“Miss Clayton,” he began, his tone as charming as his smile, “it is so good to finally meet you. I read your work everyday in The Star. In fact, I look forward to it. You are a very talented writer. In fact, I think you’re almost as good as many of the men on your paper.”
Almost? So much for her casting a vote for Jacobs in the next election. Most of the men she worked with had barely gotten out of high school while she had graduated with honors from Northwestern. In her mind there was no almost to it; she was a better scribe than any of them even if they often got the best assignments.
As Tiffany chewed on the backhanded compliment, the judge pointed to two chairs situated on each side of a small, round wooden table by the window. It was obvious he was unaware he’d verbally stepped on the reporter’s toes as he suggested with a broad smile, “Pretty lady, would you please sit down and then we can get to business.”
The reporter nodded as she shot out a lukewarm, “Thank you.” After easing into the soft, brown leather chair, she reached into her purse, pulled out a pen and paper, and waited for her host to take his place. When he was seated, she began to dig. “Your honor, I know you are very busy, so I will try to not take much of your time. I came to get your thoughts on the murder of Ethan Elrod.”
“Oh, my goodness,” the judge began as he pushed a bit of hair up and off his forehead, “Ethan was not just a great man, but an even better friend. I was the best man as his wedding, and he filled that same role at mine. I was the godfather to his children. There was hardly a day over the past fifteen years when we didn’t either visit in person or over the phone. I already miss him more than I can begin to express. What a tragedy! Sadly, I understand that the police have no idea as to who did this. Such a shame! I have spoken to both Mary and the children and have been so inspired by their strength during these difficult days.”
As she jotted down his statement, Tiffany marveled at the way the man so quickly summed up more than a decade of friendship. Most men would have searched for words, stumbled in their delivery, and failed to fully define the relationship, but not Jacobs. In one paragraph he’d hit a home run. And, as she quickly found out, he was not finished.
“Ethan’s most dynamic quality was his integrity. He would not bend his principles for anyone or any reason. In his years as a lawyer, I never knew him to compromise on the truth. Not once!” He waved the index finger on his right hand to emphasize the point. “That was a lesson he learned when he interned at the DA’s office and will no doubt be his legacy.” And so it began.
For the next forty-five minutes, starting with tales from college, when Jacobs was a student and Elrod a teacher, and ending with a lunch meeting just last Monday, the judge related story after story painting a detailed picture of his admiration, respect, and even his love for Elrod. Though the words tumbled from his lips as easily as rain spilled off a steeply pitched roof, it was in the man’s dark eyes where the real depth of his loss could be seen. Though he never completely broke down, several times Jacob teared up. Finally, when he paused, pulled a handkerchief from his suit pocket, and dabbed at his eyes, Tiffany tried to steer the conversation in a new direction.
“Judge Jacobs, as I write this profile piece on the late district attorney, I want to know a bit more about why you think he might have been killed. Did any of your recent conversations with Mr. Elrod hint at any reason someone would want to take his life?”
Jacobs crossed his right leg over his left, then placed his hands over the raised knee and frowned. “He was investigating organized crime. It was his mission of the moment. Therefore, there was not just one man that was gunning for him, but scores of men. On top of that, Ethan had put a lot of people in jail over the years. So, when they got out after serving their time, a few might have still held a vendetta against him.” He paused, glancing out the window to the traffic some four stories below before posing a question of his own. “None of the newspapers have listed in what manner Ethan met his demise. Do you have any idea?”
“The police are withholding that information,” Tiffany explained without revealing she knew exactly how Elrod had died. “Now, can we move past the death and possibly end our conversation with a more uplifting story . . . something that might make my readers smile a little?”
“What do you have in mind?” His tone indicated he was both surprised and perplexed with her suggestion of a new direction for the interview.
“There was a specific present the two of you traded each Christmas.”
Folding his hands together, the judge smiled, “You mean the fruitcake?”
“Yes, it seemed almost everyone who knew the two of you also knew about the tradition of passing it back and forth each year. How did that begin?”
“Gosh,” Jacobs chuckled, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling as if seeing another time and place, “I got that old fruitcake way back when I was a kid here in Chicago.”
“By kid,” Tiffany asked, “what do you mean?”
“I guess I was likely in my late teens. It was Christmas break, and I working some odd jobs. I’d been given the fruitcake, and I just hated it. I kept it because it carried some special memories for me that I didn’t want to forget. Later on, when Ethan and I became friends, I found out that he hated fruitcake, too, so I wrapped it up and gave it to him. Lo and behold, rather than toss it in the garbage, the next year he gave it back to me. Over the years it just continued. Of all the traditions of the season, it might just be the one I have cherished most.” He smiled and looked directly into her eyes, “It was actually one reminder of how far we had come. When I first gave him that cake, neither of us had a spare dime in our pocket. Over the years, we escaped the poverty of our youth, became well-known and respected, and even traveled all over the world. We ate in the best restaurants and even visited the White House. Yet, each year at Christmas that cake brought the past back into sharp focus. That way we never forget . . .”
As his voice drifted off, she stopped, held the top of her pencil against her cheek, and asked, “Who was supposed to give the cake this year?”
His face grew ever sadder. “I guess I’m stuck with it forever.” Getting up from his chair, he slowly crossed the room to a filing cabinet, slid open a drawer, reached in, and retrieved a large, round, red-and-green tin. Retracing his steps, he set the still unopened container on the table and frowned. “Not sure what I should do with it now.”
Jan’s Old World Fruitcake was painted on the top of the tin proving it was the very same kind as the one Lane had shown her at Elrod’s house. Yesterday, on the phone, the cop had even guaranteed the gag gift had been the murder weapon. Now it appeared that theory had been riddled with holes. Lane would not be pleased when she shared this scoop with him.
“Where can you buy these?” Tiffany asked.
“Nowhere,” Jacobs quickly explained as he once more eased down into his chair. “The company that made this cake went out of business a long time ago. This is likely the last one left in the whole world. I mean, think about it, who would keep a fruitcake for twenty years?”
“Who indeed?” the reporter asked, her mouth framed by a wry smile.
16
Friday, December 20, 1946
3:25 P.M.
Mary Grant Elrod was fifty-seven, but looked a decade younger. She was five-four, and thanks to playing tennis and swimming on a regular basis, was within five pounds of what she weighed when, thirty-six years before, she led cheers for the Fighting Illini. Her face was not as much strikingly beautiful as it was motherly pleasant. Her best feature was likely her brown eyes sprinkled with flecks of gold. When she smiled they lit up like Independence Day fireworks. As she led Lane Walker from the Elrod mansion’s front door to the spacious living room, she walked ramrod straight, her perfect posture even more emphasized by her black sweater and tailored gray slacks.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” the cop apologized. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have a job to do.”
“I realize that, Lieutenan
t,” she announced, each of her words seemingly carefully carrying a dose of tact, grace, and elegance. “Why don’t you take a seat on the couch; I will sit in the chair by the Christmas tree.”
As his host slowly eased down, much like a bird lighting in a tree, Lane took a quick look around the room. Except for the tree’s lights having been plugged in, it looked much the same as it did the other night, but it felt much different. The shock of murder had now been replaced with an overriding sense of grief. There was an invisible hole in this room, and this hole could not be filled. As long as some member of the Elrod family lived here, the house would be haunted by the events of December 18.
“He was a giant,” she announced without prompting.
Lane, caught off guard, turned his attention back to his host, and nodded. Though her eyes were clear and fixed on him, he sensed that her heart might be broken beyond repair. He figured that Mary and Ethan must have been very close. Yet, with her next words, that illusion was shattered like a fine crystal glass dropping on a marble floor.
“You need to understand something,” she continued, her voice surprisingly strong. “My husband lived to work. He focused on his job ten or twelve hours a day and sometimes seven days a week. I raised our children. Yes, he was there for birthdays and holidays, but he didn’t have the time to read them stories or play with them.” She shrugged, “He really didn’t have time for me either. He promised a few times that he would cut back, slow down, and focus more on family, but I knew that wasn’t his nature. It was funny, he always kept his campaign promises, but he never managed to keep his promises to me or the children.”
“I . . .” Lane muttered, unsure as to how to respond.
“I’m only telling you this,” she explained, “so that you will understand why I am reacting as I am. You see, I haven’t cried. In fact, because we rarely spent time with each other, I don’t even feel he’s really gone. So, while the city of Chicago has been tossed into a deep, dark time of mourning, I’m just numb. But maybe that’s the way it should be, the city feeling more of a loss than I do. After all, he was more married to the city than he was to me. That’s really where his head, heart, and focus were.”
Lane had been blindsided and was now completely unsure how to respond. Seeing no possible answer that would cover his shock, he opted to avoiding commenting on what the woman had shared and chose to plunge directly into the reason he’d come to the house. After clearing his throat he asked, “Mrs. Elrod, did your husband have any enemies?”
The woman glanced toward the window, smiled, but remained strangely mute. Even when she finally spoke, she continued to stare at the home’s huge, snow-covered front yard. “Ethan was one of the most beloved men in this city. He was both esteemed and respected. We have already received hundreds of Christmas cards and in the next four days hundreds more will come in.” She turned her gaze back to her guest, “But a man who has that many friends also will have many enemies. His job was to put people in prison. I have no idea how many men and some women have served time or are serving time in places like Joliet because of Ethan’s work.”
“I understand,” Lane assured her, “but had he recently gotten any serious threats?”
The widow softly laughed, “He got them every day, but they never worried him. He assured me that those who took the time to let him know how much they hated him for who he was, what he did, or what he had done were not a problem. Let me explain what I mean. If you see a snake first, you likely aren’t going to get bit. Ethan felt that if anyone ever tried to kill him there would be no warning. So, written threats didn’t bother him. He never lost a moment’s sleep over the hate mail.”
“So, Mrs. Elrod, you have no idea who might be behind this?”
She pushed her hand through her light brown bob and shook her head. “Lieutenant, if I had to make a guess, it would be someone connected to his crusade against Richard Delono and his organization. I mean that’s what makes the most sense at this moment, but in truth, I don’t have any idea who did this horrible thing.”
“I am very sorry,” Lane added. “Everyone at the department is bent on solving this case.”
“If,” Mary Elrod said, “you manage to find the killer, will that bring Ethan back?”
He shook his head.
“So,” she noted, “then it really doesn’t matter to me, because the time he promised to give me and our family is never going to be realized.”
Lane nodded, pushed off the couch, and moved toward the door. He paused there for a moment, debating if now was the time and this was the place for the question that was hanging between his mind and lips. He was about to opt to wait until after the holidays when the woman broke the silence.
“There is something else you want to ask me. Isn’t there?”
He turned back to face his host and nodded. “We’re looking for a blonde woman with a blue jade ring. For reasons we don’t understand, your husband was supposed to deliver that woman to someone representing Richard Delono in exchange for files that were to help him in his investigation into organized crime. We don’t know who she is.”
The woman rose from her chair and slowly made her way to where he stood. As she fiddled with her wedding ring, she sadly shook her head. “I wish I could help you, but I have never seen a blonde woman wearing a blue jade ring. If I had, I’m sure I would have remembered it.” She looked up to his eyes as she continued. “If you think about it, it’s a very strange combination. Jade is usually worn by women from the Far East not by someone with blonde hair. I’ve always been told that blondes prefer diamonds. In truth, I think that goes for all American women.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” he admitted.
“Lieutenant, you’re a man, of course you wouldn’t. You probably believe that all shades of blue can be worn at the same time.”
Rather than show his ignorance and ask why shades of blue shouldn’t be mixed, Lane posed another question. “There is something else I need to ask. May I?”
“Certainly.”
“Did your husband have a fruitcake tin in his office or did you have one in the house?”
She smiled, “Not this year. Neither of us eats fruitcake. Now every other year, Ethan got one from Ben Jacobs, but this is one of the off years in which we didn’t have to find a place to store the thing until we could give it back to Ben.”
“Thank you for your time,” Lane said, “and I just want you to know that I have men working overtime, and they will keep working until we have gone through all your husband’s case files. Be assured, we are running down every lead and questioning anyone who might have had a motive. We’ll catch this guy.”
Mary Elrod shook her head as she made a suggestion. “Don’t work so hard that you and your men fail to stop and remember Christmas.” She paused and looked back toward her tree. “Please, wait just a moment.”
As a curious Lane looked on, the woman marched as if on a mission. She quickly crossed the room and retrieved a small, wrapped package. She held it in her right hand for a moment, almost as if weighing it, then smiled and retraced her steps. “This is for you,” she announced as she pushed the gift into his right hand.
“I don’t understand,” the suddenly perplexed cop said.
“I bought this for Ethan,” she explained, “and he won’t be using it now. But, based on what I have observed today, I think you might just need it.”
“I couldn’t . . .”
“Of course you could,” Mary Elrod scolded, “and you will. But don’t open it until at least Christmas Eve. A part of the magic of the holidays is wondering what is hidden behind the paper.”
Lane looked down at the small gift, “Thank you.”
“Merry Christmas,” she replied.
As he walked to the door, he couldn’t help thinking of the irony of her words. How could Mary Elrod have any happiness during this holiday season? Her husband, one of the city’s most beloved men, had been murdered, and she had barely known him. Was there anything sad
der than that?
17
Friday, December 20, 1946
8:30 P.M.
Tiffany Clayton put the finishing touches on a story profiling the life of Ethan Elrod, turned it over to the copy editor, grabbed her coat, and stepped out into the cold night air. Rather than hail a cab, as she normally did when getting off work, the reporter turned to her right and made a six-block walk down State Street to a newsstand run by a World War I vet named Thomas Tacker. Little Tommy, as he was called, was now closing in on sixty, but he had crowded a lot of living into those six decades. Though just five-one and likely not more than one hundred and twenty pounds, the diminutive man had once been a star. For more than three decades, Tommy had traveled all over the world as a circus performer. While walking the high wire for Barnum, he’d met kings, queens, and presidents. It all ended in 1935, when a fifty-foot fall smashed his right leg. It took him a year and five surgeries just to get back on his feet, and to this day, the tiny man dragged his foot whenever he took a step. His career finished, he’d taken what little savings he had left after his extensive medical bills, bought a newsstand, and now worked twelve hours a day, seven days a week to make enough to afford a run-down basement flat located below a pool hall. Yet, as sad as his life seemed, Little Tommy never complained. Whenever Tiffany saw him, she was greeted with an ear-to-ear grin and a hearty, “How you doing?” This night was no exception. Even with the windchill close to zero, the man was still happy to be alive.
“How you doing?” he announced with a smile and wave, “Happy holidays, Miss Clayton.”
“It is?” Tiffany asked.
“If you’re breathing and eating,” Tommy explained, “you’ve got reason to celebrate. Listen to the sounds of the season. You can hear Christmas music playing over store loudspeakers, see parents walking the streets shopping and dragging giggling children by their sides, and hear church carolers all night long. And there are Santas everywhere.”
The Fruitcake Murders Page 11