Steve tilted his head and replied, “It’s a gut feeling. How he acted during the interview. No emotion, and I got the feeling he was playing with us. Also, he has the weakest alibi. I want to look over the mill and see what’s what. But, yeah, he feels right.” He continued, “Not that we ignore anyone else, mind you, but I trust my gut.”
With a laugh, Buck said, “I hope it’s not indigestion.”
Steve stepped out of the car and, before slipping behind the wheel of Buck’s automobile, said, “Let me know how you make out tomorrow with the sheriff.”
“And you have fun digging around.”
Steve drove to the hotel, found a place to park, and walked in. When he arrived at the desk, Pete handed him a telegram along with his key. Tearing it open, he read, “Call me. Immediately. Whatever time you get in. (signed) Crowder.”
He sighed and looked at his watch. It was ten thirty, much too late to contact his boss. Steve asked the clerk to call him at seven a.m. and have a connection ready at eight o’clock to Bob Crowder at the State Police office in Hartford. He also needed a private office where he could talk. The clerk called the night manager and arranged to have the manager’s office made available to Steve.
Steve took the elevator to his floor and changed into his pajamas before collapsing in his bed. He decided that he could give his teeth a break from brushing this one time.
The knock on his door came much too early, and he gave a groggy shout to let the bellhop know that he was up. He stood under the cold water in the shower to finish waking himself. He shaved, made it up to his teeth for the previous night’s neglect, and dressed.
On his way through the lobby to the manager’s office, he tipped the bellhop to get him a cup of coffee from the restaurant.
He spoke with the manager and was given access to the office, where he sat heavily in the chair, waiting for his call and coffee. The uniformed bellhop arrived first and deposited the tray on the desk. Steve told him to bring a follow-up cup in ten minutes. Halfway through the second cup, the phone rang.
“Steve Walsh, here,” he said after picking up the receiver.
“Your call to Mr. Crowder, sir,” answered the operator.
“That you, Steve?” came as a bellow down the line. Bob seemed to think the farther away the other party was, the louder a voice was required.
“Yes, Chief,” returned Steve, holding the receiver away from his ear.
“I told you to call me when you got in. Where have you been?”
Steve sipped his coffee and replied, “It was late last night, unless you were in your office all night waiting.” In the following pause, Steve lit a cigarette.
“No, I went home at nine last night,” he grudgingly admitted. “You should have been in before then,” Bob said accusingly.
“Well, I wasn’t.”
Bob growled, “Well, you should have been. What is going on down there? I have been up to my neck in politicians demanding answers. I figured that you would have something by now. You asked for this assignment, and I am really disappointed that there isn’t any word from you! Didn’t I tell you I wanted daily reports?”
Steve gave the phone a hard look. There must be a lot of pressure if Bob was this close to panic. He seemed to have forgotten that he had shanghaied Steve for this investigation. Steve almost snapped at his boss but was able to check his temper. He was glad that the coffee had come before the call. Bob usually was able to handle the normal second-guessers during an investigation.
“Calm down, Bob,” he finally said, a little sharply. “I’ve only been here a day. Give me a little time. Be fair. Who is this that you can’t handle?”
A pause came from the other end of the line. “I didn’t say I couldn’t handle anything,” he said truculently. “I have just had a couple of calls asking about the investigation. The murder was almost a week ago,” he exaggerated.
“Who, Bob?” Steve asked, struggling for patience.
His sigh whistled down the line. “Both sides. They want to know what the situation is for the next election. Is the Chandler machine falling apart, or is there someone down there who is going to take over? I had ex-Senator Bradly erupting to the news that this office was botching the investigation of the murder of such an important woman, and there should be a new regime at this office, and on and on. There have been calls from the newspapers, and I have a couple of scribblers here pestering everyone for news. The governor called. He’s worried about the next election too. This keeps up, and I am going to take an ax to the phone.”
He was almost begging when he continued, “Tell me you have something. Just any little thing I can pass along.”
Steve shook his head and lit another cigarette. His third round of coffee showed up as he tried to calm his boss down. “Bob. I haven’t had much time here. I am still just clearing out the brush. I have interviewed the people here and have narrowed down the field. There’s a new line that Captain Daniels and I are pursuing.” He kept it vague. He did not want to give Bob too much detail or he would be getting a lot of useless advice. Bob was a great bulwark against the politicians and press, but he was no detective.
“Come on. One fact. Give me a name, a hint, a ghost of something to spread around. I can’t use the ‘close to an arrest’ comment one more time. Oh, and by the way, I got a call from the governor’s aide. He wants to know when the body will be released for a funeral. He is getting pressure from the party. They want a big show to get themselves on the front page and their latest scandal off. I know,” he continued as if he had just thought of the idea. “Let me send the reporters down there. They could get the story firsthand from you. Say, that’s a great idea.”
“I wouldn’t send those newshounds down here if I were you, Bob,” Steve warned his boss. “They wouldn’t get anything and would swarm you more than they are doing now when they get back. And I don’t want them dogging me and getting underfoot while I am investigating. I can give you fifty dollars’ worth of report, but you have the high points now, and all you would do is give money to the telephone exchange company and keep me from doing my job. Now, stiffen your spine and stop panicking. If you can’t tell them an arrest is imminent, tell them you have no comment. Or spread some of that manure around that you are famous for,” said Steve, letting the irritation he was feeling creep into his voice.
“Okay, I have to go and earn my keep and the third week of my paid vacation. You remember that, don’t you? Three weeks, paid. Vacation. Good luck, and I will let you know whenever I have something. And do not send any of those bloodsucking reporters after me.”
“All right, Steve, but if you can’t handle this thing, I will have to have one of the other boys sent down there to pull your fat out of the fire.” Bob closed the call before Steve could react.
Steve, lips compressed until they were almost invisible, stared at the receiver. He set it down carefully and then finished his coffee and cigarette. He got up and headed for the restaurant for breakfast. While eating his eggs and toast, he calmed down and told himself not to quit until after his three weeks off, at least. He was mopping up the last of the yolk when Julie purposely walked by his table and ignored him when he said, “Good morning.”
Chapter 14
Steve finished his breakfast and signed the check. He picked up his hat from the chair beside him and crossed to the front desk. After getting the number from the desk clerk, he borrowed the phone and called the mill. Steve was passed from a switchboard operator to Francis Chandler’s secretary. It took a few minutes to make an appointment to meet with Francis at ten o’clock. The large clock on the wall showed him he had more than an hour before he needed to start for the mill.
The sunshine streaming through the front windows drew him out to the street. He decided to walk around the business district and get a feel for the town. He turned left and strolled to the corner, crossed the street, and ambled along the front of the grocery store. Signs showed the items on sale, with some of the merchandise artfully arranged in pyramids of can
s and rows of boxes. Fruits and vegetables were arrayed neatly in wheeled wooden carts on either side of the double doors. Further along, meats and fish were neatly placed in iced trays. The offerings looked fresh and, through the glass, trade looked brisk. A butcher nodded and gave him a friendly smile as he lifted a large chicken from its frozen bed. Steve stepped through the door into the cool, well-lighted interior. Shelves were well stocked, and the operation looked well run and prosperous. He had been in a few stores in company towns during his career, and this looked like none of them. A hubbub of cheerful conversation accompanied the bustle.
He exited and continued to the next block. He passed the shoe store and noticed the same care in the displays. Steve recognized some of the brands, and they would not bring shame to any store in Hartford. A woman was helping a young boy choose a pair of Buster Browns. Steve grinned at the obvious disagreement between the lad and his mother, reminding him of times when he had accompanied his own mother. A pang of regret at the estrangement between him and his parents marred the pleasant scene, and he walked on.
The adjoining business had a large watch hanging from a bracket over the door. At the edge of the sidewalk, a green-colored clock tower held a clock face on each side. The storefront was narrow and had only one window. “Felix Zimmerman Watch Repair,” painted in gold, decorated the glass. A velvet cloth covered the slanted display area. On one side was a grouping of watches, and on the other a row of gold and silver bracelets, separated by a row of earrings in white gift boxes. Steve noticed that several of the bracelets had blank panels waiting for engraving.
He thought of the flask and entered. A bell jingled when hit by the front door. A man with a fringe of white hair around his bald head appeared from the back room. He was in shirtsleeves, wearing a white shirt with thin pink stripes, with garters around his biceps and sleeve protectors extending from wrist to elbow. His face was short, and thick glasses were set squarely on his hawk nose. Thin, smiling lips sat between sunken cheeks. “Can I help you, young gentleman?”
Steve hesitated, not knowing what to say. He had entered on a whim. Remembering the bracelets, he asked, “Do you engrave here, if I were to need it? Say, a silver flask?”
“Oh, no. We send the item to a jeweler in Harrotsville. He does the engraving, and we can have it the next day. We do not carry any flasks—the Eighteenth Amendment, you know.” The old man jerkily pointed a finger at Steve. “You are the inspector from Hartford. Have you found out what happened to poor Mrs. Chandler?”
“Not yet. We are still investigating.” He smiled to himself and remembered the advice he had given to Bob Crowder. “Did you know the Chandlers well?”
The older gentleman explained that he repaired the Chandler timepieces as needed. Every other year, he cleaned the grandfather clock with the black walnut case in Mr. Chandler’s study. “It was his father’s, and he was very particular with it,” he said proudly.
“Did you know Mrs. Chandler well?”
“Mr. Chandler was very friendly,” he replied, avoiding the question. Hesitantly, he added, “Mrs. Chandler was very good to the town. She was very civic-minded.”
Steve got the picture. A. J. was a hale-fellow-well-met kind of guy; his spouse was generous but distant. The type of person you could admire and like, but not one to whom you could warm.
After thanking the man for his time, Steve continued his walk. His thoughts drifted to Silene’s generous gift. Taunting gift? Spur-of-the-moment gift? The watch repairman did not carry silver flasks, so Steve assumed that Silene had driven all the way to Harrotsville. Would she do that as a joke? Steve remembered when he had driven all the way to town on his bike to buy, and get engraved, a locket for Mary Elizabeth Murray. He had been twelve and almost missed her birthday party. Steve had been madly in love and was sure that the two of them would be married and live happily ever after. He wondered what could have motivated Silene to drive all that way just to get a gag gift. An expensive gag gift.
He came to the combination haberdashery and tailor shop sitting in the center of the block behind the library. He turned in and heard the sound of the bell. Immediately, a salesman in a dark summer-weight wool suit approached. With a generous smile, the diminutive clerk asked, “May I help you, sir?”
On a whim, Steve answered, “I’m looking for a couple of shirts and a tie.”
“Very good,” said the man, pleasantly. He extracted a tape from his coat pocket and quickly took Steve’s measurements, writing the results on a pad. Steve was led to a shelf of neatly folded shirts arranged in cubbyholes in a rack on the wall. The quality of the goods was excellent, Steve found when he fingered the cloth.
The salesman told Steve pompously, “We purchase only from those companies who use our mill’s product. The thread count is 400, and you will feel how exceptional it is. This is a fine shirt, and you will be very happy with it, I am sure.”
Steve had not planned on purchasing anything but ended up with two shirts, light blue and dark brown, with French cuffs. He added a maroon tie embroidered with tiny gold horseshoes. He paid and took the wrapped and tied purchases under his arm.
Out of thin air, the clerk asked fastidiously, “Have you found the person who, who, um, did in Mrs. Chandler?”
Steve fought hard not to laugh at the phrase. “No, we are still investigating. Did Mrs. Chandler shop here?”
“Mrs. Chandler shopped at the milliner’s. Mr. Chandler, however, had us manufacture all his suits,” answered the fussy little man. “He had rather wide shoulders. Young Mr. Chandler has followed in his father’s footsteps. He favors double-breasted suits.”
Steve thanked him and exited into the warm summer day.
“Return soon, sir. It has been a pleasure to serve you,” called the clerk politely.
Steve saw Julie sitting on a bench in the library gardens, nonchalantly feeding the pigeons bits of bread. He suspected she had not randomly picked that particular bench, sitting as it was across from the haberdashery, when she had to pass several others on her way from the hotel.
He squared his shoulders, suppressed the grin that was struggling to form, and crossed the street. Steve seated himself and waited.
“I do not recall inviting you to sit,” she said coolly. She continued to tear a piece of toast to pieces and drop them to the greedy birds, not even glancing his way.
“I don’t either. So I invited myself.” He hoped the weak humor would thaw her attitude. It did not. “Spoke with Bob Crowder this morning,” he said. Julie ignored him. “He is getting a lot of pressure from everybody in the capital.” She coughed nonchalantly into her fisted hand and continued to shred the toast. “Wants to send another investigator down to replace me.” She hesitated a moment before she dropped another offering. “Also wanted to sic a bunch of reporters on me. Knew that I wouldn’t talk, but my replacement would.”
Julie removed a napkin from her large purse and extracted another triangle of toast. Steve could see her set her lips as she stared at the unseen bread in her hand. Casually, she brushed her hair out of her eyes and glanced at him. “Why would they want to replace you? Not that I care much one way or the other.”
Steve hid his triumphant smile. “He is in a panic and needs a scapegoat. I am on the ground and the prime candidate.”
“Oh, I am sure that is not the way Chief Crowder thinks. He knows you are the best investigator he has. Unless, of course, you are in over your head or have lost your touch.” Unconsciously, she took a bite with her strong, white teeth.
He laughed. “Nope. He is just panicking. I called his bluff. We will see later today if someone else shows up from the department. Never can tell with Bob. He gets his tail in a crack and he is likely to do anything.”
“Did you tell him you are close to finding the murderer?” she asked casually, continuing her fishing expedition. Julie began demolishing the rest of the toast. She pretended disinterest and continued, “What are you planning to do next?”
“Take a ride and look a
t the mill. Try to find a lead that I can use to crack someone’s alibi.”
“Silene’s?” she asked too quickly.
Steve offered his cigarette case and she snatched a cigarette. He pretended to think about her response while he extracted and snapped a match alight with his thumbnail. Julie dipped her head over the flame, cupping his hand. After lighting his own cigarette, he replied slowly, teasing her, “You’re right. I probably should have another long talk with her. Good idea. Thanks.”
Julie’s eyes flashed dangerously. “What about the reporters? Is Crowder siccing them on you?” She tried to sound bored, but he knew that if a crowd of scribblers showed up, she would lose her big chance.
“Don’t worry. I’ll protect your interests, Julie.”
He whistled “Buffalo Gals” as he drove to the mill. A cooling breeze tempered the warm sunshine, and he felt right with the world. The guard at the mill gate took his name, directed him to the visitor parking area, and waved him in. Steve pulled in around the side of the massive brick building, gravel popping. The red-painted walls were pierced by windows at the level of the second floor. Below there was nothing but a wide doorway. Looking around the back, he saw another narrower door. Steve thought this was probably the employee entrance. The parking lot was scattered with vehicles.
There was a bicycle rack by the far corner. He casually walked toward it and saw that it was empty. The parking spot reserved for the executive director, identified by a large brass plaque on the wall, was filled by a 1922 Marmon convertible coupe.
He walked to the far side of the bulge that he thought must be the chimney for the fireplace. Steve spotted a set of heavy-duty, dark red painted staples that formed a ladder up to the second-floor window of Francis’s office. Crumbs of dark red paint and dirt dotted the gravel below the fire escape. He found a spot where the paint had been scuffed off one of the iron rungs. No rust on the bare spot.
Steve walked around the building. He entered the main doors and crossed to the identical pair of doors at the end of a short hallway. Photos of men and women standing in crowds decorated the walls in large frames. The workers all stared at him from the previous century’s picnics or the mill’s interior.
The Rose Quilt Page 12