“That’s a lot to chew on,” Garner noted, “and at this moment I’d rather put all that on the back burner and finish my late supper.”
The remainder of the meal was spent in silence, Tiffany looking as though she was mentally constructing a jigsaw puzzle, while Garner did little more than study the woman. After their meal, they took what had become their usual places in the reporter’s small living room, and the investigator used the change in locale to deftly shift the conversation’s direction.
“So, I know you two have a history, we’ve talked about that, but how do you really feel about Lane?”
“That came from out of left field,” she chuckled.
“I’m serious,” he quickly replied. “I really want to know where that relationship stands.”
“I’m guessing,” she jibed, “that you’d like that information before you buy me a present.”
“Now who’s being direct?” Garner grinned. “Listen, I’ve gotten to like you a lot in the past few days. In fact,” he paused to measure his words. As he did, Tiffany raised her eyebrows. After licking his lips, he finally looked back to the woman and completed his thought, “I respect you, too.”
“So,” she laughed, her eyes twinkling, “you both like and respect me. You have something in common with someone else then.”
“Lane Walker?” Garner asked.
“No,” she assured her guest, her smile reshaping into a frown, “my boss. He told me the same thing just before he turned me down for a raise.”
With one well-timed sentence, Tiffany had pushed Garner into a box and he didn’t really know how to get out. He’d told her as much as he wanted to say until he found out where she stood with Lane, and it seemed obvious she didn’t want to reveal that. So, now he was stuck and so was the dialogue. If she hadn’t chimed in, he might have sat there mute for the next hour.
“Listen, Bret, you’re a nice guy, even if you did threaten to kill me last week, but you’re not my boyfriend or my brother. I’m not going to feel obligated to share stuff with you that I’ve shared with no one else. Besides, I couldn’t answer how I really feel about Lane. One moment, I kind of like the guy, but the next I want to strangle him. In the more than five years I’ve known him, there have been some good times and some that were not so good. What does the future hold for us? If the past is a barometer, then I’d guess more of the same. What you need to know is that Lane’s and my relationship is both special and complicated and that’s as much as I’m going to tell you.”
In a sense, though she probably didn’t intend them that way, her words gave Garner hope. He’d feared that she was actually in love with his old friend. If she had shared that, then the investigator was going to walk away. Now, there was opening, a chance for him to press a bit deeper and see if she could see in him what he saw in her. But what was the best way to pursue what he was sure he wanted to do?
As his mind whirled like the propeller on a B-19 bomber, Tiffany reached down to the coffee table and picked up a catalog. She studied its cover for a few moments before pitching it his way. After he caught the book, she picked up the conversation.
“I like you and I have no doubt you are fascinated by me. I’m cute, at times I’m funny, I’m bluntly honest, unlike most women, I don’t play games, I’ve got a brain, and we’ve worked pretty well together, but here is the bottom line. Once when I was a kid, I went swimming in Lake Michigan. I got in trouble and would have drowned, except for a man named Paul Warren. I didn’t know him until he saved my life. In retrospect, he wasn’t that good-looking, just an average guy from small-town America, yet for weeks after he dragged me to shore, I was sure I was in love with him. I didn’t care if he was twelve years older than me, or that he was married and had two kids. He’d saved my life and I thought that bonded us together forever. As I look back, I realize I made a fool of myself flirting with him. I said things that I now hope he didn’t hear or has at least forgotten.”
“I’m not sure,” Garner cut in, “what this has to do with anything.”
“You saved my life,” she reminded him. “You were my knight in shining armor. You arrived just when I needed you. Who’s to say what I feel for you now is not just gratitude? Who’s to say it goes any deeper than that? It’s much too soon to tell.”
As he considered the meaning behind her words, the investigator glanced down to the Montgomery-Ward Christmas catalog and began to leaf through a few pages. He stopped to admire a large electric train set when Tiffany allowed a few more thoughts to tumble from her head.
“And who’s to say I’m not like those toys in that catalog. Kids study those pages for weeks. They imagine what it would be like to play with the toys they pick out. They daydream about all they could do if Santa would just grant their wish. And when he does, when that toy is theirs, it becomes the happiest moment of their lives. Then, after a few days of playing with their toy or toys, they get tired of what they dreamed of for so long and center in on a new wish.” When she paused, he looked up until their eyes met. “Bret, you’ve not known me long enough to decide if I’m the female version of a toy in a catalog.”
“I don’t think that’s fair,” he quickly argued. Tossing the catalog back on the table, he spat out what was on his mind and heart without measuring his words or worrying about their impact. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
“That might be a good thing,” she joked.
“Be serious,” he demanded. “You need to hear me out. I really think I love you.”
She smiled. “I’m twenty-seven, my friends are all married, and most of them have kids. I work at a job that pays so little I don’t own a car and live in a tiny walk-up apartment. I’m a smart woman trying to make it in a man’s field and I don’t mind telling you that it’s tough. You’re not playing with a full deck if you don’t think that I dream of marriage and kids.”
“And . . .” he began.
She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “Bret, you said you think you love me. You’re not the first who’s told me that. In fact, you’re the seventh. And, just in case it matters to you, Lane has not even had the guts to tell me he thinks he loves me. But here is what you need to know. I’m not settling for someone or even opening my bedroom door for someone who thinks they love me. They have to know they love me to get and hold my interest.”
He was tempted to blurt it out, to confess that he really did love her, but he couldn’t. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he wasn’t sure enough to say love without qualifying it with the word think. Why did she have to be so blasted perceptive and smart?
“We’ve got some work to do,” she announced, cutting into the debate taking place between the man’s heart and brain. “As tonight has somehow already become tomorrow, you can call me this afternoon and maybe we can meet to discuss the case and perhaps even share a meal. And if you are still in Chicago a few weeks from now, and if you are still making a habit of eating at my table and sitting in that chair, perhaps we can revisit what we talked about tonight.
She pushed off the couch, walked over to the chair, and took his hand. As he rose, she led him to the door. When it was open, they paused there for a moment, his eyes locked onto hers. As he leaned down to kiss her lips, she moved just enough that his mouth landed on her forehead.
“Good night,” she whispered as she closed the door and left him alone in the hall.
34
Monday, December 23, 1946
8:35 A.M.
Tiffany Clayton was shocked. Lane Walker was sitting in one of the back booths at the dining section of Woolworth’s looking over a menu. She couldn’t believe he was on time. This had to be a first. The cop had called an hour earlier and asked the reporter to breakfast. He even offered to buy. She was tempted to refuse, but then realized that the cop might have the best resources to track down Velma Lombardi. Even if it meant she’d have to endure a few rounds of verbal boxing, it was likely worth it. Besides, on her salary, who was going to turn down a free meal? Taking a deep brea
th while secretly promising to try and make this meeting a cordial, civil affair, she strolled across the busy store to where Lane sat.
“You’re late,” the cop noted as the reporter took a place across the table from him. His words were caustic enough, but the fact that he never looked up from his menu immediately got under her skin.
“Five minutes,” she replied after checking her watch. Setting her purse on the seat beside her, she very deliberately removed her gloves, one finger at time as she added, “I’m surprised you even remembered to come at all.”
“Must we do this again?” he asked.
“You started it,” she snapped.
Thirty seconds later, they were still glaring at each other when a waitress strolled up to the table and popped the question of the moment. “Do you two know what you want?”
“Hot cakes and sausage,” Lane replied, his eyes still locked onto Tiffany.
“Short or tall stack?” the tall, thin woman asked between smacks on her gum.
“Tall.”
“Ground or link sausage?”
“Link.”
“Coffee or juice?”
“Coffee . . . black.”
The bleached blonde nodded and smiled while jotting down everything Lane had shared. She then looked back toward the man and asked, “What about your wife, what does she want?”
“I’m not his wife,” Tiffany replied, her forceful tone dragging the waitress’s eyes to hers. “And even if I was married to that galoot I could and would still order for myself.”
“Sorry,” the waitress quickly replied, “I just assumed that at your age you’d be married. Besides, I don’t get many unmarried people eating together in the morning. Their dates are mainly at night.”
The reporter locked onto the waitress like a guided torpedo and cracked, “As a matter of fact, someone asked me last night if I wanted to be his wife and I’m thinking about it.” She smiled before placing her order. “Now I want one scrambled egg, bacon, toast, and I’ve been feeling really adventurous today, so bring me a glass of tomato juice and a Coca-Cola.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
After writing Tiffany’s order down the woman turned on her heels and hurried back to the kitchen. When she was gone the cop smugly said, “Well, I figured Garner would move in on you. He always went after my women. Every time anyone showed any interest in me in Hawaii or anywhere else, he immediately locked his sights on her. As soon as he meets one of my women, he just has to try to take them from me. That guy has always been so jealous of me.”
“Excuse me,” Tiffany shot back, her finger pointing at the man’s nose, “since when have I been your woman? I’m the woman you forgot, stood up, made excuses to, didn’t buy presents for, and insulted far more than you have complimented, but I’m not your woman and I don’t want to be your woman.”
“So,” Lane noted, seemingly ignoring the fact he should apologize, “at the very least you had the sense to say no to Bret.”
She shook her head, “I didn’t say anything to him. I suggested he give it some time before he rushed into a relationship with me.”
“Well,” the cop grinned, “you gave him the same advice I would have.”
“Why,” Tiffany grumbled, “did you ask me to meet you?”
“The case,” he replied. “I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t for this stupid case. The heat’s on, everyone from the mayor to the chief is on my back, we need to solve it before Christmas or there’s going to be coal in my stocking. Now did you find out anything?”
She was tempted to keep him in the dark. He deserved that for the way that he treated her, but this was about murder and he needed to know what she knew in order to do his job. So, even though the woman in her told her not to, she leaned back in the booth and quickly brought him up to speed. When she finished her story, she could tell he was impressed.
“Tiffany, with the information that you dug up . . .”
“The information Bret and I dug up,” she corrected him.
“Whatever,” Lane snapped, “this information gives me all I need in order to go visit with Jacobs.”
“Just hold your horses,” the reporter suggested. “I think we need to find out if Velma is still alive. When we boil this all down, she is the key. So why don’t you spend your day tracking down the woman? I think we’ll only get one chance at this, so when we hit the judge and put him on the grill, I want to combine what we have about the blonde.”
“What about the priest?” Lane asked. “Do you think he knows anything else?”
“No,” she assured the cop, “Joe spilled what he knows.”
“Okay then, Tiff, let me ask you a harder question. Based on what you’ve learned, do you think Jacobs knows who the killer is?”
“Have you considered this?” she asked. “What if he is the killer?”
“The judge?” Lane gasped. “That’s not even on my radar.”
“Well,” she suggested, “widen your radar’s range. It seems to me that each of these men must have known and trusted the man who killed them. After all, at none of the scenes were there any signs of the victims having fought back. Somehow, the killer was able to make these men feel so comfortable and secure, he could drug their drinks and then coolly go about his business. When you think of it, other than Santa, who better to trust than a federal judge?”
The cop nodded. “And the blonde was not only the woman he loved, but the daughter of the man killed in 1926. Hence, the symbolism fits. But we still have no direct connection to Elrod and that twenty-year-old crime.”
“Just because we haven’t found it,” Tiffany assured him, “doesn’t mean there isn’t one. For the moment, let’s discover what happened to Jacobs’s first wife. She might give us the tie to Elrod.”
“I’ll spend my day on that,” Lane replied as the waitress brought their orders. “Now, let’s sit back and enjoy a quiet meal.”
Fifteen very quiet minutes later, as the cop finished the last of his hotcakes, Tiffany put in a second request. “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve, the last day the Santas are raising money on street corners. Tonight, we need to find out what’s happening to the money the bogus Santas are collecting.”
“So,” he stoically replied, “You’re still concerned about that.”
“I’m going to do this with or without you,” she warned. “Now, Bret learned the cars come by about nine to pick up the day’s take. All we have to do is follow the cop car that picks up the kettles and see where it goes. As a cop is working this scam, it also means that you can find out who’s dirty in your own department.”
“Fine,” the cop agreed, “I owe you that much. Where do we meet?”
“I’ve done a bit of homework,” she assured him. “There’s a fake Santa, another one whose permit has the name Kelly, working at the corner of Randolph and State Street. Let’s meet at half past eight at that location and follow the ride until it arrives home.” She paused, drained the last swig of the Coke from the bottle, and then issued two warnings. “Don’t bring a marked car or it will tip them off, and don’t be late or stand me up.”
Tiffany smiled, grabbed her bag and coat, and slid out of the booth. After all the times she’d paid in the past, there was a certain satisfaction in glancing over her shoulder and seeing Lane digging out his billfold. He deserved that and a lot more for calling her his woman.
35
Monday, December 23, 1946
11:00 A.M.
Even as Lane Walker searched through files and made calls, he was kicking himself. Once again, he’d fallen into the trap of having a verbal war with the woman he cared more about that any person in the world. Was his inability to open up and tell her the way he really felt due to a clash of personalities or the fact the war had so changed him that he no longer felt capable of being honest? He decided that it was likely a bit of both with one more wild card added in the mix. Though he didn’t know why, he was scared of love. Love required leaps of faith, thus allowing a myriad of illogical th
oughts and feelings to push their way into his head. To avoid that jumble of confusion the cop had built a high wall to keep love out. So far it had worked. In his world, life and actions made sense and work provided him with a security he figured love couldn’t give. Still, did that justify constantly tossing verbal volleys at a woman who defied his longing for security, order, and logic? He knew what Emily Post would say . . . he was guilty of bad manners and had been for years . . . but, on the positive side, being rude had kept him single. And most of his married friends complained so much about the way their wives badgered them that perhaps single was the only way to go.
During the time his mental debate over love waned, the cop stumbled down blind streets leading to nothing but dead ends. Velma Lombardi had disappeared off the face of the planet in 1926. There were no records of her in Illinois. She wasn’t on either tax or voter rolls in the dozen other states he checked. If she’d ever been legally married to Jacobs there was no record of it, just like there was no record of a divorce.
Giving up on his local and state contacts, Lane turned to the FBI. Though J. Edgar Hoover’s men worked with him, they were also no help. No one with the name Velma Lombardi had ever been arrested and fingerprinted. Thus, the cop had to believe she apparently didn’t have a record. Why was it the innocent were so much harder to find than the guilty?
Just before one, with the early afternoon sun now pouring through his window, the cop gave up. He had exhausted his sources and was forced to admit he was beaten. The frustration brought on by this blind pursuit so dimmed his senses he barely heard a uniformed officer ask, “Need something, Lane?”
Looking up, the homicide lieutenant noted Rankin O’Toole. O’Toole had been on the force for more than thirty years and even on the darkest days, the rock solid six-footer’s smile lit up the room.
“I’m whiffing at curve balls,” Lane replied with a forced smile. “I guess you could say I’m digging through haystacks and finding no needles at all.”
The Fruitcake Murders Page 21