Swing Town Mysteries Dorie Lennox Box Set

by Lise McClendon

  Dorie dragged in the spare chair from the waiting area and sat, fuming. “What is wrong with that son of a bitch?”

  “He was just quoting me. He’s absolutely right: I didn’t take it seriously. I thought— ” He rubbed his brows. “I don’t know what I thought. That it was just a crank letter.”

  “Of course you did.”

  She felt her blood pressure go down. She noticed Gwen’s hair was a mess, and the woman continued to stab at the wet spot on the skirt of the dress. She looked as bad as Amos, both of them with dark circles under their eyes.

  “Did you find out like me— this morning?”

  “Talbot came by last night,” Amos said, his voice tired. “We were up most of the night, talking about it, what would happen. Who could be behind it.”

  “Did you figure it out?”

  “You’d think Kluxers. But it’s not their style.”

  “They’d drag him outside and burn him with torches.”

  “Or string him up and burn a cross in the yard.”

  Gwendolyn gagged on her tea. It dribbled down her chin. She blinked at them, lips pursed.

  “It’s a dirty business, love,” Amos said gently. “Do you want to step out?”

  She shook her head. The look on Amos’s face was one of such tenderness that a shiver went up Dorie’s spine.

  Amos sipped his tea and said, “So the answer is no. We didn’t get any ideas.”

  The anger was gone, for now, and she felt the awful suddenness of the ballplayer’s death. “Saunders was good. I saw him hit a homer this spring during tryouts.”

  With Talbot. Not more than fifty people in the stands. The day had been warm and lovely.

  She rubbed her temples now. Her head hurt. She’d had bad dreams about Old Jenny last night. In them, she was running to save the old woman from being sucked into a huge black hole. She threw the doomsday placard across the abyss, to give Jenny a stepping-stone to get out. But Jenny was too far away, or too weak to grab it, or the wooden placard proclaiming THE END IS NEAR smashed into her face, leaving her bloody instead of saving her. Pathetic dreams, all too vivid in the morning. Why couldn’t she think about warm spring days instead? Would it be so bad to think about Talbot?

  “What did he say— Talbot?” she asked. Her voice sounded funny.

  “He doesn’t like the race angle, although I’m not sure why,” Haddam said. “Everything points that way. Talbot is looking at it more from a sports viewpoint. Baseball.”

  “Betting, that’s what he said,” Gwendolyn said.

  “He’s got a point,” Amos said. “If there’s heavy betting on one side, somebody stands to lose a bundle.”

  “Bookies?”

  “And the various organizations they work for. Just because Old Tom is wearing prison stripes doesn’t mean gambling has vanished. We’re a far cry from clean.”

  They thought for a second about Boss Pendergast, whose own betting had made him greedy and led the feds to him. One minute, running an empire the size of Kansas City, the next, one the size of a cell at Leavenworth.

  “But how would Saunders’s death change things? He was good, but he doesn’t— didn’t— carry the whole team.”

  “Talbot had some theories. Not that I like any of them.”

  Dorie raised her eyebrows. “Well?”

  Gwendolyn opened her eyes wide. “A fix,” she said.

  “The Monarchs in on a fix?”

  Amos held up his hands. “Only a theory.”

  “So the Blues can win— the Monarchs throw the game?”

  “Happened in the World Series.”

  “I don’t believe it. There isn’t a straighter fella than that J. L. Wilkinson. He loves baseball and he loves his team.”

  “And we love him with all our bleeding hearts,” Amos said. “He doesn’t have to be in on the fix, however.”

  With the game only days away, she doubted the managers would postpone it, despite what Harvey had written, even for the murder of one of the players. There was too much money at stake, both for the players themselves and for the owners. Not to mention the enormous citywide betting that must be going down, Blues against Monarchs, Negroes against whites. It would be a matter of pride to the Monarchs not to back down, not to run scared, not to walk away first. The game would go on. But Talbot’s warning— would there be more violence?

  “What are the odds on the game?” Dorie asked.

  “Talbot says it’s five runs to the Monarchs.”

  “So if the Blues win, the payout would be big?”

  “Even if the Monarchs win by only one.”

  “Do you think Saunders is in on it?”

  “My guess is no, he wasn’t. If this was the reason he was … eliminated, it’s possible he wouldn’t agree to the fix. If that’s why he was snuffed.”

  Gwendolyn stood up suddenly, her teacup clattering to the desk as she set it down. “Pardon,” she whispered, and ran out of the office and into the hall. They listened as her footsteps stopped down the corridor.

  “Is she all right?”

  “This has upset her. Reminds her of the things she saw back home.” Amos looked at the door. “I suppose she thought no one died over here.”

  Dorie stared at him, trying to see what was different.

  “What?” he asked.

  “The way you said that— ‘Home.’ “

  “Having her here has made me realize how English I am.” He frowned. “Am I very English?”

  “Veddy,” she said, making him smile. “Don’t you feel English?”

  “It’s been so long. I’ve forgotten so much. I’ve wanted to forget. But now, I don’t know. I want to remember good things, and there aren’t bloody many.”

  “Except Gwendolyn.”

  He gave her a half-baked frown. “Did you find Wendy Hines?”

  “She seems to have disappeared without a trace. I can’t find her friend Harriet Fox, either, but I’m on that. Agnes Marchand is Wendy’s friend, too.”

  “Aye, but she can’t tell you anything. I talked to them yesterday.”

  “Did you show her the handwriting?”

  “On the bloody wall. But it were invisible, more or less, with her husband right there.”

  She grimaced. “He wouldn’t leave?”

  “He’s got that girl scared to death of him. Might check back around this afternoon, make sure he hasn’t laid into her.”

  “What about Thalia? She behave last night?”

  “She was with Wake at his house for two hours or so after rehearsal. You think there’s singing going on in there?”

  “Of a sort.”

  Dorie checked the reverse directory for Harriet Fox’s address before they picked up Gwendolyn in the washroom and headed down the stairs. The Englishwoman insisted on driving Amos’s Buick, although, God knew, she didn’t look up to it. Her red patches stood out in relief against her English skin again, but she stood straight and tall and wouldn’t discuss anyone else driving.

  Before they settled in around the Commander’s bedside, Dorie stood at the end of the bed, waiting until she had the old lady’s attention. It didn’t take long. Sick, weak, worried, Mrs. Hines still had a keen, unforgiving eye.

  “What is it, Miss Lennox?” Impatient even in dying.

  “I’d like to speak to Mildred— Miss Miller, if I could. About Wendy’s disappearance.”

  The Commander glanced at Amos. “She should be in her office.”

  On her way out, Dorie caught the eye of Mother Ruth. The iron-haired nurse pointed her heavy black eyebrows toward the back of the house.

  The door was open, light streaming in from the east to warm the small room. Since the mansion’s library had been turned into a sickroom years before, Dorie wondered what spare corner had been given Miss Miller. But this was no closet. Small, yes, but larger than Dorie’s third-floor garret. The window’s diamond-patterned stained glass cut the light into colorful patterns. On the windowsill sat two African violets in bloom, one white and one
purple. The tidy space was dominated by a large battered desk placed at an angle, behind which sat Mildred Miller. She was writing out a letter on creamy stationery with blue ink from a fountain pen, the nib scratching across the paper.

  Dorie rapped with one knuckle. “Good morning.”

  Mildred startled, ink flying in droplets from her pen. She rose angrily, blotting the letter with a handkerchief. Her face was flushed as she tried to compose herself. “Miss Lennox. What can I do for you?”

  “Sorry to interrupt. If you have a minute, I’d like to ask you about Wendy. Her disappearance.” The study was papered in a nubby yellow silk, very tasteful. A small oil painting sat alone on the wall, a hunting scene with horses and dogs. “May I come in?”

  Mildred pointed to a small oval-backed chair done in needlepoint, then sat again behind her desk. She discreetly covered the letter she’d been working on with a plain sheet of paper. “I don’t know why you’d think of me.”

  Dorie walked to a small bookcase. Miss Miller had an affection for Henry James and his gang. “You like Edith Wharton?”

  Miss Miller stiffened. “Very much. A great lady.”

  “And not too shabby a writer.” She eased down on the tiny chair. “It was Julian— the reason I thought of you. He said you and Wendy have done work together on charity projects and such.”

  “She is quite public-spirited.”

  “Can you tell me what she was working on just before her disappearance?”

  The lines in Mildred’s forehead deepened as she frowned. She wore her hair like Mrs. Ferazzi, piled up in twists and bunches, combs here and there. It probably took an hour to construct each morning, not to mention the mandatory hundred strokes each night. God bless the flappers for doing away with all that.

  “Let me think.” Mildred tapped a finger on the desk. She opened the desk drawer and pulled out a large notebook. “When did she … disappear, as you put it?”

  “September twenty-first. You would use a different word?”

  Pointing at her place in the calendar, Mildred looked up over her half glasses. “We don’t know she disappeared, do we?”

  “She didn’t come home. That’s disappearing to me.”

  Mildred pursed her lips. “On the twenty-second, she was to meet with the Ladies Auxiliary of the Veterans of Foreign Wars, to work on plans for war support. She believed we would go to war very soon.”

  Thank God she was wrong. But was she? What about the draft, and the plants turning from autos to tanks? She thought about Chet in his sailor uniform and shivered.

  Mildred flipped a page. “Nothing on the twenty-first. I didn’t keep all her appointments. On the nineteenth, she and Mrs. Hines had a luncheon in the house for Randall Newcomb. He’s running for state legislature.”

  “I didn’t know Mrs. Hines was strong enough for luncheons.”

  “She does like the company.”

  “Anyone interesting at the luncheon? Someone she might have run off with?”

  Mildred’s eyebrows jumped. She expelled half a surprised laugh. “Oh! Humorous. Very humorous.” She frowned. “There was someone there she talked to quite a bit. I’m not sure who he was, to tell you the truth. It’s unlike me to not know everyone at these functions.”

  “That’s jake, Mildred. What did he look like?”

  “Short man, rather … swarthy. But charming, maybe a politician.”

  “Not Barnaby Wake.”

  “Who?”

  “The choir director. Hallelujah Chorus, the one Thalia sings with.”

  “Oh, no, not him. I know who he is. Wendy sang in that group, too. No, this was someone else.”

  “Wendy was in the Hallelujah Chorus?”

  “Oh, yes. I heard them once at the Nelson Art Museum. Quite good.”

  For a few more minutes, she probed Mildred Miller’s recollections and appointment calendar. Miss Miller had a high regard for Wendy Hines. She thought Wendy had a good heart, even if she had been a little hasty in marrying Julian Hines before she knew his character. She worked hard for charity events and political candidates she believed in. She was a devout Episcopalian, attended church regularly. She wasn’t particularly happy in her marriage but was resigned to it, Mildred thought. And she loved Mrs. Hines like her own mother.

  Dorie thanked Mildred and stepped back into the corridor. Where was she going with this? How did you find someone who vanished without a trace, someone who likely did not want to be found at all? To her left, the corridor ran to the back of the house, offering a view of the yard. It drew her down the three steps to the window seat. She perched there in the sunshine, trying to think about Wendy and her motives. All she could figure was that the woman had run away from this stone-cold house, its death and dying, its madness and pretense. Any sane woman would cut her losses. But was Wendy that sort? Mildred didn’t think so. Sane or insane, at least content enough with her situation.

  To the west, the brick garage cut off the verdant lawn. A movement from behind the garage caught Dorie’s eye. She leaned close to the glass. A streak of black and white crossed to the bushes: a maid, running. Odd. She’d only seen the one maid here, the one who often opened the door for them. Plain, with a flat chest and a face full of freckles.

  Dorie pressed her nose against the cold pane. Julian Hines stepped out from behind the garage into the sunshine. He put his hands on his hips and shouted. The words were lost, but the attitude was clear. His chin thrust out, he walked stiffly toward the shrubs. He stopped, called again, and plunged behind the hedge.

  She rubbed the condensation on the pane with her coat sleeve. Time to go; she had to find Wendy. As she stood up, glancing outside, the bushes began to shake and scatter leaves. Suddenly, the maid’s starched white hat poked through the leaves, then the top of her head. Then Dorie saw Julian kissing the maid’s neck as she arched back through the shrubbery.

  Julian’s hands were all over the girl. From this angle, it was impossible to say whether the maid was enjoying it or not. Maybe she was. Maybe they played cat and mouse through the garden every morning. Dorie turned her back on the window, put her chin down, and squeezed her eyes shut to blot out the image.

  The drive back to the office was uneventful, which was a blessing. As she was now hardened to Gwendolyn’s style of navigation, Dorie just hung on and planned out her day. She usually did this in the morning, driving to the office, but this morning she had been distracted by Talbot’s article. She couldn’t stop looking for his byline, and yet he aggravated her with his writing more often than not. She wouldn’t mind telling him so.

  By the time they smashed the Buick’s rear tire into the curb and parked with one wheel up on the sidewalk, she felt a comfortable rage simmering inside her. Anger was her friend, her companion. It had kept her alive all these years. But— and there always was a but, wasn’t there?— it had its edge, its dark side. If only she could feel bad about stabbing Louie Weston.

  It was going to be one of those days, she could tell, where anything could set her off. Probably just as well she didn’t have her switchblade.

  They climbed out of the Buick— a slide out of the backseat, with the trunk up in the air— and were gathered on the sidewalk when the Western Union boy rounded the corner at a dead run.

  “Mr. Haddam! Mr. Haddam! Telegram, sir!”

  Amos turned slowly and faced the running boy. All the delivery boys knew him. Since the war had begun in Europe, he’d chosen Western Union over a slow boat.

  Amos’s face was white as a sheet. Gwendolyn clutched his arm, either to hold him up or herself. She put her hand over her mouth.

  The boy handed the telegram to Amos. Dorie dug in her handbag for a dime and tipped the boy. “Hope it’s good news!” he called out, running down the street to his next delivery.

  “Oh lawk,” Gwen whispered, glancing at Amos. “Why’d he have to say that?”

  “He says that to everybody.” Dorie peered at Amos. He stared at the envelope with his name and address scribbled in pe
ncil.

  “But it will be good news. Amos?”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. He squeezed the envelope so hard, his fingers turned white. With a jerk, he thrust the envelope to Dorie. “You open it.”

  “Let’s go upstairs.”

  “Open it.”

  A gust of wind came down the street from the west, as if something bad was on the way. A raunchy slaughterhouse smell, a river stench. Earth smells. Just a temporary stay. Your time on the planet was limited, by everything that made it grand— sunsets, bluebirds, rose scent on the wind, a morning song, a winter’s evening. It was all time, and time was cruel, arbitrary, capricious. The earth went round and round whether you breathed its pretty breezes or not.

  And yet, here they were on the sidewalk, standing in the prairie wind, with no choice but to face it. Dorie ripped open the seal and pulled out the folded sheet. “Western Union Gram,” it said. She scanned the message quickly and looked up, smiling.

  “It’s not— It’s okay, Amos.” She touched his arm. “It’s not from England.”

  He blinked. “Beryl?”

  “No, that private eye on the East Coast, the one you wrote about Wake.”

  “Let’s see it.” He yanked the telegram away, embarrassed now about his moment of anguish.

  WAKE HAILS YORKVILLE NOT JERSEY STOP MARRIED KUHN COUSIN SIX YRS STOP WIFE KIDDIES YVILLE STOP MUSIC TEACHER RUN OUT AFTER KUHN PRISON STOP STREET TALK NAZI SYMP STOP OWE ME FIFTY BUCKS STOP LEONARD

  Dorie was grinning, reading it over Haddam’s shoulder. “He’s a Nazi!” She laughed.

  Gwendolyn stared disbelievingly at Dorie, then asked Amos, “Who?”

  “Barnaby Wake, the choir director. Thalia’s boyfriend!”

  “I don’t see that’s cause for amusement.” Gwendolyn looked insulted.

  Dorie tapped Amos’s arm. He was still staring at the words on the telegram, watching in case they changed. “Explain it to her, Amos. I’m off to find Wendy.”

  She hissed in his ear, “We found his heel!”

  The apartment in Independence, over a lawyer’s storefront office, brought back unpleasant memories. The long, narrow stairs, filthy with trash and dirt, dimly lighted, leading to two doors in dire need of paint. It wasn’t the type of place for a Mission Hills girl like Harriet Fox. Dorie rapped lightly and listened. Inside, the sound of a radio being clicked off cut off a low drone of music.