by Beth Byers
Edwina started to slowly stand up, pushing the wooden chair back behind her. “And when you first fell on those icy steps the doctor said you needed to take it easy for a couple of days, didn’t he? That’s what you told me when it happened.”
Mrs. Wallach wrapped her fingers more tightly on the cleaver handle and jerked it off the chopping block.
“And it was a week and a half before last night’s party, so your arm should’ve been completely healed by now.”
Edwina suddenly had the oddest sensation, as if the entire town and the entire house and the entire room didn’t exist. Her peripheral vision was gone, almost as though she was in a tunnel. All that was true and real was the two women facing each other. The only thing between them was a discovered truth.
And a huge, sharp cleaver in the hands of a murderer.
There was the beat of one heartbeat, then another, then Edwina’s eyes flared wide as Mrs. Wallach lifted the enormous knife over her head. Rearing back, she flung it with all her might directly at Edwina’s head, letting out a primal scream that was as raw and horrible as anything Edwina had ever heard.
It seemed like everything suddenly slowed down, as if the time it took for Edwina to leap sideways to get out of the path of the blade was minutes instead of split seconds. She could see every line and detail of the cleaver as it sailed past her head by mere inches, then embedded blade-first into the doorframe behind her with a resounding thunk.
Gasping, she dove toward Mrs. Wallach as the older woman pivoted and tried to run toward the back door. Grappling her by the shoulders, Edwina tried to stop her, but she continued to flail, scratching at Edwina’s hands and stomping on her foot in her desperate attempt to escape. With one last, enormous effort Edwina slammed Wallach into the side the stove. There was a loud groan from the cook and Mrs. Wallach let out an enormous gasp of air and slid onto the tile floor, the wind gone from her.
Edwina was still holding onto the wriggling Mrs. Wallach when Petunia came skidding into the room, felt slippers on her feet and a bandana wrapped around her head. Mouth open in shock and hands spread in front of her in surprise, she only had a moment to look at the incredible scene before Edwina yelled at her.
“Go get someone! Get my father or Hamilton or someone! And get the cop out front!”
“Why? What happened?”
Mrs. Wallach stopped struggling, the anger in her eyes slowly fading into a sullen look of sorrow and defeat.
Edwina took a big breath of relief, then blew it out. She’d been worried her youth would be no match for Mrs. Wallach’s desperation.
“Mrs. Wallach killed Calvin Blue. That’s what happened,” she said, and watched with some satisfaction as the red-haired Petunia pivoted and sprinted toward the kitchen door and down the hallway, frantically screaming for someone to come help her.
Chapter Eight
Sometimes, the only way to counteract the numbing cold of a Chicago winter was to go somewhere warm.
Like Miami. Or Palm Springs.
Or better yet, the local speakeasy with friends.
Bernie’s Bar was packed full of dancing and laughing people, reveling in their ability to ignore Prohibition, even if it was by giving the password at the door to a hole-in-the-wall bar. The jazz was loud and hot, the gin was cold and heady, and the joint was jumping with people celebrating being alive and young.
Edwina and her three friends had been lucky enough to pile into a corner table before someone else had claimed it. Preston had had words with a drunk man in a blue suit who tried to horn in, but was able to convince him to stagger off to parts unknown. Table secured and drinks in hand, it wasn’t long before the conversation turned to Mrs. Wallach and what had happened in Edwina’s kitchen.
George had listened to Edwina’s account of what happened, but he still looked confused. “So, she killed him for money? Because he kept upping the interest rate on the loan he gave her?”
“Yes. I think he just kept pushing her and pushing her until she snapped.”
He still looked confused. “That sweet lady killed someone over a bad loan he gave her?”
Edwina toyed with the handle of her Moscow Mule and sighed. “She felt she had no way out, that she wouldn’t have any money for her retirement. She was worried she’d have to sell the house her mother had left her just two years ago.”
“Still,” Agnes interjected, “she committed murder just because of money.”
“Not for money,” Edwina said, her eyes sad. “She did it because she felt hopeless. When hope dies there’s not much left. I’ve known Mrs. Wallach for the last five years, and if you’d made a bet with me that she’d ever kill someone with an icepick I would’ve thought you’d gone ‘round the bend.” She took a quick drink. “I would have someone take you away in a jacket with those wraparound arms…whatever they’re called.”
Preston sat up, a smile on his face. “You mean a straitjacket, don’t you, Eddie?”
“That’s the ticket,” Edwina said, and Preston grinned, obviously happy he’d been helpful in some small way.
Agnes’ eyes followed two young men who walked by, but apparently she was still thinking about the conversation. “Okay, so I have to ask just one thing.” She turned back toward the table, looking Edwina directly in the eyes. “Did she ever say how she did it? I mean, the icepick in the ear.” She gave a melodramatic shudder. “Gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about it.”
There was a sudden pause in the music and a smattering of appreciative applause from the crowd. When a lone pianist took a bow and started playing a lively ragtime tune, Edwina leaned forward and three other heads did, too, close enough to hear the details.
“Officer Cavendish says Mrs. Wallach told the police everything that happened. Calvin found her in the servant hallway and told her he was going to take her house. He said she needed to come up with the entire amount of the loan, plus interest, within five days. They were talking in the back hallway, and when he turned to walk away from her, she pulled an icepick from her apron pocket and attacked him.” She blew out a deep breath. “Then she rolled him outside.”
“Icepick to the ear.” Agnes nodded in seeming approval. “That’d do it. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. I think we should give Mrs. Wallach a medal.”
Preston made a face. “That’s terrible, Agnes. I had no idea you were so bloodthirsty. Have another drink, will ya?”
Sticking her tongue out at Preston, Agnes took his suggestion and tipped her copper mug up until it was empty. Setting it down with a clang, she smiled at Preston. “There. Satisfied?”
George had been sitting against the wall, nursing his first drink and quietly listening to the conversation going on around him. He scooted his chair closer to Edwina and leaned an elbow on the table.
“You know you could’ve been killed, right? That cleaver could’ve chopped you right in two if it had hit you.”
Edwina had to smile, seeing the concern in her friend’s eyes. “But it didn’t. I’m fine.”
He looked her up and down, his face serious. “I kind of get the feeling you enjoyed yourself.”
Sighing, Edwina shrugged. “Maybe I did. It’s all happened so fast.”
George seemed to think for a moment, then spoke up again. “Well, are you going to do that all the time? Every week?”
“Do what?
“You know. Go out for lunch. Fix a car.” He grinned as he added the final things on his list. “Find out who killed someone with an icepick. Dodge flying cutlery. Get a murderer put in jail.”
“Oh, you know me,” Eddie said, giving George a broad wink. “Always in the thick of things.”
“Well, I think you missed your calling.”
Edwina gave a scoffing laugh. “Hardly. I’m the best mechanic you’ve got.”
“I wasn’t talking about fixing cars, Eddie.” He grinned, but the expression in his eyes was serious. “I think you should become a private investigator. You know, like one of those guys in the novels. Put th
e clues together, help some poor family out after they’ve lost a loved one. You like to pretend you’ve got a thick hide, but I think you’re a lot softer underneath that then you care to admit.”
Edwina Winterwood, heiress and mechanic extraordinaire, blew out a loud raspberry. “Poppycock. You’re talking like you’ve had too much to drink, George.”
He shook his head. “No, I’m serious. I think you should consider it. This town is waking up and shaking up all over the place, and you could be right in the thick of things. You know half of Chicago, and you’d be able to help people. I know you, Eddie. You’d like that. Besides, I think you should think about it, because it would get you out of that mausoleum of a house.” He looked a bit embarrassed. “No offense, Eddie.”
“None taken.” She had to admit the thought of having a reason to get out of the Winterwood house and not be stuck under someone else’s broken car was appealing. Also, she might finally be able to earn some of her own money, all while helping others.
She tapped a finger against her cheek as she thought about what George had said.
“You know, it’s not a bad idea, actually. I can’t remember when I had so much excitement, and heaven knows I’m due for some adventures.”
George picked up his drink and grinned. “Well, this is Chicago, you know. Anything can happen around here.”
Edwina blew out a snort of laughter. “Don’t be silly. It’s already 1928 and it’s a modern world, my friend. The economy’s got nowhere to go but up, new cars are being designed every day, and even if this year’s Valentine’s Day was awful in Chicago, next year’s Valentine’s Day will be amazing!”
The End
Thank you for reading the very first story in the new Jazz and Gin cozy mystery series! I had a wonderful time writing it, and it was great fun to piece together the details of living in the 1920s. I remember my grandmother telling me how shocked her mother had been when Gramma told her she’d never wear a corset. The horror! After seeing a photo of her as a young lady in the 20s in a pair of slacks, I was really intrigued about what it must’ve been like to be a young woman in a time where so many changes were happening.
And just so you know, Edwina is definitely wrong about Valentine’s Day 1929 in Chicago. If you don’t believe me, do a quick search on Google.
A bit about me: I’m a USA Today Bestselling author, and I've been writing and making stories in my head as early as I can remember. In third grade, I came home, set my lunchbox down, and told my mother I wanted to be a writer. Luckily, Mom was supportive.
I've been a published author for a few years now, under different names and genres, and I love telling stories about small town loves and mysteries and holidays and people! To be honest, I am always a bit scared to dump those ideas onto the written page, but hope you'll enjoy getting to meet the people who inhabit my imagination.
In real life, I'm married with kids, live on the West Coast of the US, and own a hobby farm just outside of my favorite small town. I’m a full-time author. I love to travel and can often be found strolling down a windy beach, holding onto the string of a high-sailing dragon kite.
www.carolyndeanbooks.com