Swing Town Mysteries Dorie Lennox Box Set

by Lise McClendon

  “Dear Amos. So good of you to come early to help.”

  Gwendolyn took Amos’s arm. “Good morning, Mrs. Hines. Everything looks lovely.”

  “Does it?” Eveline looked around the room with a critical eye. “This room was full of dust. I specifically told the staff to keep it clean, but they simply don’t have the discipline.”

  “Good to see you out of bed, Eveline.” Amos surprised himself by giving her a kiss on the cheek. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  The maid, en route to the kitchen, said with great excitement, “The Willkie people, of course!”

  The words caused a new glow in Mrs. Hines’s complexion.

  “Wendell Willkie?” Gwendolyn chirped.

  The Commander tsked. “Just some of his advance men. I’m a supporter of the party and they want to thank me. That’s all. Just a few old friends in for tea.”

  The bustle continued around them, Mrs. Hines barking orders, getting reports from Miss Miller about the food, flowers, air temperature, and last-minute cleaning. She demanded someone wash the front windows again, as she could see streaks where the sun was hitting them. She ordered pots of chrysanthemums placed by the driveway. She rearranged the placement of the hors d’oeuvres on the table. Finally, she sank into her pillows for a moment of rest.

  Amos snagged Miss Miller. “When are they due?”

  The secretary glanced at the tall grandfather clock against the wall. “Ten minutes ago.”

  Gwendolyn craned her neck to look down the driveway. “No one yet.” She threw a worried look at Eveline.

  Amos squatted by the sofa. “We need to talk about Thalia. But we can do that later if you like, Eveline.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Hines said, as if she’d forgotten about her daughter’s troubles. “It can wait, can’t it? She has been coming home early. I hate to think of you wasting all your evenings.”

  “I don’t consider it a waste. Shall we come by later?”

  A roar in the drive cut him off. A large black auto with American flags pinned to the aerials pulled up to the door. The maid squealed; Miss Miller shushed her. Amos and Gwendolyn tried to melt into a corner.

  “Should I be this excited?” Gwendolyn whispered, hugging Amos’s arm.

  He squeezed her hand. The previous night, they had gone to Gibson Saunders’s funeral in the small Baptist church on the East Side. His wife and mother from Michigan had huddled in the front pew as the congregation sang gospel hymns that sent chills down the spine. One of the worst nights of his life, Amos had thought, then shots of memory— worse, much worse— had flitted in and out of view. But they were frozen, timeless. The freshness of this pain, this loss, made the old wounds pale. Chasing the wayward daughter around the city afterward had been little comfort.

  Amos put his arm around Gwendolyn’s waist and pulled her close to him. The night before, they had found comfort in each others’ arms. He had been afraid, once he recognized his desire, that he would fail. Not much practice the last few years. But she was so genuine, so lacking in the false coyness of American girls, so up-and-up about the nature of love in the moment. How could he not love her? It wouldn’t be forever; he knew that.

  The world wasn’t made that way. Not anymore.

  Chapter SIXTEEN

  THREE MEN AND A WOMAN, all dressed in navy blue suits, as if they were stumping for the Salvation Army, stepped reverently into the parlor. The maid, in high color, ushered them forward and took their hats. Her voice squeaked as she introduced them as the “Willkie people.”

  The woman smiled at Mrs. Hines. She was slim, perhaps thirty, and wore a stylish small hat with a red feather in it over her neat brown hair, and solid-heeled shoes made for walking. She slipped off gray kid gloves and stepped toward the reclining hostess.

  “Mrs. Hines, this is such a pleasure.” She extended a hand. “Roberta Adams. I’m Mr. Willkie’s women’s campaign chair. After Mrs. Willkie, of course.”

  Mrs. Hines shook her hand quickly, saving her charm for the men. “Pleased you could come, Miss Adams.”

  “My pleasure. Call me Robbie, please.”

  Eveline nodded politely, looking over the woman’s shoulder. A short dark-haired fellow— probably trading bonds on Wall Street with Wendell this time last year— stretched his neck to smile.

  “Mrs. Hines, Brewster Nielsen. We met, oh, it must have been— “

  “Six years ago, in Chicago, at the Board of Trade Ball.”

  Nielsen blushed deeply. He recovered, stooping to kiss Eveline’s hand like a Prussian general.

  “I was devastated to hear of your illness. Mr. Willkie sends his warmest regards and wishes for your speedy recovery.” His voice was warm and low. Standing so close behind the sofa, Amos and Gwendolyn had no trouble hearing.

  “How is the campaign going?” Eveline asked. “Wendell couldn’t have picked a better man.”

  Nielsen smiled modestly. “Uphill, as we knew it would be. Going very well though. People seem ready for a change. They don’t want a monarchy in this democracy; they want a real man, one who is close to the people, who—”

  The second man tapped him on the elbow, stopping the diatribe. Nielsen rolled his eyes. “What am I doing? Sorry.”

  “Preaching to the converted, Brewster,” Eveline said with a weak smile.

  Nielsen backed up to introduce the other two men. The one who cut off the speech was a young man, not more than twenty-five, with red hair and freckles. His name was Muncie and he was the pressman in charge of newspaper and radio coverage of the rally. As soon as he was introduced, he looked at his wristwatch and made for the food. Robbie Adams joined him, exclaiming loudly over the shrimp.

  Eveline was wilting. She closed her eyes briefly. Mother Ruth, hovering in the background, leaned down and whispered in Mrs. Hines’s ear. Eveline brushed her away. Brewster Nielsen waited for her eyes to open, then said, “A little surprise for you today, Eveline.”

  She frowned up at him. The light from the large leaded-glass window behind them made it difficult to see faces.

  The tall man behind Nielsen took a step forward. He was older than any of them, fifty if a day, with gray hair cut precisely. He towered over Nielsen. Amos imagined he had been an impressive figure in his prime, broad of shoulder, military physique, the proud head with exacting dark eyes.

  The Commander stared at him from under a gathered brow. Her lips whitened.

  “Eveline, dear. It is wonderful to see you again.”

  The gentleman— he was a classy fellow— had a kind, formal voice. But it was clear they had known each other in a way she had not known any of the rest.

  She didn’t speak. Brewster Nielsen bowed slightly as he backed away. He joined the others around the dining room table.

  Eveline blinked, still staring at the tall gent. “Teddy?”

  “Yes, dear. I’ve changed a bit, haven’t I?”

  “Come … closer.” Teddy went down on one knee like a suitor and took both her hands in his, pressing them to his lips.

  Gwendolyn tugged on Amos and whispered, “Let’s see about some tea.” They backed away for a few steps, bounced off the wall, and turned to round the corner into the dining room, casting a glance back at the scene in the parlor. Mother Ruth took the hint as well, grabbing Mildred as she ducked into the foyer.

  The maid was pouring tea and coffee in the dining room. Amos and Gwendolyn each took a cup of tea, taking time with the milk and sugar. The Willkie people were huddled on the far side of the dining table, whispering and looking at watches. The pressman was obviously in a rush. Nielsen kept sneaking looks into the parlor. Gwendolyn sipped her tea, then sidled around the corner of the table, examining the delights: shrimp with cocktail sauce, crab Louis, petits fours in a variety of colors and shapes, iced cookies, cheese cut into little cubes, rolled salami held with decorative picks. She plucked an olive from a large bowl and popped it in her mouth, smiling at Robbie Adams.

  “Lovely eats, eh?” said Gwendolyn. Rob
bie smiled politely. “So who’s the gent with Mrs. Hines?”

  “An old friend of hers from the war. They knew each other in England, I think.”

  “Mrs. Hines was a nurse in the war, wasn’t she?”

  Robbie nodded. “Were you in the war yourself?”

  “Oh, aye. Just arrived from it this week. Bloody dreadful.”

  “Oh,” Robbie said. “I meant the first war.”

  “Right. I was young then, if you must know. Just a girl. But Amos was in the war. He lied about his age. He was so brave.”

  Amos set down his teacup and reached around with his hand to Miss Adams. “Amos Haddam. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Do you two work for Mrs. Hines?” Robbie asked. Amos stiffened. “Oh, I’m sorry,” the Willkie woman said. “I’ve offended you. It’s been such a long, hard Campaign. I’m afraid I’m running out of tact.”

  “No, Miss Adams,” Gwendolyn said, “It’s quite all right. I am the help. Amos here is a friend of Mrs. Hines, and I’m his driver.” She grinned her silly smile at Robbie Adams, who frowned into her teacup.

  “Are the children coming down?” Amos said.

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you,” said Gwendolyn. “Thalia— that’s the daughter— she’s a bit of a handful.”

  Robbie Adams raised her eyebrows. “Really.”

  Amos tapped on Gwendolyn’s foot under the table. She made a chirping noise and jumped. “Just a spirited girl, that’s all,” he told the Willkie woman. “Spoiled a bit— you know the type.”

  “Who’s that, then?”

  Robbie had turned toward the parlor, where Julian Hines now stood in front of the sofa and suffered introductions to the gentleman known as Teddy. The older man shook his hand and spoke warmly of Julian’s father for all to hear.

  “You were in Paris, then?” Julian asked. He smoothed his tie obsessively. He wore the little glasses, taking them off and wiping them, examining them in the sunlight repeatedly. A distraction technique, unhappy hands. Amos moved around the dining table, desperate with curiosity. Who was this man out of Eveline’s past?

  “London. While your stepmother was there— when was it, July and August of ‘18? March? She was gathering supplies for a month or so. A difficult time for all of us but she was so forceful, so brave. Back she went to the lines.”

  Teddy saluted her with a hand empty of a glass. The maid just then brought him a cup of tea. She wasn’t such a bad servant. She even stopped in front of Julian and asked him for his preference. His answer was too low to hear. She smiled demurely and went away.

  Eveline pushed back a stray hair from her forehead. “Mr. Lafferty was at the consulate. What was your title, Teddy? That I do forget.”

  “I was attached to the naval commander, his civilian liaison at the embassy. Mostly, I shuttled information from my British counterparts to ours. Nothing so brave as Eveline.”

  “You’re embarrassing me. There were many braver than I.” She looked over her shoulder at the dining room. “For instance, Amos Haddam here. He was a mapper, flew behind the lines. Nearly lost his life there.”

  Introductions ensued. Amos found it oddly pleasant to talk to the American about the war days as if it had all been glory and honor. He’d done it before. Many men— and some women, as well, particularly those who had never seen action— real action, actual battle— retained a uniquely American romanticism, as if they were still saving civilization from the savages. For Lafferty and Eveline, the honor of helping win the war remained, glowing on their skin, resting their minds at night. How he’d thought it would be that way for himself, once. He looked at Lafferty and wondered if his life was better than it might have been, because he’d been high and dry behind a desk somewhere, doling out life jackets and torpedoes instead of wet and moldy in a trench.

  How did one rate a life— by years lived, by women loved, by children sired, by fortunes made? Was there some way short of landing at Saint Peter’s gates, whereby a man could judge his life, his worth, his goodness? Amos didn’t have a clue. But from the look of Lafferty, the tanned cheeks, the ease of money, the glow of health— his life was definitely not worse now because of that desk job. Longer, healthier for sure.

  With a burst of air, the door to the foyer opened. A voice trilled: “I’m off, Mother! I’m late, so—”

  Thalia stood tilted into the open doorway, a powder blue suit clinging to her figure, a white ermine collar ringing her lovely pale face. Her blond hair fell across her eye and she pushed it back. She stood, stunned for a moment at the gathering of people. “Oh. I was just going, Mother.”

  “Come join us, Thalia,” Julian said, walking toward her. She shrank at his approach, stepping sideways.

  “Yes, honey, come in. There’s someone I want you to meet.” Eveline’s voice had such mark of authority and sweetness in it, Amos wondered how she did it. Even on her deathbed, the Commander never lost her touch.

  “There she is,” Amos heard Gwendolyn whisper behind him. “That’s the handful. And looking quite smart today, she is.”

  Thalia stepped toward the sofa, glowing with youth and innocence, despite the high heels and the soft wool suit. She sat on the edge of the sofa, crossing her ankles. She gazed down at her mother, solemnly examining the ravaged face. A look of sympathy, of real feeling, flashed across Thalia’s face, and she leaned down to give her mother a kiss on the cheek. Then she blinked, patting Eveline’s hand.

  “I have to get to the rally. The chorus is singing today.”

  “This is an old friend of mine, Thalia.” The girl rose and turned. “Thalia, this is Mr. Lafferty. Teddy, my daughter, Thalia Louise.”

  Thalia wrinkled her nose as she extended a gloved hand. “Oh, I hate my middle name. Please, Mother.” She laughed, backing away. “Pleased to meet you. Bye now.”

  She disappeared out the door. In the silence that followed, Amos felt a thud of dread in his chest. Thalia was so obliging today. So charming, so kind to her mother.

  She was up to something.

  The Hines mansion sat silently in the afternoon sunshine, its dark windows like empty eye sockets. The stone made Dorie shiver as she walked up the driveway. She’d taken the Brooklyn streetcar from the boardinghouse, past Union Station, through the hills, and along Ward Parkway. A crowd was gathering outside the station, even though there was an hour until the Willkie train was due. The rally would last for some time, at least a couple hours, she figured.

  For reasons more personal than professional, she felt a need to concentrate on the chauffeur, Tommy Briggs. She knocked on the door at the mansion. The maid let her in and showed her to Mrs. Hines’s sickroom, chattering on about the Willkie people, who had decamped a half hour before.

  Mother Ruth opened the door and frowned. “She’s very tired. This isn’t a good time.”

  “Who is it, Ruth?” The Commander’s voice was strange, as if a change had taken place and a new person had replaced the dying one. Not that this voice was strong; far from it. Dorie peered past the nurse. Eveline Hines looked the same, sunk into a dozen pillows, a red satin comforter tucked around her.

  “Miss Lennox, ma’am.”

  “I just have a favor to ask. I won’t be long.”

  “Let her in, Ruth.”

  Mother Ruth sighed and waved her in. At the Commander’s bedside, Dorie sat on the edge of a chair. Mrs. Hines looked pale as a ghost, her lips blue. Her eyelids fluttered as she focused on her guest. She had put on extra rouge and eyebrow pencil, which only made her look more deathly.

  “You had guests? How nice.” Dorie said, trying to be polite. A hard lesson, awkward, but she’d learned.

  Mrs. Hines raised a trembling hand to her face. She’d never shaken so badly in Dorie’s presence. Her hand touched her eye as if to shield it from view. But it was obvious that tears had come to her eyes, unwillingly.

  Ruth patted her other hand, concerned. “There now. You’re overtired.”

  “An honor to you,” Dorie said.

  “N
o. No,” Eveline Hines said, wiping away the tears angrily. “You don’t know; none of you know.”

  Dorie looked helplessly at the nurse. Ruth had a look of sympathy on her broad face. “I’ll get you some tea,” Ruth said. She closed the door behind her as she left.

  The Commander composed herself, sighing in little breaths until her breathing was more or less normal again. She raised her left hand, a chain and locket clutched there. Mrs. Hines opened the locket, then passed it silently to Dorie.

  “Go ahead. Take it,” Eveline said. “I want you to know.”

  Dorie frowned. She didn’t like this, whatever it was. But she took the locket. Inside was a small photograph of a man, a handsome man in a stiff collar and formal tie, smiling benevolently. “Your husband?”

  Mrs. Hines shook her head. “Everyone thinks Leslie was her father. That we married because I was pregnant. If they know at all.” She looked seriously at Dorie. “Thalia’s father. The children don’t know about Teddy. Thalia doesn’t know. I never thought they’d meet.”

  Dorie stared, confused, at the tiny photograph.

  “Finally, today they met. And it was so unexpected, so …” The Commander couldn’t finish. She held out her hand for the locket and gazed again on the handsome face. “When I saw them together, I realized how much she looks like him. Their bearing, their chins, their eyes. I was filled with happiness. And dread.”

  “There’s no reason they have to find out.”

  “No. They can’t find out. You can’t tell them, Miss Lennox. But someone— someone should know.” She frowned. “I know I sound confused. But no one can find out. Thalia must get her inheritance. You must promise me you will safeguard the secret and make sure she gets her inheritance.”

  “Of course. Does he know?”

  Mrs. Hines cast down her eyes. “No.”

  “Do you want him to know— someday? Is that what you’re asking me?”

  “I don’t know. I just had to tell someone.”

  And why have you chosen me? Dorie squinted at her hands. She disliked secrets, resented holding them for others. What was the point— spread the burden? She squirmed on the chair. She hadn’t come for this. She fumed, trying to regulate her breathing, her heartbeat, her anger. Then she glanced at Mrs. Hines. So alone in dying. So alienated from her family, her children. Of course she couldn’t tell them, not even Thalia, who might take it as an excuse to run off to San Francisco and become a fan dancer. Who else did she have? Why not Amos? But he was part of her past, too. He revered her, and might think less of her. It didn’t matter what Dorie thought. She was just a girl. She clenched her teeth and tried to be forgiving.