, all right, in that tall, dark, and hungover sort of way. He is also rumored to have sunk his own brother to the bottom of the East River with a couple of cement shoes, thereby crowning himself the uncontested kingpin of New York City crime.