by Arlette Lees
Mittie is cute and vivacious and far too cheerful in the morning.
“I thought I fired you until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow is my regular day off and I plan to take it. My fiancé just passed the bar and we’re going to celebrate. Besides, you’ve had plenty of time to get over your snit about the lamp.”
Frances reaches for her cigarettes.
“I suppose I have. I never should have hired you. Pretty girls either get married or end up in bed with my husband.”
“The latter never occurred to me, ma’am.”
Mittie is used to this kind of banter. In fact, she likes Frances.
“There was a big fire last night,” says Mittie. “If you lived in town you would have heard all the sirens.”
“Really? Do you know what burned?”
“The radio says Temple Beth Shalom. Reporters from the Star were there, so it should be in the paper. It was a complete loss from what I hear. They were lucky it didn’t spread to St. Finnbar’s with all the wind we had last night.”
Mittie sets the breakfast tray in front of her. “His royal highness made it home last night. His car was in the garage when I got here this morning.” Singleton always lets her know when Leland is on his way to the house. Fran wonders if she slept through his call.
“Well let’s make the best of it.”
Mittie withdraws an envelope from her apron pocket and hands it to Frances. No one picked up the mail yesterday. This was still in the box.”
“Thank you, Mittie.”
“Do you want me to bring Mr. D. a tray?”
“I wouldn’t bother unless he asks. Go dust something while I finish waking up.”
After Mittie leaves, Frances sips her morning coffee, has a second cigarette and reads about the fire. When she’s through she rips open the bank statement. She’s stunned to see a dramatic decline in their joint checking balance. One large check had been written and the rest of the money drawn out in cash at the teller’s window. Frances is livid and breaks into a painful coughing spell. This is one more thing she needs to discuss with Darrell Singleton.
* * * *
Leland never felt fear like he had last night, the kind that rocks your core and seeps into the marrow of your bones like a malignancy. Sure, he’d been rattled by Fu Gang’s bullets, but he’d had so much adrenaline coursing through his blood that he didn’t have time to think until the danger had passed.
But, last night, everything that could go wrong, did. What he’d intended as a simple arson got complicated. He’d first noticed the black DeSoto a few days before. It’s a small town. No big deal. The second time seemed coincidental, but when the same vehicle followed him onto St. Finnbar Street, he felt spider legs on the back of his neck.
He’d most likely been hired by Frances to document “unhusbandly” behavior, but if this was about Red, he could as easily been the target of a hit. The chase had been brief but exhausting and Leland would have lost if his bullet hadn’t been faster than the man could run.
A pat-down had produced a P.I. license. The man was Darrell Singleton, Pinkerton Investigator out of San Francisco, not a hit man after all. Oh well, so there’s one less snoop in the world. He’d wanted to put the body in the Dodge and leave it near the town dump beside a couple junked cars, but he couldn’t find the key to Singleton’s car. After checking the man’s pockets and turning the interior of the vehicle upside down, he figured it had been lost in the chase. And what about Singleton’s notes? P.I.’s were known to document every sneeze and burb and Dietrich couldn’t as much as find a scribble on the back of a grocery receipt.
With his options limited, he dragged the body to the back porch of the synagogue. He was shaking so badly he splashed gasoline on his clothes and almost set himself on fire when he dropped the match. If he was lucky the body would go undetected for days. If he was luckier, it would be unidentifiable when it was found among the ashes.
His bad luck seemed to start with that little hooker from Cork Street, the one with the long memory and smoldering grudge. Maybe, she’d made good her threat and stirred things up with Frances. Worse yet, when he imagined her giving graphic testimony in front of a grand jury in all her wounded, blue-eyed innocence, he actually trembled with fear.
* * * *
After a sleepless night Leland goes down the stairs to the kitchen where Mittie is polishing silver.
“Good morning, Mr. D.” she says. “Would you like me to fix you something?”
“Just coffee. I’ll get it myself.” He pours a cup from the pot on the burner and sits at the end of the kitchen nook. His hair is uncombed and there’s a day’s growth of bristle on his jaws.
“Have you collected the mail this morning?” he asks.
“Yes sir.”
“Anything from the bank?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir.”
“When the statement arrives, I want you to bring it directly to me.”
“Yes, Mr. D.”
When he turns his back she sticks out her tongue at his retreating form.
CHAPTER 17
Jim and I pull up to the school at 7:30 the next morning. The teacher stands by the door preparing to call the children in from the playground. An elegant grey Studebaker Dictator is parked off to the side.
The teacher doesn’t match the car. She’s not unattractive, just buckboard plain…long skirt… broach at her high collared, long-sleeved blouse.
“Miss Hanover?” I say, as we approach.
“Yes. Good morning,” she says, her smile slightly tentative.
“I’m Officer Jack Dunning and this is my partner, Jim Tunney.”
“Pleased to meet you both, I’m sure. If the Wheeler’s cow has wandered off again, she hasn’t come this way.”
“We’re here on a more serious matter. We need to talk in private.”
“Now?” She glances behind her at the clock on the classroom wall. “Class commences in five minutes.”
“Let them play a while,” says Jim.
“Please come out of the cold, gentlemen.” We step over the threshold. The interior is slightly smoky, the woodstove grinding out heat. “What can I do for you? We have tests scheduled so I’m a little pressed for time.”
“We just have a question or two,” I say.
“Is this about the reckless driver? He almost ended up in the ditch out front.”
“We’re here in regard to a student.”
“Oh dear, I hope none of my children are in trouble.”
“One of your students is dead, Miss Hanover,” I say. “His body was found in the ditch down the highway on Saturday. He’d been lying there since late Friday.”
There’s a stunned silence broken by an impassioned, “Who?”
“Georgie Allen.”
“Oh my God! Poor child. A hit and run?”
“The cause is under investigation.”
“What else could it possibly be?”
“When did you see him last?”
“He was in attendance on Friday.”
“Did he have a problem with anyone. Ever see him bullied or ganged up on?”
“Of course not. I’d never tolerate such a thing.”
“Did he have any enemies?”
“Children do not have enemies. He was a quiet little boy who kept to himself.”
“When did you last lay eyes on him?
“What do you mean?”
“Did you actually see him go through the door after school? Did you see which way he went?”
“No. I had my back turned. I was erasing the math problems from the blackboard as the children left. Then I got in my car and drove home.”
“And where would that be?” I ask.
“Home you mean? Stella Bloch’s boarding ho
use, 287 Cleveland Street.”
“So, you don’t board with a student like Miss Brown did?”
“I like my privacy. When you live with a family their problems become your problems.” She glances at the clock. There’s something a little off about Miss Hanover, but I can’t put my finger on it.
“Cleveland is a pretty rundown area.”
“I was new in town and only had a few days to get settled before school started. I took the first place I looked at.”
“Georgie’s parents tell us you set him back a grade,” says Jim.
“Yes, that’s correct. If a student doesn’t grasp the essentials we can’t keep kicking the can down the road. Certainly you see the logic in that.”
“And the school board was in compliance?” asks Jim.
“The schoolboard.” She rolls her eyes. “How shall I put this? There are three members, a retired fireman, a berry farmer and a filling station owner…not an educator among them…so I took it on myself to make that decision.”
“What post did you hold before you came here?” I ask.
“You’re confusing me with these irrelevant questions. What does this have to do with the hit and run?”
“The Manner of Death hasn’t been established yet.”
“This is all very puzzling,” she says. “I don’t know what you want from me.”
“I haven’t forgotten my question, Miss Hanover.”
“I taught at Saguaro Correctional out in the Mohave if you must know.”
“That’s the girl’s reformatory,” says Jim.
“Yes, it was an opportunity to make a difference in the girl’s lives.”
“But?” I say.
“It’s a little embarrassing. I’d planned to remain longer but the isolation was too much for me. Believe me officers, if you’ve seen one cactus you’ve seen them all.”
“That your Dictator parked outside?”
“Oh, heaven’s no,” she says, “It’s on temporary loan from a family friend.”
I ask her for a list of the students and she complies.
“Please, bring the children in.”
When they’re seated, I ask if anyone saw Georgie after class on Friday. A few saw him walking with Kenny but that was it. Rebecca Smallwood sits silently with arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes flick toward the teacher then back to me and I wonder if she’s conveying a tacit communication. It’s obvious that her relationship with Miss Hanover is strained, so it’s not the right time to single her out for questioning.
“We may need to speak with you again, Miss Hanover,” I say. “If you recall anything further please give us a call.”
I fold the list of student’s names and addresses and slip them in my notebook. I turn to Miss Hanover and nod toward the blackboard. “I’m just a cop Ma’am, not an educator like yourself, but I believe you misspelled misspell.”
Her mouth opens and her head swivels toward the blackboard. I wink at Rebecca Smallwood on my way out the door and she hides a smile behind her hand.
Jim and I walk up to the Dictator. It has an impressive vertical grill, crank windshield, sloped trunk, graceful hood ornament and art deco instrument panel. “What do you think something like this costs?” asks Jim.
“Don’t ask me. I can’t count that high.” I open the car door and check out the registration strapped to the plastic sleeve on the steering column. “It belongs to Ludwig Gerhard von Buchholz.”
“That’s a mouthful,” says Jim.
“Know who he is?”
“Never heard of him. What’s his address?”
“Five Twenty, Upper Cork.”
“That’s the St. Ambrose Hotel. Pretty fancy digs. By the way, she’s watching us from the window.”
* * * *
On our drive back to town Jim glances over at me.
“You got something on your mind?” I ask.
“You were hard on her, Jack.”
“I know. Angel tried to enroll Albie Sherman in Orchard School. Hanover made up some phony excuse and turned him away. He’s a good little kid, Jim. Truth is he wasn’t white enough to suit her.”
“Listen, why don’t I call my Uncle Pete and take him out to lunch. He’s the retired fireman on the school board. I’d like his take on the new school teacher.”
“Good idea.”
“But, just because you don’t like her doesn’t mean she’s done anything wrong.”
CHAPTER 18
Cookie has never had so many crippling headaches without a clear vision presenting itself. Anxiety at the loss of her precious elixir is making things worse. She’s furious with Joe for sticking his nose in her business. Then there’s the withdrawal from the narcotic that made the golden liquid so…so…she had to admit it…habit-forming. She’s damned if she does and damned if she doesn’t.
Last night another fragment of the puzzle took shape, a little girl peering from behind a row of collapsing sunflowers at the back of the schoolyard. She knows it’s not the child’s face she needs to see, but what the girl is looking at and that part refuses to come into focus.
If Cookie’s vision hadn’t been so full of holes, she’d be on the phone with Jack Dunning. Then again, what’s unclear to her might make sense to him. With weary steps she makes her way to the phone, sinks onto a kitchen chair and dials the station.
“Sergeant Green, here,” comes the voice on the other end. “How may I help you?”
“Hello, Bruce. This is Cookie. Is Jack in?”
“Sorry, Cookie. He’s tied up on a case right now.”
“Does it have something to do with Orchard School?”
“I know he was out there this morning. You want to leave a message?”
“I don’t know if I can leave one that makes sense.”
“Another vision?”
“Not a very good one. I can explain it better to Angel. By the way, how is Curley coming along?”
“He’s home from the hospital. I’ll tell him you asked.”
Cookie hangs up and redials. When Hank answers she asks for Room 210.
* * * *
Leland walks into Community Bank at 10:30 A. M. He should have arrived sooner, but he had a bad night and overslept. When he woke, Frances was gone and he didn’t see Sahara Princess in the pasture.
“Good morning, Mr. Dietrich,” says the teller.
“Good morning, Miss Starling.”
“Lovely morning. I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever see the sun again.”
“Me too,” he says. “I’d like to close my account if you don’t mind.”
She glances at his checkbook.
“You mean the joint checking?”
“Yes, Miss Starling, the joint checking.”
“Sir, Mrs. Dietrich has already done that for you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Five minutes sooner and you would have bumped into her. The checkbook you’re holding is obsolete.”
The earth shifts beneath him and he feels faint.
“Are you alright, Mr. Dietrich?”
“Yes, yes of course, I simply didn’t think she’d have time today. Since I’m here, I’d like to access my safe deposit box.”
“Did you bring your key?”
“Yes, I have it right here.”
“I’ll take that,” she says.
“What do you mean?”
“Frances had hers too. Everything has been transferred to Citizens Bank in Manteca. Since we’ll have to reassign the box, we can’t have an extra key floating around, now can we? Mr. Dietrich, are you listening?”
His body is numb. He can’t think. He drops the key in her hand.
“We hate losing you as customers, but you know how Mr
s. Dietrich is when she gets the bit between her teeth.”
“I do indeed.” Her stupid colloquialisms make him want to jump over the counter and choke her until her eyes pop out, but instead he smiles miserably. “I’m having serious reservations about a check I issued on Saturday. I’d like to put a stop payment on that.” He refers to his checkbook. “Here it is, check number 4705.”
“It cleared just minutes before Mrs. Dietrich got here. I remember because we don’t see a draft in that amount every day.” She gives him a sympathetic smile. “Well, what can I say? The early bird gets the worm.”
He flees the bank in a dissociative fugue, dropped onto a street he’s never seen before, in a town he’s never been to. Frances has cut him off and his passport now sits in a safe deposit box in Manteca. He stumbles into an alley between two brick buildings, puts his hands against the wall and throws up behind the garbage cans. Little by little his mind and body reconnect and his air of imperial insouciance slips back in place. After several minutes he straightens his tie, wipes off his shoes and steps from the alley. He buys a newspaper and reads it in the car.
Photos of the fire are all over the front page, an inspector being sent from San Francisco to determine the cause. Leland had no idea that torching an old building belonging to a few ragtag Jews was going to cause such an uproar. In Germany’s current political climate, making an issue over such trivia would be a crime in itself. Much to his relief there’s nothing in the article about a body being discovered in the ashes…yet.
Dietrich is suddenly struck by a brilliant idea. He’ll ask Hansel von Stroheim to return the donation he made to the Deutschlander Club. He thought the money would make a favorable impression, help him move up in the organization and achieve some of the glory that his father had attained in the Great War. His heart aches for home. There’s nothing to hold him here, but first he’ll need money and traveling papers. As the Americans say so colorfully: It’s time to get the hell out of Dodge.
* * * *
Jim returns to the squad room after his lunch with Uncle Paulie. We face one another, the backs of our desks pushed together. “No one on the school board knows about Georgie’s demotion,” says Jim. “He passed all of his tests last year and deserved to be promoted. Miss Hanover is obviously not a team player.”