Another old article showed a woman in an elegant dress, crying into a handkerchief with the headline “Socialite Barely Escapes Reaper.” Constance Andrews had been a guest at the party and a particular friend of David Remington. She was said to have been in hysterics over both the murders and the disappearance of Remington.
There was another article from a Hearst newspaper with the headline, “Hollywood Heartthrob Heaven Bound!” The picture was of silent movie actor Kurt Franklin in his casket, dead at twenty-five. Josie didn’t recognize the name, but he must have been pretty popular because his funeral procession down Hollywood Boulevard had been mobbed by thousands of young women, more than a dozen of whom had to be hospitalized for that most popular of female medical conditions, “hysteria.”
A final article proclaimed “Tycoon Killer on the Lam! Hoover Says Shoot on Sight!” There was no clue to where David Remington had gone or why he had killed two of his guests. Over the years, various psychics had claimed to know his whereabouts. There was even a Native American chief who claimed that his grandfather had helped Remington escape years earlier. But there was nothing definitive to show what had happened to one of the richest men in the country.
With wine bottle in hand and no need for a glass, Josie returned to the makeshift ballroom where she cranked the Victrola again and began her tango. It was a bit less joyous than before, but she was still on her grand adventure in her beautiful dress.
An hour later, Josie was fairly drunk and her body was feeling the effects of having worked so hard in the attic all day. She turned off the lamps, walked through the moonlit first floor, then climbed the stairs to her room. She lay on her bed without undressing and promptly fell asleep.
* * *
Josie awakened in the middle of the night, once again shaken by an earthquake. She was also more than a little hungover from too much wine.
“Damn it,” she said, as she sat up and fumbled for the light, which she couldn’t find. But she did manage to find a glass of water on her bedside table, which she gulped down. She was about to lie down again when she heard a faint noise downstairs. But this time it wasn’t the rhythmic thumping of a rocking chair in the wind. It sounded like music.
She fumbled under the bed for the fireplace poker, but it must’ve rolled too far underneath and she was in no shape to find it now. She carefully made her way into the hall, then peered over the stairs to the landing below. It was dark, illuminated only by moonlight, though there was a faint glow coming from the direction of the ballroom. And she was definitely hearing music. Figuring the Victrola had somehow wound itself up again, Josie walked downstairs, then made her way through the dark house to the ballroom. When she reached it, the Victrola was definitely playing, though it wasn’t the tango from earlier. She couldn’t quite figure out how that had happened since she only had the one record. The room seemed to be spinning a bit. That did make sense, since she had polished off almost an entire bottle of wine earlier.
But after a moment, she realized something wasn’t quite right. At first, the spinning was happening around her, like a carousel of indistinct figures. But then they started getting clearer as if there were couples dancing around the room. She stood and watched as the figures became more distinct and the walls became lighted with sconces, even though her walls didn’t have those particular fixtures. It was as if Josie was familiar with the room, but also seeing it for the very first time. It was her ballroom, but it was clean and the entire thing was filled with perhaps a dozen people in formal wear from the 1920s. People were now noticing her and slowing down as they wondered what the hell was going on.
She wanted to know, as well.
Josie knew it had to be a dream, but it didn’t seem like one. She could feel a summer breeze wafting through the French doors, bringing the smell of pine trees with it. She could hear voices murmuring and someone somewhere dropped a glass. Her fingers glided over the beading on her dress and she felt increasingly unsteady on her feet. Dreams were visual, but this one fired up all her senses.
The dancing couples were now standing still and pointing at her. It couldn’t be real, but she knew it wasn’t a dream. Something had turned her world upside down and she had to get out of there so she could breathe. She turned to flee, then crashed into a tall, strong man in a very nice tuxedo. She bounced off him and though he reached out to catch her, he was just a bit too slow. As Josie fell to the ground she looked into the face of David Remington from the newspaper articles.
All she could think about was, murderer or not, he was even better looking in person than in the pictures.
Then her head hit the floor with a resounding crack and everything went black.
CHAPTER FOUR
August 19, 1929, McConnell, Oregon
Mikey Corrigan looked around. He felt exposed waiting on a train station platform, with only about a dozen other passengers and porters going about their business. It was a far cry from being back home in Chicago where hundreds of people would be rushing past, either on their way to somewhere or having just returned. In addition to that, there’d be a number of pickpockets and street hustlers, looking to take advantage of whatever rube had just come to the big city for the first time and didn’t have sense enough to look after his wallet.
Out of habit, Mikey looked for the nearest place to take cover in case trouble jumped off, which it had a habit of doing when he was around. He couldn’t hide in the station, which was only slightly larger than an outhouse and looked to have only one way in or out. And he knew from experience that you never went anywhere if you didn’t know it had an exit in back. Jumping down on the tracks would only make him an easy target. He had two choices – running toward the street or into the woods. If the shots were coming from the woods, he wouldn’t mind taking the fight to the person who was after him. Because in a one-on-one confrontation, the odds were in his favor.
He knew he should feel safer in McConnell than in Chicago, but the woods surrounding the station would provide cover for any number of men. It wouldn’t take much for a good sharpshooter to make the shot and God knew the Great War had produced enough men proficient at killing, though he wasn’t so bad at it himself.
He studied the people around him. The train had just departed, so there were a few people making their way across the platform. A porter was helping an older couple with their luggage. A skinny young man of about twenty sat on a bench holding a cardboard suitcase, looking eager for whatever adventure awaited him. Mikey remembered the days when all his possessions would fit into a paper bag. It had been a long time since then, but he’d never forgotten the feeling of never having enough. And he’d never be satisfied until everyone he loved had more than they needed.
It had been a tiring day-and-a-half journey on the train from Chicago to Portland, then another two hours from Portland to McConnell due to all the stops. The entire way, Mikey couldn’t shake the fact he was venturing closer and closer to trouble. Now, his neck fairly burned with the feeling that someone was watching him. Someone other than his gal, Lucy, the twenty-four-year-old former chorus girl who’d been his constant companion for almost a year – which was a record for him. He was well over six feet tall with black hair and dark eyes. It was the black Irish in him which had all the ladies throwing themselves at him. Well, the black Irish and all his money.
“What’s wrong?” Lucy asked him. She was a bottle-blonde and had expensive taste. But she also didn’t complain too much when dates sometimes ended in raids when he hadn’t paid off the right copper.
“I just don’t like the country,” he said, scanning the woods again.
“If you don’t like the country, why’d we have to take the train all the way to Oregon? We coulda gone to Wisconsin quicker and been home in a day.”
“Like I said, I wanted to see my old friend.”
“I thought you said this guy worked on Wall Street.”
“He does, but even those Wall Street jerks take a vacation now and then. He bought this house a fe
w years ago and he’s been inviting me to come visit. I guess I finally took him up on it.” Mikey put himself between Lucy and the woods, then moved them toward shelter.
“You’re acting awful funny, like you’re expectin’ trouble.”
“I don’t need to expect trouble for it to find me.”
“Don’t I know it,” said Lucy, as she pulled her mink coat closer to her, despite the warmth of the day. “You could stumble on a gun battle in church and not just on account of you got several cases of gin stashed at St. Mary’s. Trouble has a habit of showing up when you’re around.”
“Don’t it always,” he said, as he led her through the station and out onto the quiet Main Street. “This looks like one of them ghost towns compared to Chicago.”
There was a movie palace, a grocer, a hardware store and the town hall, all spread out along the small street, with barely six cars parked on it. A water trough near the grocer was evidence that not everyone had made the transition from horses to cars. A mother walked up to the movie house holding hands with her two young children while a boy rode a bike through the park across from the town hall.
“This town is as dry as dust and twice as boring,” said Lucy. “I need a drink.” She pulled out a silver flask and took a discreet sip, then offered him some.
“No thanks. I gotta keep my wits about me.”
“’Cause this is just a vacation. Right. Pull the other leg now. Why are we here, Mikey?”
For a moment, he considered telling her the real reason he’d travelled two thousand miles across country when his business interests were heating up. Each time he left Chicago he risked losing what he’d worked so hard to attain. His enemies were always looking for ways to get rid of him. He looked out at the trees again. Maybe this time they’d succeed. He looked at the woman he was falling in love with. “Why are you wearing that coat? It’s summer.”
“It’s a nice coat!”
“In winter!”
“It’s a nice coat all the time regardless of the temperature.”
Mikey gave her a kiss. “Come on. Remington said he’d arrange transportation for us. I want to get out of here.”
* * *
“I don’t know why you convinced me to take this trip,” Dora Barnes said to her friend Lawrence Henry, as he paid the porter for carrying their luggage from the train to the street. It had been a long trip from New York City, despite their first-class accommodations. Her every bone ached, making her feel much older than her twenty-five years, though her red hair still retained the color of youth. It had to, since visits to the beauty parlor were an indulgence she could rarely afford. Lawrence was fifteen years her senior but they’d been close friends ever since he’d saved her from being mugged during her first week of living in the Big Apple.
“The country is filled with stories, love,” said Lawrence, unbearably handsome to women of all ages and utterly attracted to men.
“The country is filled with cows.”
“Perhaps you’ll find a cowboy.”
“Perhaps we both will.”
“Now, that is a lovely thought.”
They both looked out at Main Street with its picturesque movie palace and well-manicured park, complete with a bandstand.
“Seriously, Lawrence, why are we here? It looks like the place where ideas go to die. You never gave me a straight answer for an entire continent. I know you’re not just trying to impress a Wall Street bigshot. You could’ve done that back home. Why’d we have to come all the way out here?”
Lawrence wiped his forehead with a perfectly pressed linen handkerchief as he looked up at the startlingly clear sky. “Because this is where the adventure is. Now, stop being so dreary and see about enjoying yourself. You can actually hear yourself think out here.”
“I know. It’s positively dreadful.” Dora squinted against the sun as she looked at the quiet street and the acres of forest beyond the town. “What a dump.”
“Excuse me, sir, lady.”
They turned to see the only man within one hundred miles more handsome than Lawrence.
“You’re Kurt Franklin!” said Dora, as she looked at the twenty-five-year-old silent screen star. At just over six feet tall, he had black hair, blue eyes and had been named Hollywood’s Most Popular Newcomer twice. He was dressed in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing muscled arms. His linen trousers accentuated the rear end of an athlete and his smile had captivated women around the world.
“I am!” said Kurt with a twang which sounded like a rusted gate. “Howdy!” He had a smile for everyone and seemed oblivious to his effect on both Dora and Lawrence.
He was accompanied by a man who was about his age and build, who also had dark hair and blue eyes, but wasn’t nearly as handsome as the actor. But then, few people were. He wore a suit and had his hair greased back. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Bob Tanner, Kurt’s publicity man.” He handed a sheet of paper to both Dora and Lawrence. “Those are the details on Kurt’s new picture. It’s going to be huge. A full-length silent picture about a man who wrestles sharks.”
“It sounds exciting,” said Dora. “Do you take your shirt off in it, Mr. Franklin?”
“Of course I do, ma’am. It’s hard to wrestle sharks with your clothes on.” He leaned toward her conspiratorially. “I don’t actually wrestle them, of course. But I do come in and out of the water a fair number of times.”
“Fascinating,” said Lawrence. “But it’s a full-length silent picture? I thought sound was now the norm.”
“Sound is just a fad,” said Kurt more than a bit hopefully.
“Sound is a gimmick,” confirmed Tanner, who perhaps realized his client’s voice wasn’t made for talkies. “And you are?”
“I’m Lawrence Henry and this is my good friend, Dora Barnes.”
Dora shook Kurt’s hand, then kept it. “I’ve seen all your pictures, from your one-reelers all the way up to the full-length ones.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Call me Dora. I must say you sound a bit different than you look.”
“I get that a lot. Must be because I’m from Missouri.”
Lawrence indicated the press material Tanner had given them. “It says here you’re from Chicago.”
Kurt turned to Tanner, who added swiftly, “He lived in both places.”
They were interrupted by the arrival of a chauffeur with a sign reading, “Remington Party.” They were then joined by two others.
“Jeepers!” said Lucy, gazing at the film star. “You’re Kurt Franklin! Mikey, you didn’t tell me Kurt Franklin would be here!”
“David didn’t tell me his guest list ahead of time,” said Mikey, who put his arm around Lucy’s waist. “Now I can see why.”
“You’re Mikey Corrigan,” said Tanner, studying the man in front of him and showing some distaste. “I’m not sure it’ll be good for Kurt’s reputation to be seen in the company of a bootlegger.”
“I’m a businessman,” said Mikey, before meeting everyone else in the group. “If your boy is so concerned about his reputation, maybe he should go to another party.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” said Lawrence. “I, myself, am becoming more and more intrigued as the guest list reveals itself. I never knew David Remington had such a wide variety of friends.”
“Bob and I ain’t friends with Mr. Remington,” said Kurt. “We haven’t even met him. The studio set this up. They said Mr. Remington is a good man to know.”
“He is, at that,” said Lawrence. “Now, I believe our transportation awaits. We’d best get out of here before anyone in town recognizes either of the famous people in our midst.”
“Infamous is the way I’d describe one of them,” grumbled Tanner.
Mikey snorted. “Complain if you like, but I’ve known David almost my whole life and I’ve come too far to stay away from this party now. But if you and the Hollywood heartthrob don’t want to come, no one’s forcing you to.”
“I might,” m
uttered Dora.
“That’s my girl,” Lawrence said to her as they reached their transportation, which turned out to be two horse-drawn carriages.
“Are we really goin’ to this place by horse?” Lucy asked Mikey. “I thought you said this guy had money.”
“He’s got plenty of dough,” said Mikey. “But I suspect it’s the influence of this hick town. Get in. I, for one, can’t wait to get to the house to have a drink.”
“My thoughts exactly, Mr. Corrigan,” said Lawrence, as he helped Dora in. “I’ve had enough of all forms of transportation and am looking forward to sitting on any piece of furniture which doesn’t move.”
“A drink does sound good,” said Dora. “Will you join us, Mr. Franklin?” The actor and his press man were about to get into the other carriage. “You should ride with us. I believe that one’s just for luggage.”
Tanner didn’t look like he thought it was a good idea, but Kurt smiled. “Thanks ma’am.”
“Anytime,” said Dora, as she made room for Kurt to sit next to her. “And it’s ‘miss,’ not ma’am. An unmarried miss.”
“Don’t be too anxious, honey,” Lucy whispered to Dora. “They don’t like it when it’s too easy.”
“Is there such a thing as too easy?” asked Lawrence.
Kurt grinned at all of them, then looked out at the view as the carriages began the twenty-minute trip to Remington Mansion. Tanner still glowered, but between Lucy, Dora and Lawrence, there was plenty of entertainment for the rest of the journey as they admired the forest on either side of the road.
Mikey Corrigan rubbed the back of his neck the entire way.
CHAPTER FIVE
“I’m so looking forward to meeting your friends,” Constance Andrews said to David Remington, as they strolled across the lawn of his home on a perfect August day. “I don’t know why we haven’t entertained like this before.”
The Tycoon Murderer Page 3