“Any idea who she is? I don’t see a purse,” I gulped. “Now we have a Jane Doe to go along with our missing John Doe.”
“Great,” Sammy groaned. “This is all I need. Why do bodies keep showing up here?”
“Sure you don’t know who she is?” Frank asked.
“I don’t recognize her.” Sammy patted down the woman’s sides. “Unfortunately, she doesn’t seem to have any ID. But I’d bet my bar Musey is involved.”
“No surprise,” Frank scowled. “He wants payback. Revenge. But I have no idea how this dead dame figures into his plan.”
I piped up. “Could she be a prostitute?”
“She’s too ugly to be a whore,” Frank muttered. “Look at her, piling on the face paint, wearing those crummy, second-hand clothes.”
“Show some respect,” I snapped. “Hasn’t this poor gal suffered enough without you insulting her in death?”
“What’s it to you?” Frank said.
“Have you seen the homely hookers by the docks?” Sammy interrupted Frank, making a face. “Those are some ugly mugs.”
Amanda snapped out of her stupor. “How would you know about hookers on the docks? Or anywhere else for that matter?”
“I’ve seen some broads there while I was out doing business.” Sammy avoided her gaze. “Don’t worry, doll face. I wouldn’t touch those bug-eyed Betties with a ten-foot pole.”
While they bickered, I wailed, “What should we do? We can’t leave her here.”
Sammy stood over the body, examining the victim without actually touching her. “Come take a look.” He waved us over, pointing to the red marks on her neck. “Seems she was cut and strangled with some kind of sharp wire or cord.”
Curious, I edged closer, noting the thin bloody creases across the woman’s throat—the fine lines like red slices—trying not to upchuck. Sure, I’ve tagged along to a couple of crime scenes, yet I couldn’t stomach a woman’s murder. Too close to home.
Despite the different circumstances, her death reminded me of the recent bathing beauties’ tragedy. Still shaky, I forced myself to scrutinize her from head to toe, taking in her heavy-handed make-up to her chunky shoes. Something about her seemed familiar, but I couldn’t figure out what or why. “She doesn’t look like a streetwalker to me,” I said. “Ever seen her before?”
Frank shook his head. “I’d remember a flour lover like her. Plus she seems awfully tall and big-boned to entice anyone. Sorry, lady.”
Could she be Viola, the victim’s girlfriend? What were they involved in that got her killed? I kept my thoughts private, not wanting to speculate without any facts.
I walked over to console Amanda, who watched the scene in silence. Street-smart as she was, I knew seeing a murder victim upset her to no end.
“Let’s not stand around here making small talk.” Sammy told Frank. “Get a blanket or rug from my office. And call Dino to help. I’m not leaving her here all night.”
After Frank left, I asked, “Where will you take her—to the morgue?”
“Hell, no. Guess who’d be the first one accused of murder?” Sammy’s eyes held a defiant gleam. “I feel like dumping her off at the Kit Kat Club, in case George and Johnny Jack are setting me up. Hate to think they killed this gal just to ruin my business. I’d like to see them try.”
My heart sank. “You’re going to drop her off there like a sack of potatoes? Sammy, that’s not a good idea. You can’t leave a body behind a bar. It’s still twilight. Someone will see you.”
“They left her behind my bar.” He frowned. “Don’t worry, we’ll wait till after hours when no one is around.”
“So where are you going?” I bit my lip, exchanging worried glances with Amanda. She stood next to me, covering her mouth, shaking in fright. Ditto for me.
“We don’t know yet and you don’t wanna know. Better keep you gals out of this mess.”
“Anything I can do?” I asked.
“Keep this under your hat. Don’t tell anyone, especially your nosy newshounds.”
“Why would I blab to them? They don’t pay attention to a society reporter anyway.” Then I added, “What about Burton? He might be able to help.”
“By turning me in?” Sammy shook a finger at me. “Sorry, but that includes your boyfriend. In fact, better not even tell him I’m in town.”
“After all he’s done for you? Fine way to treat a pal. OK, mum’s the word.” I walked away in a huff, trying to shake off my irritation. “I’ll see what I can find.”
“I’ll help, too,” Amanda said. “Better than standing here, staring at a sad corpse. What kind of evidence are we looking for exactly?”
“Signs of a fight or struggle, anything out of the ordinary, bloody clothing, a purse or wallet,” I explained as we scoured the area. “I feel sorry for Sammy. He comes to town for a visit and finds a corpse behind his bar?”
“I wish they’d take her away—and fast,” Amanda said. “I’m getting the heebie-jeebies with that dead dame so close, her eyes wide open, like she’s watching us.”
“I’ll say. I’m sick to my stomach,” I agreed. “This whole thing seems fishy to me. First a strange guy gets stabbed here, then a woman turns up dead in almost the same spot? The attacks must be related.”
“You mean the same person committed both crimes?”
“Maybe. Or the Downtown Gang is sending Sammy a warning: Get out of town—and stay out. I wonder if we can find any evidence linking the two victims?”
My mind raced with wild ideas: If she was Viola, maybe John Doe escaped Big Red just to find her? What if he caught her with a fella, and strangled her in a fit of jealousy? Or maybe she hired a hit man to kill her beau, and the assailant tried to stab him to death—not realizing he survived the attack. So John Doe confronted Viola and forced her to tell him the truth.
Talk about a crime of passion! I’d be better off writing pulp fiction or dime novels with my vivid imagination.
While I scanned the area, I saw the usual debris—crates, rotting food, bottles, broken glass—and stepped carefully to avoid soiling my shoes.
“Some fun reunion this turned out to be,” Amanda whined. “I thought Sammy and I would have a romantic date alone, not spend our time sniffing out garbage.”
Indeed the alley smelled like rotting fruit and vegetables mixed with bad booze. The whole area needed a shot of Chanel No. 5 or some cheap Woolworth’s eau de toilette.
Holding my breath, I looked behind the trash cans, shook some boxes, moved a couple of crates. Big mistake: A huge gray rat ran by me, along the fence. I squealed and jumped out of the way. Yikes! Where were the stray cats when you needed them?
Frank and Dino shushed me saying, “Keep quiet!”
“Get me out of here!” I griped. “Ain’t we got fun?”
“You said it, sister.” Amanda made a face.
By the fence, I saw something shiny by a trash can, and bent down to pick it up with my hanky—a thin wire. “Looks like some sort of metal string or cord.” I showed it to Amanda. “Think this could be the murder weapon?”
“Why not give it to Sammy? He’ll know what to do.”
“I’d better hold onto it for now. Too incriminating.”
I wrapped the wire in my hanky and stuffed the bundle in my purse to consider later.
“Why cause more trouble for Sammy?” She agreed.
“What if he’s right? Say, Johnny Jack planted the body here to frame him, get the cops to shut down his bar?”
“That’s a lousy way to treat one of your own.”
Yet until we found out the victim’s identity, we’d never know the connection, if any, to Sammy or the Oasis.
Now I watched as the three men wrapped the poor woman in a worn-out blanket, stumbling when they tried to pick her up. As Frank struggled to carry the body, he complained, “Damn, this dame weighs a ton.”
“Watch out!” Sammy snapped when Frank almost dropped the victim by her shoulders. Her skirt flew up, revealing a sight we we
ren’t supposed to see: A faded pair of boxer shorts, and a rather well-endowed part of the victim’s anatomy. We all gaped in unison at the unveiling.
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Sammy stopped in his tracks, staring in shock. “She is a he.”
******
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Oh my goodness!” Amanda gasped, blue eyes wide. “Would you look at that!”
That was exactly what I was trying hard to avoid. I did a double-take, too stunned for words, trying not to ogle the woman—I mean, man.
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!” Frank slapped his forehead.
Sammy worked his jaw. “Now I have a dead fairy on my hands.”
“Why would a man dress like a woman—unless he had a good reason?” Amanda pointed out. “Maybe he’s an actor, or performer? That may explain the face paint and cast-off clothes.”
“Sure, the back-alley kind,” Frank cracked. “But how could he perform in that outfit?”
“You slay me.” I rolled my eyes at Frank. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”
“Logical?” Frank replied. “Some john probably found out that she wasn’t quite what he expected, and he didn’t like the surprise.”
“Why don’t you and Dino ever check the alley?” Sammy snapped. “Keep it clear of vagrants and drunks.”
I moved closer to the he-woman, examining his face, wondering why he looked so familiar. The way the moonlight cast a glow across his delicate features...then it hit me. “Frank, take a closer look. Could he be the same John Doe? Can you check his torso—for a stab wound?”
“I’d really rather not touch him...I mean, her.” Frank backed off. “Not my type.”
“Fine. I’ll do it.” I put on a brave face, averting my eyes from his private parts and gingerly lifted his skirt. “Oh, my god. That’s got to be him!” I gasped when I saw the stitches in his side, wondering what the victim did that was so terrible, he deserved to die. “It’s our John Doe. Poor guy.”
“You don’t say.” Frank leaned over, studying his face.
“Now I know how he left the hospital without anyone noticing. He must have been desperate to leave, disguising himself that way.”
“Fairies enjoy wearing women’s frocks,” Frank snorted.
“Come on, cut the crap.” Impatient, Sammy started to pick up the victim’s torso. “Let’s go before anyone gets suspicious. We’ve wasted enough time gabbing out here.”
I watched as the men stuffed the body in Frank’s car, trying to rearrange his long limbs, finally shutting the door. “What next, boss?” Frank asked. “I don’t want to drive around town with this stiff in my car.”
“I’d like to dump him on Johnny Jack’s playground, but that’s too close. They may suspect the Beach Gang or the Maceos. I don’t want to start another gang war. Better find neutral ground ‘till I can skip town.” Despite being in rival gangs, Sammy valued his friendship with the Maceo brothers too much.
“What a pal.” Frank frowned. “You get away while we clean up this god-awful mess.”
Sammy’s scowl silenced Frank. “Let’s hope they never connect the dots.”
“Sure you’re doing the right thing, Sammy?” I asked. “Shouldn’t you call the cops?”
“And be accused of murder? I’m already in hot water.” He looked apologetic. “Sorry we can’t give you gals a ride home, but as you see, we’ve got our hands and car full.”
Wish I could change his mind, but I didn’t have any bright ideas. “Don’t worry about us. Just be careful and stay out of sight.”
Sammy put a finger to his lips. “We were never here.”
The evening faded fast. Amanda and I decided to walk home and forego the trolley. How could we discuss a murder on a streetcar full of people?
As we walked and talked, I heard a few dogs barking in the distance, their yelps urgent, frantic. I imagined John and Jane Doe crying out for help during the attack, their pleas ignored.
“I wonder if the killer was the same person who stabbed this poor fella?” I said to Amanda. “The first method didn’t work, so he strangled him with a wire.”
“Someone must have really wanted him dead to try to kill him twice,” she said. “But why return to the same crime scene and risk getting caught?”
“Maybe they were looking for something,” I suggested. “Or the killer dropped some evidence and wanted to confiscate it?”
“Like what? Money? Booze? Weed? I didn’t see anything out there, just a bunch of crap.”
“Who knows?” I let out a sigh. “Whatever the reason, I hope it was worth dying for.”
Monday
When I walked into work Monday morning, a few reporters started jeering, “Where’s your new beau, Jazz? Did you ditch the Fed Agent for a villain in a cape?”
Hank called out, “Never thought you went for sissies. Sure he likes dames?”
“Do you share make-up tips and borrow each others’ clothes?” cracked Pete.
“Take a hike.” I glared at the jokers. “Here’s a tip: Don’t give up your day jobs. For your information, I never wrote that puff piece. Someone added the sidebar without my knowledge.”
“Oh, yeah? But your name’s on top,” Hank retorted.
“I only wrote the review. Well, most of it anyway. Do you believe everything you read in the paper?” I stomped off, refusing to give Hank the last word.
At my desk, I debated confronting Mrs. Harper, and decided to wait until I cooled off. I tried to proof a few stories, but the victim’s carefully made-up face floated across the pages. Who was he trying to fool—and why? And what had Sammy done with the body?
Finally I focused on work, avoiding eye contact with Mrs. Harper and even Nathan, afraid I’d spill the beans. I’d never make it as a poker player—at least not a good one.
Luckily Mrs. Harper seemed too absorbed in her gossip column to notice me. Must have been some juicy scandals or events over the weekend that I wasn’t privy to. Thank goodness she didn’t ask about my trip to Houston, yet.
Nathan came by at lunch, but I brushed him off, saying I had a deadline. Truth was, I wanted to stick around in case the newsmen heard about the victim.
The dreaded call came by mid-afternoon—to Mack, of course. For some reason, the police respected him—or else they were afraid of him—so he always got the first scoop.
“You don’t say. Late last night? Wearing ladies’ clothes?” He chuckled into the phone. “Sounds interesting. Thanks for the tip.”
Mack stood up and gathered his notepad and satchel, brimming with papers. I tried to act nonchalant. “What’s new, Mack? Anything exciting?”
“Nothing that concerns you, toots.” He gave me a blank stare. “If you see Nathan, tell him to meet me at Martini Theatre—pronto.”
“Martini Theatre?” Oh no, not there. Why in the world did they pick that place to deposit the body? “I went to see the vaudeville show there Friday night. Did you read my review?” Sure, I wanted to distract him, but why did I have to bring up that drivel?
“Seemed more like a love letter than a critique.” He smirked at me under his safari hat. “You got a thing for villains in face paint?”
“Like I told you, I didn’t write that claptrap!” I fumed, frowning. “I don’t know who did, but when I find out, I’ll give them a piece of my mind.”
“Talk to your boss.” Mack gave me a condescending smile. “Sorry I can’t chit-chat all day. Some of us have work to do.”
Aha! I suspected Mrs. Harper had taken “poetic license” with my copy, making up gushy statements about Derek’s talent and attributing them to me. I couldn’t let her get away with such a blatant tactic as adding my name to an “article” I didn’t write. Did she think I wouldn’t mind her putting such sappy words in my mouth—rather, on paper? Why would she humiliate me in print?
Now murder took precedence over mayhem. I tapped on the darkroom door and Nathan came out, looking like a sleepy cub bear hibernating for the winter.
“Nate, Mack wants you to take photos at the Martini Theatre. Some big story.”
I played dumb, as Sammy suggested. Boy, was it hard keeping secrets from Nathan.
“Isn’t that where the vaudeville show is playing? What kind of story? A murder?” He perked up and grabbed his camera gear.
“Mack sure left in a hurry. Mind if I tag along?”
I didn’t wait for his OK. Grabbing my bag, I followed him out the door, not bothering to ask Mrs. Harper for permission. She certainly didn’t ask me for permission to print that PR piece about Derek and his “rare talent.”
Nathan raced to Martini Theatre like an erratic ambulance driver. A few reporters and cops stood around in a circle, taking notes, staring down at the he-she figure lying sprawled in the alley. I held back to watch the scene unfold. What were they waiting for? Why didn’t they take the body away, show some respect for the deceased?
A rumpus sounded and I turned to see two burly cops coming out of Martini Theatre, flanking a familiar young actor wearing a black top hat and cape, his head down, his wrists trapped in handcuffs.
Derek?
******
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Why in the world had the cops arrested Derek? Did he have anything to do with the murder—or was he being charged with a different crime?
Standing here with my mouth open wasn’t going to get me any answers. I resisted the impulse to follow Derek to the squad car lest I wanted more razzing from the reporters or worse, an interrogation from the police.
I made my way over to Mack. “What happened?”
“What does it look like?” He motioned toward the cops, who shoved Derek into their car. “Your boyfriend was arrested for the murder of Patrick Mulligan.”
Vamps, Villains and Vaudeville Page 7