The Fruitcake Murders

by Collins, Ace;

  “That’s a long shot,” he noted.

  “I think this one is worth playing,” she added. “I mean, you need the woman and the ring, and I can’t give you that. At least not the ring part.”

  “Okay,” he admitted, “what have I got lose? Your hunch is better than anything I can come up with. Put your coat on, you’re driving me to Elrod’s.”

  “I really need to wrap some presents,” she explained. “And you really don’t need me there. I promise I won’t tell anybody about what happened tonight.”

  “Yeah, I trust you about as far as I can throw you.”

  “As big as you are,” Tiffany quickly pointed out, “that might be a considerable distance.”

  “Come on, Miss Clayton, let’s move.”

  “I’m guessing there’s no way to talk you out of this?”

  “Nope. If we can’t find the real blonde, I might still be able to figure a way to use your body.”

  “Wonderful,” she sighed. Taking a deep breath, Tiffany got up, retrieved her coat from where she’d earlier hung it on hall tree by the front door, and slipped it on. After wrapping her scarf around her neck, she marched out the door and silently vowed that if she somehow lived through this adventure she was going to tear Lane Walker to pieces.

  10

  Thursday, December 19, 1946

  2:35 A.m.

  It was an increasingly worried Lane Walker who jumped out of his car and rushed up to the front door of the Elrod mansion. His plan had blown up in his face, and he was now forced to admit the plan actually had more holes than Swiss cheese. After a year on the force, he should have known better. Police work was not like war. In the midst of battle, a soldier had to often act on a hunch, but when you were a cop you planned each detail, moved carefully, and always called in backup. Earlier in the evening, he’d been in the react mode rather than the think mode. Thus, he’d charged in ready for action, sure that his enemy could not have guessed his plans, and was made to look like a fool. That in itself would have been bad enough, but to compound it all he’d put a civilian in harm’s way, and who knows where she was at this moment. If something happened to Tiffany, if she died because of his stupidity, then she’d no doubt make good on her promise to haunt him forever, and that was the least he deserved.

  Not bothering to stop in the foyer to remove his coat, the rattled cop raced directly through the living room and to the district attorney’s study. He was yanking off his overcoat and tossing it on a chair, getting ready to look through every file in his search for clues as to where Tiffany might be, when he suddenly realized he was not alone. Sitting on the couch, with her left leg resting on her right knee and wearing a royal blue suit was a diminutive blonde. If she was concerned about Lane’s presence, she didn’t show it. Her dark eyes were calmly sizing him up with what seemed like little more than a detached boredom.

  “Who are you?” the surprised cop demanded. “And how did you get in?”

  “The door was unlocked,” she explained. “And, I was supposed to be here at midnight. Who are you? Are you my driver?”

  So this was the blonde who was supposed to make the trip to the house on Elmwood. She was not what he expected. Her face was hard, expression almost hollow, and she was sporting way too much makeup topped by a few coats of red lipstick that glowed brighter than most neon signs. And to top it off, as she sat there studying him, she was also wearing out a piece of gum. It wouldn’t take much longer for the smacking to drive him crazy.

  “I’m Lane Walker,” he announced as he moved two steps closer to Elrod’s guest. “And I’m a cop.”

  The woman’s calm demeanor evaporated as quickly as water drops on a hot griddle. In a split second, she waved both hands in front of her face, revealing nail polish matching her lipstick, and frantically declared, “I’m legit tonight. A man paid me to go meet someone. I’m not working. So you cops can’t arrest me. Isn’t that right? You can’t pinch me unless you have proof that I’m turning a trick.”

  If that didn’t beat all, the blonde who was supposed to take the ride was a streetwalker. Yet, in a strange way it made sense. A woman in her profession had a much better chance of witnessing something that could cause problems for Richard Delono than would a secretary or housewife. But the question remained, why would Elrod be willing to give her to the hood? Would an honest DA actually believe that even the life of a woman who walked the streets had no value? There just had to be another explanation.

  “Let me assure you,” Lane explained, trying to calm down the now-anxious guest, “I’m not here for a pinch.” He paused and edged another step forward, stuck his thumbs in his belt, and took a deeper look at the woman who obviously didn’t trust him at all. She was likely closing in on fifty, but in spite of the heavily caked makeup, she looked a bit older. Her neck, cheeks, chin, fingers, and an ashtray partially filled with cigarette butts covered with bright red lipstick proved she was a smoker and likely a heavy one. She was thin, almost drawn, her skin as pale as a ghost, and her hair was only blonde until you got about a half inch from the scalp. She was apparently weeks past due for a touch-up. As the cop looked into her eyes he thought he saw signs of drug addiction, the whites were a bit yellowed and bloodshot. This woman was no “Johnny Come Lately” to this game that some called a profession; she was a vet.

  “What’s your name?” Lane asked as he pulled his hands together to crack his knuckles.

  “You mean what do people call me?” she replied, seemingly now a bit more relaxed.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sunshine.”

  That seemed an ironic choice in names for a woman who probably rarely saw the light of day. In fact, the only vitamin D she likely ever got was from a bottle.

  “Sunshine,” the cop quizzed, “why are you here?”

  “Like I said,” she explained, “I’m supposed to go on a ride and meet someone. But the man promised that’s all, I don’t have to give out any favors. So this is kind of like a night off.”

  “Did Mr. Elrod set this up?”

  “Well,” she shot back, “that’s who he said he was on the phone. I have no reason to doubt it. After all, I knew him from a few of my court appearances. So when he offered me a grand for a couple of hours of riding around meeting folks, I jumped. You don’t ever turn down money like that.”

  Lane nodded as he attempted to put the puzzle together. Sunshine evidently had no idea this was supposed to be a one-way trip. It was strange that a woman with this much experience didn’t realize she was being set up.

  “Sunshine,” Lane continued his line of questioning as he tried to uncover why she was the woman that was supposed to go to the house on Elmwood. “Do you know a man named Richard Delono?”

  She smacked her gum a couple of times, smiled and, in a happy, nasal tone, more singing than speaking, replied, “Sure, everyone knows Richard. But if you’re asking if I really know him . . . no way! I’ve just seen him around a couple of times, but I’ve never been with him. And I don’t mean that the way it sounds.”

  “I understand,” Lane assured her. “I knew what you meant. So, I guess that means that Richard wouldn’t have any reason to want to meet you or spend time with you?”

  “I’m not in his league,” she admitted. She then sadly added, “I wasn’t even in his league twenty years ago. You see, in show business terms, I’m not a headline act; I’m just the gal who cleans up the star’s dressing room. Most of the men in my life don’t even own a suit.”

  That was not the answer Lane expected nor the one he needed to hear. If she didn’t know Delono and had nothing on him, then why was Sunshine the pawn? She had to either know something or someone. A pounding on the front door caused Lane to jerk his attention away from his unexpected guest.

  “You’ve got company,” she noted.

  “Yeah,” he groaned, “you stay here. I’ll get that.” Whoever was visiting at this hour likely wasn’t coming over for social reasons. The last thing he needed at this moment was another wild c
ard to keep him from digging for clues. After pulling his gun from his pocket, he rushed to the front door. Taking a deep a breath, an anxious Lane yanked the entry open and found himself staring into blue eyes he knew very well. Sliding his gun back into his pocket, he whispered, “Tiff.”

  While he couldn’t begin to fathom how Tiffany had found her way back to him, he didn’t care either. All he wanted to do was reach out and hug the beautiful blonde, but the cold expression on her face and her caustic tone stopped him before he could even begin to extend his arms.

  “Great plan,” she spat. “And you shouldn’t have put your weapon away. If you’d looked behind me you’d have seen my escort has got his gun sticking in my back.”

  Lane immediately glanced past the woman to the broad-shouldered man behind her. The cop’s look of confusion and concern quickly changed to a broad smile. “Bret Garner, how are you doing you old son of a gun?”

  Stepping out from behind Tiffany, the visitor slipped his weapon into his pocket and grabbed Lane’s outstretched mitt. As the two men grinned and shook hands, the woman stepped away and frowned. “You know this guy?”

  Lane laughed, “Bret and I served in the Marines together.” The cop grinned at his unexpected guest, “Was that you at the house earlier tonight? It was so dark I couldn’t tell. You should have turned on the lights and we could have saved all this trouble.”

  “That was me,” the guest added, “and I had my reasons for not blowing my cover.”

  “Hold it,” Tiffany cut in, as she pointed to Garner, “you said your name was McCoy.”

  He glanced toward the woman, “That’s the name I’m using in Chicago.”

  “How many names do you need?” she queried. “I mean do you need one for every place you visit? What’s your handle in Cleveland or New York?”

  Ignoring the woman’s question, Lane jumped back into the conversation, “Bret, don’t worry about Tiff, she’s touchy at times. She has an attitude. Any little thing sets her off.”

  “Excuse me,” Tiffany cut in, “any little thing? Being kidnapped and told I was going to be killed is not a little thing. This gorilla you are so happy to see is a hit man. Don’t you get that?”

  As the reporter looked incredulously at the cop, Lane smirked and asked his old friend, “Are you still with Naval Intelligence?”

  “No,” Garner explained, “I’m a private cop now.”

  “A gumshoe,” Lane quipped. “So you’re like a walking, talking version of Sam Spade or Phillip Marlowe.”

  “Not really,” came the quick reply, “no one is writing my scripts. I’m working for a client, who must remain unnamed—you know that whole confidentiality thing—that asked me to figure out what was going on with Elrod and Delono. So, I passed myself off as a pretty well-known hit man,” he looked toward Tiffany and grinned, “McCoy Rawlings. What Delono and no one else knows is that Rawlings is on the lam and living in South America.”

  “But,” Lane cut in, “weren’t you afraid Delono would recognize you?”

  “No,” Garner said, “there are no pictures of Rawlings, and he’s never worked anywhere but the West Coast. I guess it’s all for naught now as your girlfriend tells me that Elrod is dead.”

  “I’m not his girlfriend!” the woman bitterly explained. “Surely you realize I have better taste than that. And, now that I think about it, I liked you better as McCoy.” She then stepped between the men and pointed her finger in Garner’s face, “You were going to kill me.”

  “No,” he explained, “McCoy Rawlings was going to kill you. I’m now Bret Garner and I’m one of the good guys. But, if you don’t be quiet, I might reconsider my options and slip back into my other persona. I’ve still got the gun.”

  “Why you . . .”

  “We’ll get to that later,” Lane suggested, “by the way, the blonde who was supposed to meet you is in the study. She’s not as attractive as Tiff, but she’s a lot better behaved and she’s in a more respectable line of work, too.”

  “What’s that crack supposed to mean?” Tiffany demanded.

  Ignoring the woman, Garner looked toward the open door, “What’s the real blonde’s story?”

  “I think Elrod hired her to be a pigeon,” the cop explained, “she has nothing on Delono. She’s never even met the man.”

  The private investigator nodded. “Interesting. When this hit was set up, Delono wanted proof that she was dead, but he never told me why. Now, in reading between the lines, I don’t think I was supposed to kill her for him. I got the sense it was for someone else. He even alluded to her death being a Christmas gift.”

  “I wonder,” Tiffany mused, “how Santa responded to that holiday letter?”

  “A gift for whom?” Lane asked, while once again ignoring the woman.

  “I have no idea,” Garner replied. “Let me get the briefcase and a camera out of the car. I need those things to do my job so Delono doesn’t come after me.”

  “Wait,” Tiffany barked, “now you’re going to kill her?”

  The investigator smiled, “Well, that lets you off the hook, so just a take a deep breath and be happy!”

  “You just can’t go around murdering people,” the woman spat. “Even if those people aren’t me.”

  As Tiffany frowned, Garner smiled, spun on his heels, and hurried back to the car. He was no more than out the door when the reporter turned back to the cop. “Lane, you have to do something about that guy.”

  “Ah,” Lane replied with a smile, “Bret is one fine man. You know he saved my life twice in the Pacific. Imagine that, he was willing to put his neck out for me. I wouldn’t be here tonight without him. I’m just glad if someone was going to kidnap you it was Bret. You couldn’t have done better.”

  “Thanks,” the woman snarled, “glad the hit man is a friend of yours. It really gives me a whole different perspective on the evening.” She stuck her finger into Lane’s stomach as she added, “And your plan was just peachy.”

  “Where’s the blonde?” Garner asked, as he marched back into the foyer.

  “Right through those doors,” Lane explained. “Her name is Sunshine.”

  With Lane and Tiffany following in his tracks, the investigator waltzed in and studied the woman Elrod had hired. After sizing Sunshine up from every angle he posed a question, “Do you have a jade ring?”

  “Never had one of those,” she quickly returned. She then smiled and added, “What’s your name? I like your look.”

  “I’m McCoy,” Garner explained, going back to his cover. He then glanced over to Lane, “If she doesn’t have the ring, it has to be here. Elrod knew I needed it and he’d have given it to her before she was driven over to meet me. So we need to tear this place apart and find it.”

  “I’ll take the desk,” Lane suggested, “Why don’t you search all the drawers in the tables. If we don’t uncover anything there we can look through the bookshelves.”

  “Yeah,” Garner agreed, “he might have a fake book where he stashed stuff. Or there might be a hidden safe.”

  “If this room has a safe,” the cop explained, “I didn’t see it earlier when I made my initial search. Bret, why is the ring so important?”

  As Garner slid open an end table drawer, he explained, “It and the photo I’ll take later will prove I did my job. Without them Delono won’t be satisfied, and he is a man who I need to keep in my corner or my new career won’t last long.”

  “You probably aren’t wrong on that,” Tiffany quipped. “It makes sense you and Lane served together. You’re both so much alike.”

  “Ignore her,” Lane suggested, “and let’s get to work.”

  For the next thirty minutes, the men all but tore Elrod’s study apart. When they’d finished looking through the drawers and examined all of the more than one thousand books, opening each and then tossing them to the side, the cop admitted the obvious, “It’s not here.”

  “But it has to be,” Garner argued. “Elrod wouldn’t have sent her to the house without i
t.” He snapped his fingers, “Was it on his body?”

  “One of my team went through his pockets,” Lane explained, “I doubt if Jenkins would have missed anything, but I’ll call the morgue and find out. The ME would have cataloged everything he found in Elrod’s clothing.”

  As Garner leaned against the desk and folded his arms over his chest, the cop picked up the phone and began to dial. He was on the third number when Tiffany rose from the couch, shook her head, grinned, and announced, “You two men think you’re so smart. Use your heads. If Elrod was going to leave something that had to go with the blonde to the house . . .”

  “My name is Sunshine,” the other woman interrupted.

  Tiffany smiled and nodded. “. . . to go with Sunshine to the house, wouldn’t he put it in the same place with everything else that was going there?”

  “The attaché case!” Lane all but shouted as he started to move toward the foyer.

  Before he could make a full step, Tiffany opened her hand and revealed the blue jade ring. As it sparkled in the room’s light, she added, “It was in a small jewelry box beside all of that green stuff.”

  “When did you find it?” Garner demanded.

  “About the time you opened the first drawer,” the reporter explained. “You were too busy tearing this place up to notice me or what I was doing.”

  “But . . .” Lane cut in.

  “But,” the reporter parroted, “I didn’t tell you because both of you men have treated me horribly tonight. Lane, your plan made it is easy for this lug,” she pointed at Garner, “to kidnap me. And, if I’d had this ring then, he was going to kill me.”

  “I wasn’t really going to kill you,” the agent explained. “But as I was undercover, I had a role to play.”

  “Yeah,” Tiffany grumbled, “and that’s supposed to make everything all right.”

  “Would flowers help?” Garner asked.

  “By the way,” Sunshine cut in, “do I still get paid?”

  “I guarantee,” Tiffany declared, “that you are going to get paid.”

  “In fact,” Garner suggested, “we ought to do that right now.” Retrieving the attaché, the agent reached in, grabbed a handful of cash and looked back to the blonde. “How much were you promised?”