He blinked behind his glasses. “Disappeared. Went out and never came back.” He scratched his neck. “It was several days before I realized it. That sounds callous, doesn’t it? But it’s true. We … well, we hadn’t been together much lately.”
“I see.”
“Three weeks ago Saturday. I wasn’t here.”
“You don’t know where she went?”
He shrugged. His face was childlike, bewildered. “The Commander loves her. She always thought the world of Wendy. I thought— ” His shoulders twitched. “I guess she only cares about Thalia.”
“She’s worried about Thalia. I would be, too, if I were dying.” She watched him for a reaction, but he examined cracks in the stone floor. “Have you looked for her? For Wendy?”
“I called her aunt in Pittsburgh. She hadn’t heard from her since Christmas.”
“Well, good luck.” Dorie moved toward the door, hoping the man had uncorked enough vapors. He reminded her of a loose balloon careening around a room, spewing hot air as it bumped into walls.
“I guess I could hire you, couldn’t I?”
She turned at the door, her hand on the knob, hesitating before answering. Hoping he’d answer it himself.
“I have money; that’s not the problem. My father left me some, not a lot, since the Commander is still alive, but some. I could hire you.”
He had flushed, nervous now. He put two fingers to his lips, a girlish gesture, then flung his arm wide.
“But if she wants to leave me, then let her go!” His voice bounced off the hard walls of the tower stairwell. “Who am I to stop her! A mere flyspeck of a husband. What’s that to a woman? That’s what you want to know, isn’t it? I can see it in your eyes. Why wouldn’t she leave him? She squeezed him for every cent he had and then ran off with some gambler. That’s what you’re thinking.”
Julian stomped up to her, sweat dotting his brow. He jabbed a finger in her face. “You want to know what I think?” He stuck his reddened face so close that spittle sprayed her cheek.
“To hell with her! Straight to hell!”
In the noonday sunshine, Dorie shook herself like a dog. What other secrets lurked in that house? She didn’t need to know why Wendy had run off. That was plain as the nose on your face. She thought about the dull boardinghouse where she and Gwendolyn had had breakfast this morning. The whining, bad jokes, lamebrain theories about the economy, the war, Roosevelt, Willkie, Eleanor, Hitler. How reassuringly dull those opinions seemed now.
She shook herself again as she walked down the long circle drive to the sidewalk. “La-di-da, la-di-da,” she muttered. Whenever Betty at the boardinghouse said it— Betty, who’d seen Gone with the Wind four times— she cringed. Now it was just the ticket for cleaning out the head. “La-di-da, la-di-da. Let’s think about that tomorrow.” She ran her hand down the high wrought-iron fence.
A tall hedge grew behind the fence, shadowing the sidewalk. She stopped, looked back at the Hines mansion. She should go back. Amos wouldn’t be long with the Commander today.
She grasped two iron rods of the fence and put her face up to the hedge.
“La-di-da, fiddle-dee-dee.”
But Julian’s words pounded in her head; then they became her mother’s words. Her father was taking a trip. So go to Tennessee. Go to Oklahoma. Have a great time and then go straight to hell. He had gone on that trip. Dorie had gotten a postcard from him in Tulsa or somewhere.
He didn’t go to hell. He just didn’t come back.
“Fiddle-dee-dee, straight to hell.” She leaned against the fence, the vertical bars poking her shoulder blades. The sky was clouding up, promising an afternoon shower. She heard a rustling behind the hedge, then singing.
The voice was small and light, like a child’s. The breathy words were hard to understand. Then the tune clicked. It was one of Tillie’s, one she had sung to her father because he sang it to her. She’d been so little, four maybe.
Dorie closed her eyes and listened. In her mind, she saw her little sister with the white-blond hair, sitting on the braided rug on the floor. The rag doll that Verna had made for Dorie sat beside her. Tillie held the doll’s hands.
“And if that looking glass gets broke, papa’s gonna buy you a billy goat. And if that billy goat won’t pull, you’ll still be the sweetest little baby in town.”
The voice behind the hedge had forgotten the words and began to hum. Dorie opened her eyes, smelling the spicy cedar of the hedge. She tried to peer through it. Movement, something blue, a hat perhaps.
Then, as if it was all in her imagination, gone.
~~
Back at the office, Amos gave Gwendolyn some money to go fetch them all pastries and coffee from the coffee shop down the street. It was lunchtime, but no one complained.
Dorie sat in the client’s chair across the desk from Amos, gazing out the window. The song through the hedge, Julian Hines’s spleen, the ache in her back and neck from sleeping on the floor. She longed for coffee and a buttery kolache.
“Your newsman gave me a lift last night,” Amos said. “This morning, actually.”
“What time did you get in?” She ignored the personal comment.
“Five or so.” He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and seemed to evaporate a little into his brown suit. “Got the paper?”
Dorie retrieved it from Shirley Mullins’s desk. “Will there be something about the breakin?”
“And the murder.” Amos scanned the columns, turning pages for several minutes. “Just a wee item. Nothing but the address.”
“What about the murder?”
“They’re keeping a tight lid on it.”
Yesterday’s paper had a double column with a splashy header: GANGLAND SLAYING. No mention of Thalia or her college boy. “Nothing today.”
The lack of facts wasn’t surprising. Eveline Hines was a friend of the Star’s publisher.
“Do we watch her again?”
“At least until the end of the week. Eveline’s in a twist about the chorus director, Barnaby Wake. They’ve got some extra practices this week to rehearse for the Willkie rally at Union Station.”
“What do we know about him? Besides the fact that his wife lives in Arizona and that he comes from the East Coast.”
Amos folded his hands across his belly. “Rumors of women. Don’t put a lot of stock in that, but worth asking around. I hear he’s from New Jersey, so I’ll send a telegram to a friend of mine back there.”
He sat forward. “I need you to work on Wake today. I’ve got to see about some things regarding this Monarchs mess.”
“The breakin?”
He rocked in his chair. “Somebody doesn’t want Negroes playing white boys. That’s what it looks like.”
“Reds?”
“I doubt it. They’re pro-Negro. But the Negroes don’t like them.” He smiled and shook his head. The hate was hard to keep up with; it changed and hardened, was swept away, then returned on an ill wind. “No, it’s somebody who doesn’t want the Negroes besting the hometown boys.”
“But they’ve played before.”
“Some cracker’s got a bee in his bonnet.” He held up both hands, perplexed. “Not the first and not the last.” They sat quietly for a moment, digesting that, listening to the creak of the office chair as Amos rocked. “Eveline told me Thalia and that chauffeur had a thing going about a year ago. Lasted just long enough for Eveline to find out about it.”
“It was over?”
“Seems so.”
“She didn’t fire him?”
“Apparently not.”
Footsteps echoed through the door. Gwendolyn opened the door for a scrawny young man dressed in white, carrying teapot, cups, and a plate of pastries. He looked breathy and sheepish as he set the tray on the desktop, arranged the items, and stepped away, tray in hand.
“Leave the tray, Ernest,” Gwendolyn said, holding out her hand. “We’ll get everything back to your shop. Very soon, I promise.”
“No hurry, mi
ss.” Ernest handed her the tray and backed to the door.
“I told you to call me Gwen, Ernest. You promised.”
Ernest beat a hasty retreat. Gwendolyn propped the tray against the wall and poured the tea. “Isn’t this nice? Now, this is a proper English tea. A bit early, but still proper. Don’t you think, Amos?”
She handed Dorie a cup and saucer. “Milk?”
Amos took a cup and picked out a Danish from the pile of sweets. “Very nice, Gwendolyn. Just lovely.”
“No milk. Thank you,” What happened to the coffee? “Amos, do you think this fling between Tommy and Thalia could have had something to do with the shooting?”
Gwendolyn sat on the edge of the desk, as there were no more chairs. She looked uncomfortable perched there. “Sit here, Gwendolyn. Please.” He jumped up, almost spilling his tea. “See, I’m better standing anyway.”
Gwendolyn moved around the desk, cradling her teacup in both hands. She smiled at Amos and sat in his big wooden chair. She looked like a different person from the one cowering in the closet the night before, ripping her clothes, tearing her hair. She’d taken a bath and found another of Dorie’s old dresses. This one was red and white, and fit much better. Her complexion looked better. She’d gotten some sun on her face and the rough patches were healing over. Kansas City agreed with her.
“The Tommy lark,” Dorie prompted.
“Connected with the shooting?” Amos sipped his tea and frowned. “Only if Eveline had him done in herself because Tommy boy couldn’t keep his hands off Thalia. Not bloody likely.”
“Did you tell her about Thalia?” Gwendolyn asked Amos.
“What?”
Amos shook his head. “Thalia singing, that’s all. We’ve heard her before.”
“She was going up that wonderful staircase, very slowly, singing a lullaby in a peculiar voice.” Gwendolyn sipped her tea. “It made me wonder at her mind a bit. Truly.”
“What lullaby?” Amos and Gwendolyn frowned. None of them was good at song titles. “We are supposed to write these down.” More frowns. “With a mockingbird?”
“That’s the one.” Gwen began to mumble through the words. “Little baby don’t say a word/mama’s going to buy you a mockingbird… .”
“Papa.” Dorie stood up and set her cup on the desk. Gwendolyn looked puzzled. “Mama just tells you to hush. Papa buys you things.”
Gwendolyn frowned into her tea. “So that’s the way it works.”
Out on the street again, Dorie’s chest lifted. It was good to be away from Gwendolyn and Amos. The way they matched, the easy way they had— it made her skin itch. Better to work, to focus. The lilt of Thalia’s voice would be in her head all day. That was bad enough.
In her rush, she hadn’t asked Amos about Wendy. Had Eveline mentioned her? Too concerned with Thalia, and her past and present paramours. The information about Tommy intrigued her. Easy to carry on with the chauffeur, with him living at the mansion, without your bedridden mother finding out. Thalia wasn’t stupid, just young and careless. The kind of girl who makes priests tear off their collars.
But Wendy. Was her presence important to Eveline, to Thalia’s well-being? Something— no, everything— about Julian bothered her. His vanished wife was only another riffle on a very stormy sea.
Amos Haddam escorted the Englishwoman to the streetcar and paid their fares. As he took her hand to help her up the steps, he felt an unaccustomed flush of happiness. It had been so long since he had a lady in his life. This one was a bit batty, but having her close made him feel like the war was winnable, that Beryl would somehow find her way to the south of France and safety, that his mother would live through another German barrage. She was sunlight in a cloudy sky.
Gwendolyn smelled fresh, her thin brown hair wispy in the afternoon breeze, a shapeless, innocent nest. The dress brightened her face and she smiled up at Amos. They stood next to each other, swaying in the aisle, their shoulders bumping as the streetcar lurched up and over the hill toward his apartment.
The morning chat with Eveline Hines had made him seek out the old nurse. Mother Ruth had not been forthcoming. She couldn’t— or wouldn’t— predict how long Eveline had to live. Days, weeks, months? She wouldn’t say, but her eyes were dark and shadowed.
The Commander was very weak. Her voice still had that edge, that sharpness, but it came in spurts, with long pauses in between. Upset with the police, she wanted them back on the job, following Thalia every evening, staking out the mansion in case she went out unexpectedly. Lennox seemed to do well with the girl, but Amos felt guilty giving the job to her alone. She wouldn’t be able to save Thalia if another attack came. But then, what could he do that she hadn’t done on the bridge? Would he have shot at the black coupe? He made a mental note to clean his gun and find some ammunition. The thought soured him.
“Who was Mrs. Hines talking about, the person named Wendy?” Gwendolyn asked over the clanking of the rails.
“Didn’t hear that, love.”
“You were out with the nurse. Is it a friend?”
“I’ll ask the nurse next time. Maybe somebody who needs to come round.”
“The poor dear doesn’t have long.”
Amos put his arm around her waist. “Want to go to a little party tonight?”
When she smiled up at him, a sparkle lighted her eyes.
Dorie walked toward the exit of the gym at Fourteenth Street and Harrison, feeling the low-grade ache in her knee. In the boxing ring two fighters sparred lazily. If only the change were immediate, one would keep up the exercising. She picked up a copy of last week’s Kansas City Call, the Negro newspaper, on the way out. The wind gusted out of the north, crisp with a promise of winter, cooling her damp skin. The sidewalk was empty as she walked to her car.
“Hey, Dorie!”
Grinning behind the wheel of a police cruiser was Chet McMillan, a cop she’d dated a few times. She hadn’t seen him since her arrest. The romantic appeal of cops had paled.
“How are you, Chet?”
“Going to this war. Did you hear?” He drummed his hands against the steering wheel.
“What?”
“I’m in the reserves— remember? Navy. Word is that we’ll be called up real soon.”
She didn’t know what to say. Congratulations?
“We have to get draft numbers and all, but it won’t matter. We’re going. We could be at sea in just a couple weeks.”
She found her voice. “Gee. Have you ever been at sea?”
“Hell no, never even seen a beach. I’m from Garden City!” His sturdy farm-boy looks would be oddly right in a sailor’s uniform. She envied him his adventures, his enthusiasm, being part of history and democracy and all that.
But it was war. What would happen to him? Would he come back? Would he die at sea, his cutter torn in half by a U-boat torpedo?
She shivered.
“Don’t worry, Dorie. You’ll get your knee back in shape. You’ll be flying a plane in this war. I know you will.”
“We’ll see.” His words made her dreams real. Then they dissolved, as childish and temporary as sugar on the tongue. “Amos got a draft notice.”
“That old jasper? He’s more than thirty-five, isn’t he?”
“He was in the first war. He has to be.”
“Tell him to forget about it. You’ll see me there, draft or no draft. I’m hitting the high seas and getting me some Nazis!”
They said goodbye, wished each other good luck. She wondered if she’d ever see him again. She felt a sort of doom, like a storm cloud passing across the sun. This was the first of many times she would wonder about seeing someone again. Already, she felt a loss, as if just the speculating diminished living. What had her father once said? Hold death close and it never comes as a stranger. Was that the only way to go through life, clutching death to your bosom?
Dorie opened her car door as a strong wind blew up the street, tugging at her jacket. She reached up to pull it in and saw the man staring
at her from in front of the gym. She looked back at him so long, it was too late just to get in the car and drive away.
Harvey Talbot had an odd look on his face. For a second, she thought he would nod and move on. She hadn’t seen him since the third of May, the date popping embarrassingly into her mind. Two days before the stabbing. Where’s he been? What’s he been doing? she wondered.
He looked at his shoes, then in her eye. “What are you doing around here?” His voice was a little accusing.
“Nice to see you, too, Talbot. I could ask the same.”
He glanced at the windowless facade of the brick gymnasium. “A story. Somebody tells us there have been some threats.”
“Threats?” She closed her car door. “Racial threats?”
“Why do say that?” he snapped, then frowned at her. “Have you been inside?”
She stretched out her knee. “Trying to get my knee back in shape. Just in case.”
Harvey squinted at her trouser leg and shoe as if confused. The look on his face shifted, softening. Just before he reached the door, he looked back at her. “Did you have a good summer?”
She could barely remember summer.
“Peachy. Swell.” She smiled so sweetly, bees might have swarmed around her mouth— if she’d been in a song. “You?”
Talbot nodded, frowning, and opened the door to the gym as a muscular man with cropped black hair exited, a large bag slung over his shoulder. She’d seen him by the barbells and thought he looked familiar. Talbot nodded to him and said hello.
“Isn’t that one of the Monarchs?” she whispered.
He nodded. “Gibson Saunders. I’ve got to go.”
“Talk to Moses, the old trainer. He knows everybody.”
Sounds of men arguing and laughing and pounding each other spilled onto the sidewalk for a moment; then they, and Harvey, disappeared.
Chapter NINE
DORIE IDLED THE PACKARD IN the driveway. Sleek and baby blue, the shiny new Plymouth roadster caused a spasm of jealousy in her heart. What a car, and for such a girl. In a moment, Thalia Hines burst out the front door, a scowl on her beautiful face. She paused, her hand on the door handle, not even taking time to appreciate the fine curves of steel, the nifty trunk, the chrome. Instead, she frowned at the Packard, squinting as if her glare had fire.
Swing Town Mysteries Dorie Lennox Box Set Page 36