Tough Cookie (Maggie Sullivan mysteries)

by M. Ruth Myers

  When the Buick pulled into the parking lot of a furniture store a block up and came back, continuing past the dealership at the same slow speed, my confidence increased. I did a U-turn of my own and went maybe a little faster than I should have down a street parallel to the one the Buick was traveling. After a couple of blocks I cut over to Main in time to see the Buick passing. It was picking up speed, heading downtown by the looks of it. Keeping several cars between us, I followed.

  Dark blue cars weren’t as common as black ones, but they were common enough to make keeping track of one tricky. Fortunately new car dealers liked to deck their offerings out with the latest doodads, and the one Vern had picked – if I was right about it being Vern – had white sidewall tires.

  As we reached the middle of town and the car I was following turned, I started to frown. Surely Vern wasn’t headed where he appeared to be. But a block from the Hulman building he spotted a parking place and pulled over. It was Vern all right. He got out as I passed.

  “Lots of luck,” I said under my breath as I started to look for a parking place of my own. Did he really expect any help from the brother-in-law he’d helped swindle?

  * * *

  The closest spot I could find for Calvin’s jalopy was a block and a half away on a side street. As I came around to the sidewalk, a reflection in the window of the menswear store I’d parked beside caught my eye. Four or five spaces behind me, another car was pulling in. Absent minded female that I was, I turned to peek back into my car for something. The performance took just long enough to give me a look at the old gray car that had just parked. Coming back from Wildman’s the afternoon before someone tried to kill me there’d been an old gray car trailing behind me.

  I moseyed on in the direction I’d started, pausing occasionally and pretending to window shop while I thought. If the car down the street was following me, whoever was in it had seen me switch cars with Calvin. That meant they’d been following me from the time I left Mrs. Z’s.

  I’d had it up to my teeth with sprains and scrapes and cars that tried to run me over. I’d had my fill of figures skulking after me in dark parking lots.

  At a nice-sized shoe store I pretended interest in the contents of a window set at right angles to the door. It gave me a look at a guy who’d stopped as if studying something in the store I’d just passed. I couldn’t tell much except that he had a VanDyke beard. The chin on the figure following me in the parking lot had stuck out a lot, and he’d had jug ears. The man I was watching stood sideways, so I couldn’t tell on the ears. He was dressed on the rough side with a brown cap pulled low over his eyes and a short jacket.

  When I moved on and stopped again, he stopped too. I crossed the street. So did he. Four doors up there was a narrow lane between buildings. I figured that was where he’d make his move, if he meant to make one here in the middle of town at midday.

  Sure enough, at the store just before the lane he closed the gap between us and grabbed for my arm. Aided by the shop window showing his every move, I pivoted out of reach and rammed my knee against the back of his, throwing him off balance. As if lovey-dovey, I hooked my arm through his so he couldn’t get to the gun I felt under his jacket. It would also leave us unnoticed by passers-by. My free hand caught his pinkie. I shoved him against the store front.

  “I don’t like being followed. Understand?”

  I bent the finger a little to get his attention. I saw his teeth grit. He was three or four inches taller than me, and there were muscles in the arm I held. His nose had a bump in the middle from being broken somewhere in the past. Ah, yes. He had jug ears.

  He started to struggle, so I bent his finger some more.

  “Who sent you?”

  He called me a name that wasn’t nice.

  “Whatever they’re paying you isn’t enough for the grief you’re going to get from me if you don’t lay off.”

  His lips stretched in a snarl.

  “You think I’m scared of a broad? You’re nothing but a smart mouth.”

  Surprise had given me the upper hand, but I could feel him bunching to break free.

  “You learn slow,” I said.

  I jammed his finger back as hard as I could and heard his bone snap. He howled, curling over.

  “Terrible indigestion. Hits him out of nowhere,” I told two passing women who’d stopped in their tracks.

  As I walked away, my new pal’s fumbling move toward his gun gave way to his need to cradle his hand against him. He wasn’t going to be in a good mood if we met again. My own mood was considerably improved since he wouldn’t be able to hold a gun too well or punch too well for a while

  .

  Thirty-two

  “Don’t know any garage that would do what you’re asking about – fix up a car from a hit-and-run and not let on to the police.” Eli Wheeler looked properly scandalized.

  “Now and again – mostly back when times were really bad, before Mr. Roosevelt – I’ve heard rumors about places that took cars apart. Sold the parts. Didn’t ask whether you owned the car. But helping to hide hitting someone....” He shook his head at the wickedness of it.

  I was pretty near stuffed with humble pie. Confronting the guy who’d been following me had caused me to lose Vern. Not much time had elapsed. Ten minutes? Fifteen? Still, by the time I’d walked on toward the spot where Vern’s car had been parked, it was gone. Now Eli Wheeler, who knew more mechanics and local garages than just about anyone else in the area, had proved a dead end where I’d hoped against hope for information.

  “It was a long shot,” I acknowledged. “So’s this. Do you happen to know who drives a maroon Ambassador, Speedstream model, straight-eight? I’d settle for who sells them.”

  “Umm-um!” Eli’s eyes glowed with appreciation. “Not around here. You hear that, Calvin? She wants to know does anybody around here have a Nash Ambassador Speedstream in that reddish ... what do you call it? Maroon.”

  “Holy smokes.” Calvin grinned. He’d just come in from bringing my car out for me and parking his jalopy. “Don’t think I’ve even seen an Ambassador. Not a new one, anyway.” He looked quizzically at his boss from the door of the little shack they used as an office.

  “Probably need to go to Cincinnati to buy something like that,” Eli said rubbing his chin.

  Muffling a sigh I pushed off from the desk I’d been leaning against.

  “I was afraid of that. Any dealers you know who might have a picture? One I could borrow just for a couple of days?”

  Eli made another pass at his chin. “Let me see what I can do.”

  * * *

  It was late and my set-tos with Vern and the guy following me had used up my energy. I stopped on the way back from Eli’s for a fried egg sandwich. I took a swing past Vern’s house, but the only car in sight was his wife’s. When I got to the office I called his dealership.

  “This is Shirley,” I said with a giggle. “Is Vern there?”

  “He’s in the showroom. Just a minute, please,” said a long-suffering voice.

  I thanked her and quietly broke the connection when I heard her step away from the phone. At least I knew where he was for the moment. Maybe I’d missed him meeting someone after he got away from me, and maybe I hadn’t. With other possibilities waiting to be checked I couldn’t sit watching Vern full time, hoping he’d lead somewhere.

  Most of the afternoon dribbled away with me making phone calls to Wildman’s home and his office, but he was out and Rogers was driving him. My question for Wildman could wait, but I was impatient to talk to Rogers. In between calls I thought about what would make Nico tell me Draper could still be alive, and what had been in the bag Vern delivered to Lebanon.

  Could it be that Draper was living in Lebanon, driving a fancy car purchased with the fruits of his swindle? That didn’t make sense. If you stole that kind of money you’d go farther than thirty or forty miles before you started flashing it. And you wouldn’t try to disappear in a small town.

  Maybe
it was Draper’s partner. Could he live in Lebanon, or maybe have relatives there?

  The question of the red car niggled at me, so I called Draper’s office.

  “How many cars did Mr. Draper own?” I asked Cecilia after we’d chatted a minute.

  “Only one, as far as I know.”

  “Which was?”

  “A tan Buick.”

  Tan, not black. And not remotely maroon. A dead end.

  At a quarter past four Eli called.

  “I should have that picture you wanted first thing in the morning,” he said.

  “Eli, if I didn’t think your wife might object, I’d give you a big smooch.”

  He chuckled.

  “Calvin’s not married, and I expect he’d like that just fine. I could count it toward his pay for the week. You may want to give him a smooch anyways. He thinks he may know of a couple of bad apples who’d do the sort of work on cars you were asking about.”

  Thirty-three

  I was standing up with my compact out, freshening my lipstick to meet Rachel Minsky, when somebody knocked. It was Billy. His white hair was ruffled from the walk down from Ford Street after his shift ended.

  “Have a date, have you?” he asked as I snapped the compact closed. It was gold-tone with pretty scrollwork on the top. He and Seamus had given it to me a couple of years before on my birthday.

  “Not exactly. Just meeting someone.”

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “I was fixing to buy you a pint.”

  He wandered aimlessly over and studied my Julienne diploma. I started to get the picture.

  “I expect Seamus would be glad to have you buy him a pint.”

  “He’s still sore at me.” Billy looked at his toes. “Guess I never realized how much he missed hearing music from home. Anyway, him and Mick are thick as thieves now.”

  “You and Seamus are a whole lot thicker. I expect he feels as bad about how things are between you as you do,” I said softly. “Why not give him some kind of peace offering? Let him know you want to be friends again?”

  “Wouldn’t know what to get him.”

  Billy could be as stubborn as a mule. Which was maybe insulting the mule.

  “How about a record? I expect that would mean a whole lot.”

  “Wouldn’t know what kind to get.”

  I gave a gargle of frustration.

  “You were partners a long time, besides being friends. You know Seamus better than anyone. If you put your mind to it, I’ll bet you remember somebody he mentioned hearing, or someone he read about coming to play in Boston or Chicago. If he doesn’t like what you pick, the store will let him take it back.”

  Billy was silent, which gave me some hope he was thinking about it. I retrieved my coat from the coat rack and let him hold it for me as I slipped it on.

  “Now,” I said tucking my arm through his and patting his hand, “if you promise to give Kate a nice kiss when you get home, I’ll let you walk me as far as your trolley stop.”

  * * *

  Rachel was at a table with a Gibson in front of her when I reached the lounge of the Hotel Miami. It was a fancy place where tiny lamps topped little round tables dressed in starched linen I apologized for being five minutes late, and in light of what had followed my last martini, I ordered an old fashioned.

  While I waited for it to arrive, Rachel fitted a cigarette into its gold holder. She snapped the flintwheel on a tortoiseshell lighter that fit in the palm of her hand. Her eyes took note of my slight shift backward. As she exhaled, she added turning her head to the move I’d seen her execute in her office: jutting her jaw to the side to blow smoke from the corner of her mouth.

  “Not many women invite me for drinks,” she said. “Or anything else, come to think of it.”

  “That could have something to do with Pearlie. He has a certain air about him.”

  “‘A certain air.’ He’d like that. Mind if I tell him?”

  “You might also tell him he makes a better impression than other practitioners of his, ah, profession that I met last week. Definitely a better vocabulary.”

  I had a feeling she was struggling to control her lips.

  “He’s decided he wants to write crime stories. Thinks he can do a better job than the ones in Black Mask.”

  My old fashioned was arriving. I raised the glass.

  “To Pearlie and his literary career,” I said somberly.

  Rachel doubled over and her shoulders started to shake. She waved smoke away, choking on pent-up laughter. It set me off too. The departing waiter threw us a jaundiced look suggesting behavior like ours was inappropriate in such a nice place. Rachel’s cigarette smouldered untouched in an ashtray. When we’d laughed ourselves out, she dabbed at her eyes with a cut-work hanky.

  “Jesus that felt good. It’s been a pig pile of a day,” she said.

  “A pig pile couple of days as far as I’m concerned.”

  We both sipped our drinks. I ate a maraschino cherry from my toothpick.

  “So,” I said. “Why are you helping me?”

  “Maybe I’m not.” Her dark eyes glimmered.

  “And maybe you are. Why?”

  She got another cigarette going. Cupped her elbow with her free hand. Blew some smoke.

  “Pearlie’s a first-rate ‘boyfriend’. That’s no guarantee there aren’t some better.”

  I thought maybe I knew what she was getting at, but I wanted to make sure.

  “And?”

  Her jaw released smoke.

  “It has occurred to me Draper’s partner might think I know who he is.”

  I nodded.

  “As to why I told you there was a partner in the first place....” She looked away, across the civilized islands where people talked in muted voices and ice cubes clinked against glass. She shrugged with unhidden irritation. “Who knows? All those questions you asked, but you never asked me about a partner. It hit me that maybe none of the country club schmoozers you’d talked to had told you – possibly didn’t even know. I saw a chance to twist their noses. Show I knew something they didn’t. Even scores some for what they probably said about me.”

  Her expression dared me to deny it.

  “One did refer to you as impertinent.”

  “I’m surprised it wasn’t a whole lot worse.”

  “Another one thinks you’re a hot little number.”

  Her lips formed their secretive line.

  “That sounds like Frank Keefe. He thinks anything under thirty that wears a skirt is a hot little number.” She glanced at my legs and grinned. “He tell you that you should be modeling hoisery?”

  “Just that I ought to wear my shirts shorter.”

  She gave a throaty chuckle.

  “He does turn a good line. It’s different assets he admires on me.”

  I sipped some old fashioned. Across the rim of the glass I saw a familiar face enter the lounge. James C. Hill. His prim air and devotion to efficiency made it hard to imagine him stopping off to enjoy a drink. He sat down by himself. I didn’t think he’d seen us.

  “Frank and I went out a couple of times,” Rachel was saying. She shrugged in answer to a question I hadn’t asked. “Some men are curious about Jewish women.”

  “Does he even bother pretending he’s not a Lothario?” I wondered if Hill was meeting someone.

  “No. It’s what makes him fun. And lots more interesting than the nice Jewish bankers and lawyers usually pushed on me as marriage fodder.”

  So she got that too.

  “But maybe not as interesting as Pearlie,” I observed.

  She chuckled again. “I have occasionally wondered what Pearlie would be like....”

  A lift of her eyebrow finished the sentence. Hard not to grin.

  I asked her if Keefe, or anyone else she knew of, drove a maroon Ambassador. She said no. I asked her how far she thought Keefe could be trusted, apart from amorous escapades. She said she didn’t think he’d go for murder if that’s what I was wondering. Hill
had ordered a drink, but he either downed it quickly or left it mostly untouched since he soon got up to leave.

  Halfway across the room a brief hesitation in his step told me he’d spotted us. His eyes went from me to the woman across from me and back again. Rachel noted the direction of my gaze and looked. Hill came toward us.