The Fruitcake Murders

by Collins, Ace;

  As Joe walked resolutely across the room to his station, Tiffany noted the sad state of his wardrobe. The knees of his black pants were patched and the patches were so old they were shiny.

  “I’ve got a friend who’s about Joe’s size,” the reporter offered. “I’ll see if I can’t get a couple of pair of slacks and give them to Joe. They wouldn’t be new, but they’d be in much better shape that what your worker is wearing now.”

  “He’s got five pair of trousers just like that,” Sister Ann explained, “and I’ve given him a dozen better pairs of pants to replace them. He always passes along what I give him to one of the other men. When I ask him why he keeps wearing those old black rags he just tells me they remind him of who he once was. For some reason that memory is very important to him.”

  “Strange,” Tiffany observed as she watched Joe spoon up a bowl of soup and hand it to the old woman.

  “Not really,” the nun answered, “each of these folks have memories they hang onto in some way or anther. Their trigger to those recollections might be a photograph, a handkerchief, a house key, or a newspaper clipping, but it seems they all have something that connects them with who they were a long time ago.”

  “Did Saunders have anything?” Tiffany asked.

  Sister Ann nodded. “A tarnished badge. I once offered to polish it for him, but he wouldn’t let me.”

  The reporter looked from the scene at the counter to the nun’s eyes and posed another question. This query was driven by personal curiosity, not a quest to unravel a murder mystery. “Do you have anything you hold onto?”

  The nun smiled, “I have one thing, but I can’t carry it with me. Still, like a photograph, it brings back a moment in time that remains very dear to me.”

  “Ann, can I ask what it is?”

  “Miss Clayton, you can ask, but I’m not going to answer. Even a nun has secrets. Now, I need to start preparing for our supper crowd, so if you will excuse me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “God bless you,” the woman answered.

  Tiffany watched Sister Ann get up from the table, walk through the room, and back to the kitchen. Once more alone with her thoughts, the reporter spent a few moments looking at the faces of the city’s forgotten men and women before getting up and strolling out into the cold Chicago wind.

  26

  Saturday, December 21, 1946

  5:30 P.M.

  Against his better judgment, Brent Garner had been out in the cold wind and below-freezing temperatures for a half an hour. As the minutes ticked by, he almost wished for a return to the heat and humidity he experienced in Burma toward the end of the war. Yet, even as the winter gales cut through his clothes, chilling him to the bone, he concluded that being subject to a zero-degree windchill and surrounded by frenzied holiday shoppers was much better than being drenched in sweat while being shot at by Japanese soldiers. Positioned on a street corner across from the Metro Diner, Garner was on a mission. Last week, the Met—as called by locals—plunged into the Santa fundraiser with both feet. In an ad taken out in all the Chicago papers, the diner promised to feed any of the city’s official Santas between five and seven on Saturday. There would be no charge. There was no doubt that any of the jolly red-suited men who liked to eat would take the diner up on its generous offer.

  After the six Santas entered the Met, the all-but-frozen private investigator casually crossed the street and pushed open the glass door. As Garner studied the scene playing out in the long, narrow building, he couldn’t help but smile. From the jukebox music to the smiles on people’s faces, Christmas was everywhere and so was St. Nick. Two of the Santas seeking meals were sitting in a booth on the back wall. The rest were camped side by side at the long counter. As Garner watched, a child, dining with a pair of adults at a table just inside the door, grabbed his mother’s arm and all but yelled, “Mommy, which one is the real Santa?”

  Ironically, that was the very same question that Garner wanted answered. As the woman explained to the confused child that these red-clad men were just St. Nick’s helpers, the investigator opted for a more direct approach to separate the real Santas from the phonies. Sticking his hands in his pocket, he ambled to the back wall and paused beside the table where two of the rotund men were examining a menu. After snapping his fingers to gain their attention, Garner flashed his badge for just a second and asked, “Can I see your permits?”

  Neither man hesitated pulling out the pieces of paper. Garner glanced at the names and handed them back. He repeated the exercise at the bar. Once again, he met no resistance. For the next hour and a half he used the same routine to study each new arrival’s paperwork. By seven, he’d met and talked to twenty-two Santas.

  As the time limit for the free meals expired, the investigator walked over and stood beside a booth where three of the red-clad fundraisers were munching on hamburgers and fries. He remained mute until the one sitting on Garner’s left said, “You need something else? We’ve already shown you our permits.”

  “And,” the investigator noted with a wry smile, “that’s part of the problem. It seems two of you have the same name as a pair of other Santas I met earlier in the day. So,” he pointed to the two large elves sitting to his right, “are either of you really George Kelly?”

  As he glanced from man to man, the table remained silent.

  “Okay,” Garner demanded, “Your silence speaks volumes. Now I want the real story. I know at least two of you are playing a con game and you’re going to tell me what it is. If you don’t, Mrs. Claus is going to have make a long trip to bail you out of jail.”

  “I don’t know anything about this,” the man whose name was not Kelly piped up. “I can prove who I am, I have my driver’s license in my pocket.”

  The investigator pushed into the booth beside the legitimate Santa and coldly studied the other pair of red-suited men. After letting them sweat for a few moments, he asked, “What’s the story, gentlemen?”

  The shorter of the two bearded men shrugged, “We volunteered to do a job, a guy gave us the permits and told us to go get a costume.”

  “Didn’t the fact your names weren’t on the permits seem strange?” Garner asked.

  “He told us not to worry about it,” came the reply, “something about not having time to print more. As this was for charity, I didn’t question it.”

  The investigator dug deeper. “Where were you recruited?”

  “I was notified at church.” The talkative man glanced to the still silent Santa and added, “My pastor gave me the permit and instructions.”

  The still mute Santa nodded.

  “Do all you fake Santas go to the same church?” the investigator demanded.

  “No,” the talker quickly replied. “There was no one else from my church, and the other men I’ve talked to came from a lot of other churches. They aren’t even the same denominations.”

  That was a twist Garner hadn’t expected. How did the city’s churches get involved in this scam? Pointing his fingers at the two imposters, the investigator demanded, “What do you do with the money you take in?”

  “We turn it over to the folks in charge,” he explained.

  Garner looked toward the apparently legit Santa, “And you?”

  “I do the same thing.”

  “None of you holds any of it back?”

  Three heads shook in unison.

  “Jim,” Garner prodded, “so if you are the real Santa in this trio, have you noticed anything screwy going on?”

  “No,” he quickly answered, “in fact, I’ve been doing this for three years and we have already raised more this year than we did last year.”

  The investigator nodded, “And who do you give the money to?”

  “A uniformed cop drives up every night around nine,” the Santa not named Kelly explained. “He takes my pot and gives me an empty one for the next day. You can look in the car tonight if you want, there are all kinds of pots already in there when he picks up mine.”


  “Me, too,” chimed in one of the Kellys.

  Once again, the quiet man nodded.

  “So everything is done the same way for all of you?” the investigator quizzed.

  “Same for all the Santas I’ve talked to,” the silent member of the group finally chimed in. “When we signed up, we got a detailed copy of the city rules on how this works. The guys I know are all honest and follow those rules to the letter. I don’t know about anyone else, but I wouldn’t even take out a penny for a piece of gum.”

  “Me either,” Jim added.

  “Are you going to shut us down?” one of the men known as Kelly asked.

  “No,” Garner admitted, “you just go back to work and pretend this conversation never took place. You will only get into trouble if you tell anyone what was said here. By the way, where is the corner where you work?” The investigator smiled as he added, “Mr. Kelly.”

  “My name is Goldstein . . . Harold Goldstein.”

  “Okay, Harold, give out with the information.”

  “I’m at Michigan and Pershing.”

  Garner nodded, “If you’re finished eating, why don’t you go back to work.”

  Though there was still a bit of food left on their plates, the trio didn’t argue. As soon as the investigator stood and stepped to the side, the Santas made their way out of the booth and through the front door. After they were gone, Garner slid back into the booth. What he’d discovered had done little to unravel the reason for the scam. Yes, the whole thing was fishy and it smelled, but it hardly seemed like a reason for four men to scare or maybe even murder Tiffany.There had to be more to her being attacked than a simple fund-raising scam.

  27

  Sunday, December 22, 1946

  9:15 A.M.

  Though most women wouldn’t have called two men and suggested they meet for a breakfast date, Tiffany Clayton was not most women. She cared nothing about what Emily Post outlined as correct etiquette for today’s proper young ladies. When it was time for action she believed protocol should be dismissed. As she had talked to both Lane Walker and Bret Garner the night before, listening to the new information both had shared, she decided a powwow over eggs and hotcakes was in order to build upon their combined knowledge. After all, three heads were surely better than one, even if one of those heads belonged to a smart-mouthed cop. During this meeting the only topic she was keeping off the table was the fact someone had tried to shoot her. At this point, she didn’t want the cop in this equation to get wind of that bizarre episode. If he did, he might toss her in jail for her own protection. So, when she set up the meeting via the phone, she instructed Garner to keep his mouth shut.

  The two men met Tiffany at a Walgreens Drug Store counter about eight blocks from her apartment. The trio spoke mostly of the bitter cold and their lack of holiday plans until their waitress removed the empty dishes and refilled their coffee cups. Sensing it was time, as her father always said, “to fish or cut bait,” the woman steered the conversation in the direction of the unsolved murders.

  “Though I couldn’t pin down any direct contact between Elrod and Saunders,” the reporter explained, “I know they both were at the soup kitchen from time to time. Perhaps there is something there that connects them.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Lane cut in, “and by the way, I like your outfit today.”

  Tiffany looked down at the red-and-green-checked wool dress and chuckled. “Have you had your eyes checked? You’ve never noticed what I’ve worn in the past.”

  “That’s not true,” he objected.

  “Okay, what was I wearing when we ate at the Oyster Bar?”

  “That was actually me,” Garner announced. “I was the one who took you to the fancy place. Lane is more the cheap diner kind of guy.”

  “Oh,” Tiffany quietly admitted, “that’s right.”

  “You went out to eat with this character?” Lane asked loudly enough that a half a dozen patrons turned to see what the fuss was all about.

  “Hold it down,” she hissed. “And yes, Bret took me out. Not that it should concern you.”

  “My goodness, Tiff,” Lane grumbled, “he could be a murderer. I haven’t cleared him in the Elrod case yet. So you’re stupid if you spend any time alone with him.”

  “I’m stupid, am I?” she shot back.

  “I didn’t say you were stupid,” Lane quickly amended. “I just implied that you were not acting very bright right now.”

  “I have a history of that,” she shot back, “it was evident all the times I went out with you.”

  “Oh,” he mocked, “so it comes back to that. Well, my dates with you were not my finest moments either.”

  “Excuse me, Skipper,” she jabbed, “how many of those did you actually show up for?”

  “I really don’t mean to interrupt,” Garner whispered, “but I’m trying to keep a low profile here. I mean, there is a price on my head. So you two need to hold it down. Right now everyone in this store is looking in our direction.”

  “Yeah,” Tiffany suggested, “let’s move on to the real reason we’re here.”

  The cop took a deep breath, leaned forward, lowered his voice, and turned his focus back to the case. “Fine with me! Here’s my news. I did confirm a few things I suspected. Both men were drugged and likely out cold when they were clubbed . . . that is, if you can use a can to club someone. So their deaths were not caused by the drug, but by the blows. Also, in both cases the knife was stuck into their backs in the very same way and the very same manner.”

  “So,” Garner chimed in, “the ex-cop had been dead for some time before he was stabbed?”

  “Yep,” the cop replied, “and both knives were exactly the same. They were made at the Kitchen Best Factory in Bedford, New Jersey. And they are not rare. You can pretty much buy them at any dime store in this city or any other of a thousand cities from coast to coast.”

  “So,” the woman noted, still stinging from being insulted, “we have two murders, one killer, and no clear connection between the victims other than they might have been at the soup kitchen at the same time.” Her tone indicated she was quite proud of beating the men to that fact.

  “Since you shared that bit of information with me yesterday,” Lane acknowledged with a slight frown, “I put my men to work on checking out everyone at the kitchen. We looked at all those that come and go and not one of them, other than Sister Ann, had a real connection with either man. I don’t know why, maybe it is because it has never happened in the history of Illinois, but I doubt if the nun is our killer. Now I haven’t ruled out the guy named Joe. In fact, I ran him in last night and grilled him.”

  “Did you find out anything?” Garner asked.

  “Right now,” the cop admitted, “we don’t even know his last name. He refuses to give it. So we tossed him into a cell to let him think about that for a while and that’s where he remains this morning.”

  “Surely you searched the soup kitchen?” Tiffany asked.

  “Of course,” Lane answered, “even a stupid cop knows to do that. You know how smart I am?”

  The reporter whispered, “I’m sure you will tell us.”

  “Here’s brains at work,” he suggested. “Even though the nun told us to take the place apart if we needed to, I waited for a warrant. I ran things by the book. And, when the warrant came we did find several knives in the kitchen matching the ones used in both cases.”

  “That’s a start,” the investigator suggested. “What about the fruitcake tins?”

  “Not a single one,” the cop explained, “and there were no signs of the drug used in the drinks. Of course, Joe had plenty of time to get rid of the drug and the cans.”

  “And,” Tiffany added, “if he’d ditched those things he likely would have dumped the knives as well.”

  “Well,” Lane retorted, “perhaps we got there before he thought of that.”

  “So, Skipper,” the reporter noted.

  “What’s this Skipper thing all about?”
a suddenly interested Garner asked.

  “I’ll tell you later,” the woman assured him before turning her attention back to the cop. “Anyway, the only thing you can hold Joe on is the suspicion of sticking a knife in a dead man. Is that even a crime?”

  “A minor one,” Lane assured her, “but about the only place it would send the guy would be to a mental institution.”

  Garner took a long draw of coffee before asking, “Maybe Elrod and Saunders had a connection in the past to Joe.” He paused and smiled before asking, “Can I call you Skipper, too?”

  “No, you cannot,” the cop barked. “On the connection, I thought of that link, too. So I visited with both Elrod’s widow and Saunders’s ex-wife. Neither of them knew of any link between the two men. When I showed them a photograph of Joe, they both swore they’d never seen him. I also checked with those at the DA’s office. I don’t mind telling you that none of them were too pleased to be bothered on the Saturday night before Christmas. I struck out there, too. So, I had six guys from the night crew go through old police case files clear back to the twenties looking for a way to connect Elrod and Saunders. After seven hours of work, we came up blank.”

  “You’re being waved at,” Tiffany announced as she pointed to the end of the counter. “I believe one of your men wants you.”

  The cop pushed off of his stool and ambled across the room to where a uniformed police officer stood by the door. After Lane was out of earshot, Garner spilled a bit of new information. “I can’t come up with anything on the fake Santas that doesn’t make them appear like candidates for Citizen of the Year. They all seem to be involved in this routine due to the goodness of their hearts.”

  “Well,” the woman wryly cracked, “then why did that quartet of goons go after me Friday night?”

  He shook his head, “I’m thinking again they thought you were the real blonde.”

  “I thought you said Delono’s men would have killed me,” she noted.

  “Maybe they were just trying to scare you,” he explained.