Swing Town Mysteries Dorie Lennox Box Set

by Lise McClendon

  An hour of Julia Lee’s piano and song went by. The men at Lennox’s table discussed big bands and swing records. They read jazz magazines and listened to broadcasts of Chick Webb from the Savoy Ballroom and Count Basie from the Famous Door. Bob asked a girl at the next table to dance. Harvey concentrated on his martinis. The men avoided asking her any questions, she noticed, as uncomfortable with her as Harvey seemed to be. She wondered why she’d bothered to come.

  Julia Lee took a break, the reporters went for drinks, and Landon went outside for a cigarette. Lennox got a Lucky out of her purse and fumbled with the matches. Harvey made no attempt to help. She smoked her cigarette angrily.

  “I should go,” she said, killing her cigarette in the ashtray. She stood up, draping the scarf around the bad hand and heading for the door. Harvey just looked at her.

  A clot of people at the entrance to the ballroom slowed her down. She held her hand close to her body. Better this way, without any scenes or regrets. There was a jot of relief. This is the way things always turned out, sooner or later. So it was sooner. It didn’t make any difference.

  In the hall, at the top of the stairs, he caught her. He held her arm, swung her back toward him.

  “Wait, Doric” Talbot ran his hand through his hair, only making it more unruly. She looked at the stairs. “I’ve been an ass, I know. This story tonight, a boy down by the river, and they think his mother put him in a sack and drowned him. I had to go down there and talk to that woman. She was—” He had to stop. He looked at the ceiling and gave a bitter laugh. “Now I know how you feel about rivers.”

  Lennox looked at him.

  “You see things in this job and you wish … you wish you’d gotten there earlier, instead of after all the—Aw, hell.” He leaned against the wall; she stepped out of the crowd next to him. “Let’s forget about it. That’s what I wanted to do tonight.”

  “You seemed well on your way.”

  “I was trying, wasn’t I?” He leaned close to her and rubbed his knuckle down her jawline. “I was hoping we could dance. But what’s this?” He took her wrist.

  “I got on the bad side of a Munchkin. I may never find the Wizard now.” She took her hand back. “Listen, I’m sorry about … the story and all.”

  “A Munchkin?”

  She waved her good hand, seized now with her news. “I found out her name, Iris Jackson’s real name. She worked at E-B-T. And lived in Raytown, so I’m going out there tomorrow.”

  “She’s a shop girl?”

  “Was. They say she won a dance marathon once. It’s not much to go on. But I’ve got her name. I’m going to find her.”

  Harvey opened his mouth to speak as shouts in the crowd rolled over them. Excited scuffles and yips then shoving and pressing back into the ballroom, then the magic words: “The Count.” Lennox looked at Talbot, saw he had heard it, too, and they joined the rest, who were stomping out cigarettes, throwing down drinks, piling back into the ballroom.

  The crowd was on its feet. The cheery round face of Count Basie stood at the microphone on the bandstand, waving as people began to chant, “Count Basie, yeah, Count Basie, play it, Count Basie.” Lennox recognized Lester Young behind him, and wasn’t that the famous drummer Jo Jones? The Count gave up trying to speak over the noise and sat down at the piano. Jo Jones counted out the beat and they began to play. The crowd continued their chant until the men grabbed their girls and ran to the dance floor.

  When the intro finished, the Count said in his sweet voice, “Good to be back, my friends. So. Do you want to jump, children?” A cheer rose from the crowd as he trilled out the first bars. Then the band swung into “Jumpin’ at the Woodside,” fast and hot.

  “Well, child?” Harvey said, his face lit up. “The Count requests your presence.”

  Lennox felt the energy down her back, into her legs, the rhythm full of something so close to pure delight. Her toes twitched. She had told herself the night was ruined. But the hard feelings turned to jelly inside her. “The hand.”

  He stepped close to her, put his hand on her waist. She had to crane her neck to see his face. The smell of gin and hair oil and sweat was curiously sweet. Around them, couples were throwing partners from one end to the other, the beat moving them, laughter, joy on their faces. It was a miracle, the way the music just captured people, made them happy.

  Harvey took her handbag, set it on the table, then put her broken hand on his shoulder, took the left one in his. He leaned down, touched his cheek against hers.

  “Let’s forget,” he whispered.

  Later, as they walked through the street, the buzz of the music hummed inside her, an electric charge that wouldn’t quit. There was nothing like Count Basie for swing. He was the cat; that’s what Landon had said. She’d danced with Landon, too, and Bob and Spence. Right at the end, Count Basie’s group played “One O’Clock Jump” and she and Harvey had danced like demons, forgetting all about Iris, Sylvia, and rivers, forgetting everything.

  The sky was a pale midnight blue, washed with city light. The stars were faint, but she counted seven before the ache in her hand brought her back to earth. She held it close to her ribs. The bandage was dirtied with spills; she’d managed to dump over her gin and tonic in her fierce thirst after dancing. The fingers had gotten bumped so much they were almost numb. Harvey was whistling, hands deep in his pockets, tie and collar loose.

  Keys in her hand, she walked around to the driver’s side. Harvey leaned over the roof of the Packard. “Can I come?”

  “It’s awful late.”

  “Just let me get in for a minute.”

  He was a little drunk. The effect of the martinis had worn off from dancing, but he’d had another just before leaving. She slipped behind the wheel and put the keys in the ignition. He got in beside her and moved close.

  “Down, boy.”

  He lay his head back on the seat. “Why didn’t you dance with me more? I had to dance with a fat girl from the mailroom because Bob bet me a buck I wouldn’t. And who was that swag in the penguin suit?”

  “Are you complaining?”

  He sighed and closed his eyes. She ran her good fingers along the steering wheel. Reggie Vanvleet asking her to dance hadn’t quite surprised her. She knew he’d seen her, she just couldn’t figure out what he wanted. It was a slow dance so they had to make conversation. He smelled like bourbon. After a fascinating discussion of his hole-in-one at the Mission Hills Country Club, he brought up Georgie Terraciano.

  “I thought we were going to work together,” he said, gliding her around the room.

  “Your dad might not have approved.”

  Reggie did the silent laugh. “My father doesn’t tell me what to do. You don’t believe what those little twists around the office say, do you? I’m my own man.”

  “Does your wife let you go out dancing without her?”

  “My wife lets me do anything I want. She’s dead.”

  Lennox looked for regret, sorrow, anything on his face. But the bourbon had erased everything. She said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m not.” He smiled his movie-star smile. “Now what about Georgie? You going to fill me in?”

  “You first.” She was sure he knew nothing about Georgie’s activities. Dutch was too smart for that. “What do you know?”

  “He’s got some hatchet men that look like trouble to me. I’d like to know why a meatpacker needs that kind of goon. What’s he up to?”

  “Heck if I know.” Lennox watched him look at her bandage. “Smashed them in a car door. Can you believe it?”

  He didn’t look like he did. “Where’ve you been flopping? You laying down for Georgie?”

  “Don’t be a bunny, Reg. He’s a client. He already pays me.”

  “That so? But for what?”

  “I’m checking out his dead girlfriend. But don’t tell the missus. Hush-hush.”

  Reggie’s eyes widened. He tried for more information, but he seemed satisfied with that tidbit. Lennox tol
d herself the information was bogus anyway, so it didn’t matter. But by the time the dance was done, she still wished she hadn’t told him.

  She looked over at Harvey Talbot in the car. His profile, so close, made her nervous. “Don’t you know Reggie Vanvleet? Worthless heir to my sometime employer.”

  “The lawyer? Son of a son of a bitch?” Harvey turned sideways, leaning his cheek against the seat back. “Did he step on your feet?”

  “Like you did?”

  He reached a finger to trace down her nose, lips, chin, neck. She almost stopped him at the neckline of her dress but sucked in her breath and let him go, down between her breasts, then flattening his hand against her stomach. He pulled her toward him then and kissed her.

  She moved away from him, sat with her back against the door. She licked her lips where his had been, tasted the gin. He was gently poking her bandage. She’d told him the whole story about the midget.

  “I have never met anyone like you. Who are you, Dorie Lennox?”

  “Just a peeper with broken fingers.”

  “I want to know everything about you,” he said hoarsely.

  “We’ll have to be much more sober for that.”

  “Come on. What are you afraid of?”

  She looked out the windshield. Clumps of dancers, some still jitter bugging, laughed on the sidewalks.

  “It’s late, Talbot.” His eyes bored into her. She knew she ought to tell him everything. She liked him. She wasn’t afraid of any man, only river snakes. “Okay. Ask.”

  “Where’re you from?” He was slurring. He wouldn’t remember this tomorrow anyway.

  “Atchison, Kansas, home of Amelia Earhart and sixteen hundred head of cattle on shipping day.”

  “All of whom are dead now.”

  “Give the man a prize.”

  “What about after Atchison?”

  “I came here.”

  “What’s the worst thing you ever did?”

  She could lie to him; she’d done that before. But eventually, it came around to a moment like this. It’d been a short romance, if that’s what it was. But what choice was there? She was going to pretend to be a good little girl from a fine, upstanding family?

  She took a deep breath. “Stole a car, went to Beloit, let my mother drink herself to death, and killed my baby sister.”

  Harvey put his elbow up on the seat back to hold his head up. “Whoa, whoa, slow down. Start over.”

  She leaned over the steering wheel, hooked her chin over the top. “Stole a car.”

  “When was this?”

  “I was fourteen. I stole the landlord’s Buick and drove to Kansas City. Got caught and sent to the girl’s school in Beloit. Garden spot of Kansas, you know it?”

  He looked sober now, eyes wide. “You must’ve had a damn good reason.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then what?”

  She looked at him. “Reporters are ghouls, aren’t you?” She took another breath. “While I was vacationing in Beloit, my little sister had nobody to look after her. But that didn’t stop my mother from calming the nervous fears of Atchison’s married men. Tillie got into some matches. She was burned real bad.” She looked at her wristwatch and tasted the bile in her mouth. “There’s more, but it’s late.”

  She hoped Harvey didn’t take too long getting away. He was groping for her good hand. She yanked it away. Why was he taking so long? He took her arm then and pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her.

  “You better go now, Talbot,” she said over his shoulder.

  He laid his cheek against hers.

  “Talbot. Time to go.”

  She pushed him back, turned the ignition. The Packard roared to life. The worst part was the pity. Remember that, she scolded herself. “I’ll drive you to your car.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before,” Talbot said as he directed her around the corner.

  “So you could feel sorry for me? At least my mother didn’t put me in a sack and throw me in the river.”

  “No, I—” He pointed at the Chrysler under a streetlight. “There.”

  She put on the brakes and rattled her good fingers on the steering wheel. “Good night, Talbot.”

  “Look at me,” he said.

  She turned. His face was half in shadow. Dark hair flopped over his eyebrow. “Look, no hard feelings,” she said. “I try to forget it most of the time.”

  “Like dancing.”

  “Right. So, thanks for the dancing. The talking part isn’t ever so good.”

  “Come to my place. We don’t have to talk.”

  She felt her breath lighten, a laugh percolating up from a place inside her that didn’t care about the past, about guilt or misery or responsibilities to the dead.

  She looked at him, his profile blushed in blue light. “I’ll bet.”

  He slid close again and put his lips to her ear. “You haven’t asked about my secrets.”

  “Last of the Romanovs, are you?”

  “Come up and find out.”

  “You’ll bare all, I suppose.”

  “And then some.”

  She kissed him right there, double-parked, until somebody honked their horn. Then she followed his Chrysler to an apartment building on Baltimore near the Plaza.

  He undressed her carefully on the bed, taking extra time around the damaged fingers, kissing the dirty bandages to make her laugh. There was a hardness to his body that she marveled at, the lean torso, the sparse black hair, the ribs. He moved inside her, kissing her neck, the tender, soft inside of her arms, taking everything so slowly, she wanted to pull out his hair. He made her forget. He made her glad. Glad, actually, didn’t describe it.

  “So, tell—” she began as they lay close on his narrow bed. But he covered her mouth with his finger, then his mouth.

  “No more questions tonight.”

  NINETEEN

  THE DIRTY THIRTIES weren’t kind to Raytown. With Kansas City not ten miles to the northwest, the village had no claim except as a stop on the Rock Island Line. In recent years, small suburbs had cropped up for people who liked the low prices of the land or worked on the railroad. Their houses sat in sad rows, all dingy white, the residents apparently never having heard about fierce funnel clouds that drop out of the sky.

  Limestone cliffs buffered Raytown from the metropolis. Entering through natural gates in the cliffs was like being transported back to Atchison, where there was nothing to do and nobody to do it with. Lennox felt something like a headache between her eyes. Maybe talking about Tillie last night. That always did it.

  Even with little sleep, she’d beat Winkie Lambert to the bathtub this morning and rewrapped her splint by breakfast. Gulping down Poppy’s flapjacks had helped and she felt strong, and eager to find Iris today. When she got home at four o’clock that morning, she felt so strange that she sat on her bed and cried for a minute. Thirty-five seconds, actually. Then she washed her face and tried to sleep. Harvey Talbot had an odd effect on her. She felt insanely good, and also very bad. As if she had betrayed something, or someone.

  The piano player was making his music somewhere and she had listened in her room, a night full of music in her veins. Maybe the piano player was a dream. She lay on her bed, in and out of sleep, until she figured she might as well get up.

  It was barely nine when she parked the Packard in front of the tiny Carnegie Free Library just off Raytown Road. She climbed the granite steps in the late summer air, the cottonwood tree beating its leaves in the breeze. The boxlike building had heavy, imposing doors, but inside, the single, high-ceilinged room with dark red carpeting revealed good intentions and little else.

  A white-haired lady sat behind the circulation desk, working through a card catalog box. She looked up sharply at Dorie Lennox’s entrance, her fingers stuck in the cards.

  “Good morning,” the librarian said, her voice pinched.

  “Ma’am.” Lennox dropped her keys in her trouser pocket. “Do you have a Raytown telephone
book, by any chance?”

  “Of course.” The librarian tucked a card sideways in the box before rising. From a nearby shelf she pulled out a small booklet. Lennox took it, opened it: just five small pages.

  “Something else?” the old lady asked, adjusting her glasses back to her nose. Lennox shook her head and sat down at a dark wood table.

  Going quickly through the S’s in the booklet, it was soon obvious no Schmidt’s lived in Raytown. She checked the booklet’s cover and saw it was dated September 1937. She cleared her throat and asked the librarian if there were any older or newer telephone books for Raytown. The old woman got up again and delivered another small booklet to the table with a slap.

  This booklet was dated September 1935. No Schmidt’s. It was possible the family had no telephone; many didn’t. She looked up Klundt in both directories, but struck out again. She carried them back to the circulation desk. “Shall I put them back?” she asked. But the librarian held out her hand and placed them next to her on the desk.

  “Would there be any other listing of residents?”

  The old woman pinched her eyebrows together. “There’s always the county land deeds in Independence.”

  Lennox thanked the woman and stepped back into the sunshine. It was unlikely either girl owned property, although the parents might. She took a deep breath. The county rolls were torturous business, and she knew no one in the courthouse there.

  For two hours, she strolled through stores, seizing lulls in business to quiz store owners and wizened citizens, young paperboys and bored clerks. By then she was beginning to doubt the memory of Gloria Mulder. Raytown Rosie. Maybe it was Rockville Rosie, or Rolla Rosie, or Richmond Rosie. Maybe it wasn’t even Rose Schmidt.

  Lennox sat at the polished steel counter in the Starlite Fountain and debated questioning the pimply soda jerk. It seemed futile; he was too young and didn’t look particularly bright. She ordered a malted instead, chocolate, and swung around on the stool as she waited for him to blend it. The cafe was nearly empty, only an old man drinking coffee and reading the Star in a far booth. He got up as the blender whirred, folded the paper, and set it on the counter. As he left, she jumped up to grab the paper.