by Delynn Royer
“And you?”
Finn grabbed Sean’s right hand, pumped it. “Finn MacDougle.”
“Finn?” Sean looked nonplussed.
“The one and only. Camera extraordinaire. Don’t worry, I’m sure I got your good side.”
“You’re Finnian MacDougle?”
“Sure am.”
Sean gave Trixie a hard look. “That’s him?”
Trixie blinked, confused. “That’s who?”
The cab driver, a squat man with the stump of a cigar jutting from his mouth, cut in. “Ya want a ride or not, sister?”
“Yeah,” Sean said tightly. “She does.”
“Wait.” Trixie motioned to Finn. “Go on, get in. I’ll be there in a second.” She looked back at Sean and felt her heart in her throat as Finn climbed into the cab. “I got one thing to say to you, Detective.”
He sighed and looked at her with impatience. “Just one?”
“You think maybe John Murphy always loved Nell a little more than she loved him. You think maybe he never got over Nell even though she left him, don’t you?”
“What?” His eyes narrowed slightly. She’d gotten his attention.
“That’s what I thought too, but then when I saw her in there tonight, I started to think something else.”
Sean didn’t respond. He was waiting for her to finish.
“Maybe Nell always loved Johnny a little more than he loved her. Maybe she’s the one who’ll never get over him. Maybe it was always like that.”
Sean stared at her, wearing an unreadable expression. She hoped he was thinking about what she’d said. Did he realize what it could mean for him if he made the mistake of letting Nell back into his life? Trixie couldn’t know if what she’d said would make a difference, but at least she’d said it.
Hearing only the pounding of her own heart, Trixie climbed into the cab. She didn’t look back as it pulled away.
* * *
It was nearly ten by the time Trixie pulled the last sheet from her Remington and read over her final copy with a critical eye. The story was not flattering toward Nell. She’d done her best to set her personal feelings aside, but she wondered now if that was possible. Could the facts have been interpreted differently if Trixie didn’t despise the woman?
Trixie picked up a pencil and charitably struck the words “like a rabid she-cat” from one sentence, then read over the revision. Infuriated, Mrs. Murphy sprang upon Ziegfeld girl Lenore Stewart like a rabid she-cat as Miss Stewart stood weeping over the casket of her dead fiancé.
That would have to do. She wasn’t a saint.
There were only a few reporters left in the city room when she turned off her desk lamp and reached for her coat, but a light still burned in Merryweather’s office.
She found him sorting through some photographs Finn had shot at the wake. Finn was young and wet behind the ears, but he was a natural talent. There was one shot of Nell and Sean that Trixie had no doubt would make page one. Nell, her head held high, the brave, grieving widow behind her veil clinging to Sean’s arm, and Sean in profile, her protector, with his head down, prepared to lead her doggedly through the swarming crowd.
Ever the knight in shining armor to Nell’s damsel in distress. Finn had caught them both in that most sublime photographic moment. Trixie couldn’t help it as her eye lingered too long on Sean’s frozen image.
She handed Julius her copy.
He picked up a red pencil and read over it, pausing here and there to slash and cut and insert. Trixie noted with mixed feelings that he wrote “stet” next to “rabid she-cat.” When he was done, he asked curtly, “You sure no other reporters were there?”
“Pretty sure.”
He grunted as if unimpressed, but he wore the beginnings of a smile when he peered at her over his reading glasses. “Something as juicy as this, it’s bound to leak. The Mirror could have paid off one of the staff.”
“But we got it firsthand,” she reminded him pointedly.
“Good work.”
Despite her doleful mood, Trixie glowed at his compliment. It was her first from this curmudgeonly editor. She hoped it wouldn’t be her last. The moment passed quickly, though, as Julius returned his attention to the photographs on his desk, dismissing her. “See you in the morning.”
“Good night,” Trixie said, turning to leave, then hesitating. Sean’s words came back to her. Danny. All of this. Off the record. You can’t tell anyone but Mrs. Liebowitz, and as far as she’s concerned, he’s your nephew. You follow? Those words, his admonition to keep Danny’s whereabouts confidential, only drove home the fact that he still didn’t trust her—even after she’d called him when Danny had turned up.
Maybe he never would...
She’d learned something important today. Despite her determination not to allow men to distract her from her work, she was vulnerable to this one. It wasn’t something that she’d expected and so she’d let her guard down. Well, that would no longer be true.
Trixie turned back to Julius. “There’s something else.”
He looked up absently. “What?”
“The boy,” Trixie said.
Julius’s expression sharpened. She had his full attention. “Yeah?”
“You said that if we found him, we’d just talk to him. We’d keep his existence a secret. Did you mean that?”
Julius leaned his forearms on his desk. “You think I’ve lasted as long as I have in this business if I didn’t mean what I say?”
“Right.” Trixie bit her lip, wishing belatedly that she’d kept her mouth shut. Was she making a mistake?
“Spit it out, Beatrix.”
She swallowed hard. There was no turning back now. “We found him.”
Chapter Fourteen
It was an overcast morning suited for a funeral. The cold snap that had gripped the city for the past week had finally abated. The gentle breeze felt almost warm as it fluttered the dark veil that hid Nell’s face from the other mourners gathered at the Brooklyn cemetery gravesite.
Between Sean and Little Arnie, they’d worked out a plan to keep Nell and Lenore separated as soon as the two women had arrived at the funeral church, both dressed to the nines as the grieving widows. Nell’s veil disguised the jagged scratch Lenore had given her on one cheek while Lenore’s hid a whopping shiner.
The two women had been hurriedly ushered from the funeral church into separate cars to proceed to the cemetery, then seated on opposite sides of a line of chairs provided for those closest to the deceased. So far so good.
The graveside service was short, presided over by a priest who glazed over any references to Johnny’s earthly shortcomings. Out of the corner of his eye, Sean had noted upon arrival that Trixie and her boy-lover Finnian MacDougle were part of a crowd of press restricted from coming any closer than twenty yards from graveside.
When the priest concluded his final prayer and the graveside mourners had shuffled past the casket to pay their respects, Nell and Lenore remained seated, stoic and unmoving for a full three minutes. The priest frowned and Sean and Arnie looked at each other. Nell was technically the widow and should have been the last to leave, but Lenore wasn’t budging.
“Bimbo,” Nell muttered finally and stood. She placed a single red rose on Johnny’s casket. She paused with her black-gloved hands resting lovingly on the casket and Sean heard the predictable chink! chink! chink! from cameras shooting off in the distance.
Of course, it was a pose the press couldn’t resist.
Sean observed Lenore, who now sat on the edge of her seat. The rose she clutched trembled, not from grief, he suspected, but from fury at Nell’s understated virtuoso performance. Next to Lenore, Arnie placed a hand on her forearm, protecting and comforting, but poised to clamp down harder if Lenore took it into her mind to
attack.
When Nell turned away, Lenore shot to her feet. Not to be outdone, she broke down in a torrent of sobs as she offered her rose, not only laying her hands on the casket, but bending to rest her cheek against it for good measure. Chink! chink! chink! chink! Sean sighed as Arnie was obliged to pry her away.
“Amateur,” Nell said. She stood next to Sean, her head high as she observed the spectacle. “Let’s blow.”
It was broad daylight, the crowd was small, and the press and any other gawkers had been kept away from the gravesite by two patrolmen. Unlike the previous night, there was no place for a gunman to hide. Consequently, Sean wasn’t worried that someone might take a potshot at them. He took Nell easily by the arm to lead her back toward a line of motorcars.
“Look what the cat dragged in.”
At Nell’s cryptic comment, Sean followed her gaze to see a man and a woman standing a discreet distance away. The man was tall, dark-haired, smoking a cigarette, watching them. Both he and his companion were dressed less formally than the other mourners, he in a shabby green coat and tan trousers, she in an inexpensive brown wool coat. Sean recognized the man’s cocksure stance, a trait he shared with his younger brother. It was Egan Murphy.
“I thought he wasn’t going to make it.” Nell cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “Look at him standing there, not making a move toward us. Sometimes he’s just like his brother, expecting the world to come to him.”
And well they would. Sean changed direction, leading Nell along. She didn’t resist. “I thought he was somewhere in England,” Sean said.
“You can never be sure with Egan. He settles in one place for a while and then wanders off. Even Johnny didn’t know half the time where he was. I sent a cable to a friend in London last week. I guess he must have tracked Egan down.”
“It’s only been four days,” Sean mused. “Not long enough to cross the Atlantic.” They were within a few feet of the pair and Sean gave an amiable nod in greeting. “Egan.”
Johnny’s older brother tossed down his cigarette and stamped it out. “Surprised to see you here, Sean. Still walking the beat?”
“More or less.” Sean noted that the years at sea had etched surprisingly few lines on Egan’s face. The Murphys aged well regardless of the type of life they chose to lead. “I’m working your brother’s case.”
Egan nodded slightly, keeping his thoughts to himself. In that way, he’d changed little from the old days. Johnny had been the fast talker. Egan, the tough older brother. Egan had stuck up for Johnny when occasion called for it, but more with his fists than words. His dark gaze now flicked to Nell. “Got your message.”
“I see that,” Nell said. Sean couldn’t help noticing how the two regarded each other, a bit warily. While Sean sensed no hostility, this was not a warm family reunion. “Who’s your friend?” Nell asked.
The woman with Egan was about thirty, attractive in an earthy sort of way, tall and full-breasted with thick, wavy chestnut-colored hair and striking chocolate brown eyes that hadn’t moved from Nell.
“Mary Patterson,” Egan said, “this is Johnny’s wife, Nell, and Sean Costigan. Sean’s an old pal from the neighborhood.”
Mary nodded politely at Sean but seemed more interested in Nell. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Murphy.”
“Thank you.” Nell barely glanced at the other woman. “So where have you been?” she asked Egan. “Certainly you couldn’t have gotten here so soon if you were still in London?”
Egan seemed to hesitate. “Boston. I only got your message yesterday. I signed on with a transatlantic freighter a couple months ago.”
“Afraid you’ll lose your sea legs if you stay landlocked too long?” For the first time, Nell injected a note of sisterly familiarity.
Egan looked vaguely amused but didn’t answer.
“We’re going to Mr. Fabersham’s office after this,” Nell continued. “Why don’t you ride along?”
“I got my own way.”
“Suit yourself.” Nell looked at Sean. “Shall we?” She gave her brother-in-law a parting nod. “See you there.”
As Sean and Nell headed back toward the line of parked automobiles, Sean was the first to speak. “Who’s Mary Patterson? Any connection to the family?”
“Not that I ever heard of. She’s probably just some Jane that Egan’s drilling.”
Sean wondered what sort of history Egan and Nell had shared after Nell married Johnny. By then, Egan had gone to sea. It was likely that the two had had little contact over the years. That could explain the coolness he sensed between them.
It wasn’t long until Sean and Nell passed Owen Carter, who had observed the funeral proceedings from near the parked vehicles. He didn’t acknowledge Sean as he and Nell passed. Carter’s attention was reserved for the crowd of loan sharks, bookmakers and bootleggers that still milled about.
Sean stole a glance toward the group of reporters now stirring to life, some of them already venturing forth toward the mourners, hoping to garner some quotes for their evening editions. Trixie and MacDougle were easy to pick out. They were hustling ahead of the pack.
Good. Sean wanted a word with Miss Frank.
He opened the passenger door of Johnny’s Lafayette touring car and waited as Nell climbed inside. “Sit tight. I’ll be back.” He shut the door before she could protest. He caught Trixie’s eye and strode toward her as she and MacDougle neared.
“Scram,” he said, glaring at MacDougle. The lad looked surprised, but he took the hint and stopped in his tracks.
“Wait for me in the car,” Trixie said to Finn. As the camera boy moved off, Sean noticed that Trixie’s cheeks were flushed and that she wore a blue cloche hat that accentuated the cerulean blue of her eyes. “‘You’re keeping pretty shoddy company these days,” she said archly.
It was a pre-emptive punch he hadn’t been expecting. What was going through that sneaky tabloid reporter mind of hers? “If you mean Nell, she’s a witness and under police protection.”
“And I’m sure you’re protecting her very closely.”
Again with the prickly sarcasm. Sean thought about this for about two seconds and decided to ignore it. He was the one who had a bone to pick, not her. “I got a call from Moe Rothstein this morning,” he said.
The expression on her face changed to defensive. “Oh?”
“He was a little sore. Wanted to know why I changed the plan without telling him. I guess he thought a nice girl like you wouldn’t lie.”
Trixie pursed her lips but said nothing.
“Moe said he drove you and Danny to the train station this morning. Where’d you stash the kid?”
She took in a breath. “Well, see...”
Sean could tell her wheels were turning, but not fast enough. He could feel his temper rising. “Don’t try to snow me.”
“All right.” She put up a hand. “He’s at the office. I was going to tell you but—”
“I told you not to tell anyone. You gave me your word. Remember?”
“Yes, but—”
“Who else knows about him?” Sean pictured tomorrow morning’s headline, BOY WITNESS TO MURPHY MURDER! “MacDougle?”
Her eyes widened. “Huh?”
Sean spoke from between his teeth. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t fly off the handle. “Who else?”
“No one. Just my editor. Everyone thinks he’s my nephew.”
“Merryweather?”
“Yes, but Danny’s perfectly safe.”
“No doubt he is. Our secret witness is perfectly safe sitting in the middle of the city room of the New York Morning Examiner, but he’s not very secret anymore, is he?”
“Not a word about Danny is going to print. Julius gave me his word.”
“Which is worth exactly what?”
She stopped trying to defend herself and adopted a reasonable tone. “Look, I get it. You’re sore, and you have every right to be, but if you just stop a minute to think about—”
Sean raised a finger in front of her nose. “Oh no, kid. You don’t want me thinking about this. If I did—” He stopped and took a deep breath. He didn’t have time to argue. “Okay, I’ve got someplace to be for the next couple hours, but you get your keister back to that newspaper now and wait for me. Do not take Danny out of that building. I’m moving him. Today. Understand?”
“Sure, but there’s—”
“But nothing. Wait for me.”
“Yes, but—”
“Stop.” Sean silenced her. His anger had been unleashed. What the hell had possessed him to trust her with Danny? At least he’d had the presence of mind not to tell her that the reading of Johnny’s will was today.
“Wait. For. Me.”
He left her sputtering as he strode back to the touring car. He couldn’t remember being this exasperated with a dame ever. He was so hot under the collar, he was almost to the driver’s door before he noticed Carter leaning down next to the passenger window, saying something to Nell.
What business could Carter possibly have with Nell after interrogating her for nearly two hours the night before? Sean hadn’t been permitted in the room during the interview, but he’d stayed along with Chief Keegan to observe from behind the two-way mirror. Carter had asked her the same questions Sean had asked. Her story hadn’t changed.
The chief had made no comment during the interrogation. He still wore the dress uniform he’d worn to the wake earlier. He’d stood with his burly arms folded, showing no signs of fatigue from what had no doubt been a long day devoted to this particular high-profile case.
“So?” Sean had asked the chief finally when Carter stepped out, leaving Nell alone in the stark and empty room. The tactic was designed to allow the subject to stew and work up a good case of nerves. Nell had betrayed no such discomfort as she casually pulled a cigarette from her purse and lit it. “What do you think?”