Shamus in a Skirt

by M. Ruth Myers

  His face shone with enthusiasm. He’d traded his checkered suit for a striped one today, but any improvement was marginal. Talking a mile a minute, he whisked me toward an elevator whose polished brass practically blinded me. I had no chance to so much as look at the lobby.

  “You’re going to love Franny,” he promised as the Negro operator closed the grill of the elevator and the car started up. “She’s smart as they come. Don’t know what she ever saw in a mutt like me.”

  We stopped on the top floor and stepped out onto thick Axminster carpeting.

  “We’re the one at the rear.” Tucker gestured. “Nice and quiet. Nobody going by. Franny and I had spent so much of our life in hotels, we thought we might have trouble getting used to anything else. We put two suites together, so we have a pretty nice setup.”

  With obvious pride he threw open the door to a light-filled living room. A stunning redhead stood with her back toward us and a telephone pressed to her ear. At the sound of the door, she turned, smiling warmly. She was leggy and tall and I figured her husband’s head would come about to her shoulder. She was one of the most attractive women I’d ever met.

  “I’m afraid I must go. Yes, I’ll tell him. ’Bye,” she said with the rushed cheer of someone trying to end a conversation. Shaking her head in apology, she came toward us with an outstretched hand.

  “I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Sullivan—”

  “Maggie.” She had a nice handshake.

  “Maggie, then, and I’m Frances. I was rather afraid Joshua might send you running.”

  “I have a way of putting my foot in it sometimes,” he said, gazing up at her affectionately.

  “With girls, mostly, so I’m generally glad.” Her elbow nuzzled his shoulder. “Breakfast just arrived. Let’s sit down before it gets cold.”

  “Who wants you to tell me what?” Her husband nodded toward the telephone.

  “Oh, Miss G’s in a snit because one of the scrub women didn’t come in last night.”

  An oval table sat in an alcove formed by a bay window at one end of the long living room. The furnishings of the room, from chairs to landscape paintings to whatnots, looked as if they’d spent a couple of generations in an upper-crust home. Frances seated herself by a serving cart where she lifted silver domes from dishes of eggs, ham, sautéed mushrooms and such. My usual morning fare was oatmeal, but I managed not to turn up my nose.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve had any thoughts yet on the mess we’ve got on our hands,” Frances asked as soon as we had food and coffee. She tucked her cap of coppery hair behind her ear. “Sorry, that was silly of me. Of course you don’t when you haven’t even started. It’s just that I’ve been in knots....”

  Tucker reached across the table and patted her hand.

  “Hey, kid. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  Her laugh was wobbly. “If I had a nickel for every time you’ve told me that!”

  “And I’ve been right, haven’t I?”

  She nodded and dabbed at her eyes.

  They were as mismatched a pair as I’d ever seen: her looks and his, her refinement and his rough edges. I wondered if the affection they displayed was genuine. And mutual.

  The warmth of Frances’ greeting had seemed genuine, but the more I saw of it, the more I felt certain her bright animation was an effort. To put both of them at ease, I asked how they’d chosen the hotel name and how they’d met. When someone’s in trouble, learning about their past is always a smart place to start.

  The hotel, as I’d surmised, was named for Chaucer’s wandering pilgrims. Tucker had been a kid performer on the vaudeville stage. From there he’d become an emcee, then a theatrical manager specializing in dance and variety acts. One day Frances had shown up for an audition.

  “I just about cried when he hired me to fill a chorus line vacancy,” she said. “I was two weeks behind in my rent and a day away from being tossed out on the street. Although the street might have been better than the cockroaches skittering through that wretched room.”

  She nudged food around on her plate but had eaten nothing except a teaspoon of eggs and some nibbles of toast. Either she was off her feed or she was nervous.

  The couple’s theatrical work had taken them everywhere: Chicago, Milwaukee, San Francisco, even London. In between, they’d spent time in New York. But they’d grown weary of travel. They knew more successful touring performers and show executives would welcome a hotel that offered a bit of luxury and a lot of privacy. Dayton’s location on the main east-west rail line and good connections everywhere, made it ideal.

  “It’s pretty clear the two of you have made a lot of friends through the years,” I said once they were talking freely. “What I’m wondering is, have you made any enemies along the way?”

  They both stared. After several seconds their gazes slid uncertainly toward each other.

  “Well, I suppose I’ve ruffled some feathers,” Tucker said. “Like I told you, I kinda put my foot in things sometimes—”

  “I’m talking about more than ruffled feathers. Someone you fired, for instance. Jealous boyfriends. Girls who wanted you to represent them, but you turned them down.”

  “There were probably lots of guys who were sore when I married Franny. She’s a knockout. And girls I wasn’t sold on enough to represent?” He shrugged with palms turned up.

  “But no one stands out? No one’s ever threatened you?”

  “No,” said Tucker.

  “No,” echoed Frances. “No, never!”

  A thread of shrillness infected her voice.

  “What about—?”

  The knock at the door was loud enough to startle us all.

  “Oh dear, I’ll see what it is.” Frances jumped up.

  “What about since you opened the hotel?” I asked. “Has anyone—?”

  “No. I have to see him now!” a man’s voice insisted.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” Tucker muttered. He threw his napkin down and rose.

  Wondering whether the argument might prove instructive, I moseyed after him. As Frances moved aside, I saw a man in the black attire that waiters in fancy places wore.

  “Whatever the problem is, Pete, it’ll have to wait,” Tucker said sternly. “I’m talking business here. I’ll be down in ten minutes.”

  The waiter shifted nervously.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Tucker, but you need to come right now. You have to.”

  “Why?”

  The waiter swallowed. His eyes skipped from me to Tucker and back again.

  “Well, come on. Spit it out.”

  “There’s a policeman at the back door. They’ve found a - a body. In one of the garbage cans. Somebody said they thought she worked here.”

  FOUR

  “Polly. Her name was Polly.”

  The missing scrub woman. The one somebody in housekeeping had been complaining to Frances about on the phone earlier.

  “I never learned her last name. She only started here two weeks ago, or thereabouts,” Frances said.

  She sat with her arms on her knees, rolling a china teacup back and forth between her hands. The two of us were alone in her apartment.

  Tucker had asked me to stay with her while he went to meet the policeman. More than an hour had elapsed before he reappeared to tell us it was the woman who hadn’t come in the previous night. He didn’t know the three women who worked late at night as well as he knew other employees, he explained. Since this one was new in addition, he hadn’t been certain enough to identify her. The head of housekeeping, the one the Tuckers called ‘Miss G’, had viewed the body and confirmed it.

  Now Frances and I were on our own again. Tucker had gone back down to inform key members of his staff what had happened and see to it rumors didn’t start spreading.

  “She was just a kid,” Frances said, rolling the teacup. “Seventeen, eighteen.” She gave a shaky laugh. “I suppose I ought to be grateful it wasn’t one of the guests, but—” She looked away, blinking tear
s into her lashes. “Do you think — will the police come around asking questions? Lots of them, I mean, talking to everyone?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said, mostly to reassure her.

  Her husband’s report had been rushed. Other than the fact she’d worked here, the police didn’t seem to be looking at any connection between the dead girl and the hotel. What he’d told us next was plenty for me to know they would be.

  “They say it looks like someone attacked her to, uh, violate her.” He’d looked at his shoes in embarrassment. “That killing her was just — you know. To shut her up.”

  It was going to be a homicide investigation.

  “They’ll probably talk to the woman you said is in charge of housekeeping. The one who identified her,” I told Frances.

  “Miss Gumm.”

  “They’ll need to question her and some of the other employees. They’ll want to establish the last time anyone saw Polly.”

  I wanted to know too. Had the girl died on her way to work, or as she was leaving? Miss G had been in a snit because Polly hadn’t shown up last night. That suggested she’d died sometime between leaving on Wednesday and arriving last night, Thursday.

  If Polly had been killed on Wednesday, it raised possibilities I couldn’t sift through while making conversation with a woman I scarcely knew. Wednesday would make it the night Tucker insisted he’d seen an empty jewelry case that later refilled itself in his safe.

  If the two events were connected, it also would mean we were dealing with someone more dangerous than a con artist pulling a jewelry scam.

  Frances set down her teacup and started to pace, arms hugging her waist. Even with strain showing in every line of her, she was a glorious creature in motion.

  “My husband is a good man,” she said, her voice wavering. “He doesn’t deserve this. We’ve worked so hard, and things were going so well. Then that wretched man disappeared, and then the safe — if Joshua’s right, which he usually is — and now... Polly.

  Her pacing had taken her to windows next to the dining alcove. They looked out over rooftops and, despite taller buildings here and there, gave a fine view of the Great Miami flowing in the distance. Frances leaned against the window, staring out.

  “What man disappeared?” I asked.

  Frances turned to look at me in disbelief.

  “Joshua didn’t tell you? No, I can see he didn’t.” She came back to join me. “Joshua gets so caught up in what’s happening now that, well, it’s not that he forgets the past, he just lets go of it. The bad parts, anyway.” Her lips curved softly.

  “And this man...?”

  “Was a guest. About three weeks ago, I think. Sorry, I... was out of action for awhile, so I’m a bit fuzzy on when.

  “Anyway, he was a guest. He disappeared without checking out. He’d paid in advance, so it wasn’t a matter of skipping. The maid noticed when his bed wasn’t slept in for two days. His things were all gone, except for an envelope he’d left in the safe.”

  In the safe. The part of my brain that connected things tingled.

  “Did you notify anyone?”

  “The police. We didn’t like to, but it was so odd it made us uneasy. They sent two men. In plainclothes, which we appreciated. They looked at his room, but they said there wasn’t anything suggesting a crime.”

  “What about the envelope?”

  “They took it.”

  “Did they open it?”

  “Not around us.”

  Frances went to the table. She picked up a piece of cold toast, smearing it thickly with butter and jam.

  “It’s too much, isn’t it?” She chewed resolutely. “Three things going wrong, one after another.”

  “It’s hard to swallow as coincidence,” I agreed. As I started to ask her again about people who might hold a grudge against her or her husband, he bustled in.

  “Police are talking to people who knew her. There’s not many, since she was so new and worked nights. The only two times she came in the day was to pick up her pay. It’s got things upside down, though, with people pulled away from their jobs to answer questions, or told to come to the kitchen ‘cause they’re next in line. And they’re using Miss G’s office — the police are — so you know how that’s going over.

  “I gotta pitch in where I can to keep things running. Just wanted to let you know what’s happening. Need anything?”

  “No.” Frances stood up, licking her fingers. “Joshua, what can I do?”

  “Not a thing. Just get some rest. And don’t worry.”

  I winced at the savagery with which Frances bit into the last chunk of toast.

  “Before you go,” I put in quickly, “Are any of your current guests people you’d met before? You said some of your clientele, if not a lot of it, comes from show business people.”

  The two of them looked at each other.

  “Veronica Page,” said Tucker. “She used to be a pretty good dancer before she got snagged for Hollywood.”

  “Joshua was already managing her when he took me on. We — Veronica and I — worked in a couple of shows together.”

  “Has she stayed here before?”

  “No. But Veronica’s okay.” Tucker grinned. “Cynical as they come, but decent.”

  “And we’d crossed paths with Loren Avery a time or two,” said Frances. “Stayed in the same hotel once, I think. Didn’t we all take the same ship back from London, too? Yes, I’m sure I remember talking to Loren when I was having my morning walk around deck. The ship was rolling, so not many people were out. He joked about dancers being used to dipping and bobbing. They’ve never stayed here before either.”

  Tucker’s short form was rocking from foot to foot.

  “I gotta get back,” he said. “If I think of anybody else we already knew, I’ll phone up.”

  “I suppose the coffee is stone cold by now,” Frances said when he’d left. She tried some and made a face. “If I could look at the register, I might spot the name of somebody else we’ve bumped into. But it’s check-out time now, and if there’s a dither on top—”

  “It can wait til things settle down. What would help me now, though, is finishing what I was asking when we got interrupted by the news about Polly. Can you think of anyone who might have it in for your husband? Or maybe just want to scare him a little?”

  “No.” Frances shook her head vigorously. “You’ve seen what he’s like. He’s exasperatingly enthusiastic, but he’s sweet. He’s kind. He’s one of the smartest men I’ve ever known.” Thrusting a handful of coppery hair behind her ear, she gave a thin smile. “Most men think they’re smart when they’re not. Joshua thinks he’s not, when he actually is.”

  Either she actually loved the guy, or she was trying awfully hard to make me think she did.

  “Could your husband be in some kind of trouble you don’t know about?”

  “No.”

  “Does he gamble?”

  “Absolutely not!” Her voice tightened. “I know my husband, Miss Sullivan. I know my husband.”

  * * *

  Everyone lies. It started on the day Eve nibbled the apple.

  That knowledge hammered at the back of my head as I took my leave.

  In the years since I’d hung out my shingle, plenty of spouses had told me they didn’t keep secrets from each other. It never turned out to be true. Sometimes they told white lies, which they didn’t count. Sometimes one was wrapping the other’s eyes in six layers of wool.

  I wondered which was the case with the Tuckers.

  Frances was too upset with me to get anything useful from her at present. With the cops confining their questioning to the kitchen, my chances of leaving the hotel without bumping into one who recognized me weren’t likely to get any better.

  I got into the elevator still thinking about other situations where people had sworn they didn’t hide anything from each other although they did. It didn’t necessarily indicate a desire to deceive. One might think they were shielding the other f
rom something unpleasant. Regardless of motive, it mucked things up when they were in trouble and had hired me to help.

  Thinking through the morning’s events in the quiet of my office held great appeal at the moment. But before the elevator came to a complete stop in the lobby, I heard what sounded like a first-class donnybrook.

  FIVE

  “What’s it to you where I go and when?” a dark-haired man was snarling as I stepped out. He stood not half a dozen feet inside the hotel door with his back to the street. It seemed fair to guess he had just entered.

  “It’s the kind of thing somebody has a right to ask when they’ve waited over an hour to order breakfast.” A woman with an athletic build and a tawny, shoulder-length bob faced him, blocking his way. Her outfit was right out of Vogue, but the round black frames of her specs gave her a Bolshi look.

  “Can’t the Queen of Sheba eat by herself?” sneered the man. “I went for a walk. Now get out of my way.”

  The shove he gave her had force enough to topple someone shakier on her feet.

  “How dare you use that tone with me!” Instead of giving way, she caught his arm and pivoted to face him like an enraged lion.

  The fury tensing the lines of his body was out of proportion for someone having a spat with his wife, or maybe girlfriend. His hand rose to strike her. Forgetting my need to remain inconspicuous, I started forward.

  The woman sneezed. Volcanically. A hand caught my sleeve.

  Another blast followed the first.

  “Lena Shields,” whispered a voice in my ear. The edge of my vision caught Frances’ tall shape behind me.

  In a futile attempt to cover her nose, Lena had released the man. He stepped back swearing.

  “Who’s he?” I murmured over my shoulder.

  “Boyfriend.” Frances moved to my side.

  “Very attractive.” Jerking his handkerchief out, the boyfriend dabbed at his cheek. He had looks enough to turn women’s heads, slender, with smooth, even features and a mockery to his mouth that probably fluttered the pulses of some. “I thought I told you to pour that perfume down the drain.”

  “It’s not the perfume,” Lena snapped.