by Delynn Royer
Keegan grunted. “I think that dame could charm the tunic off a monk.”
“Do you think she’s telling the truth?”
“Probably not. She knows more than she’s telling, but she didn’t ice her husband. Cut her loose.”
Now, as Sean approached the car, Carter straightened to greet him. Despite his stylish coat and hat, he looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His tone, though, was smug. “Misplace any witnesses lately?”
It took all Sean had to keep his expression cool. Obviously, Carter didn’t mean Nell because Nell was here. He meant Danny.
He knew.
Of course he knew. He had his own guy watching Trixie’s apartment. About now, Carter’s detective was probably blending in with the ferns in the lobby of the McClintock Building, flipping through an issue of True Crime.
Sean didn’t care for the taste of crow but today it was deserved. “Not misplaced,” he said evenly. “Just moved.”
Carter smirked and inclined his head in Nell’s direction. “You sure you don’t need help with the skirt?”
“Thanks, anyhow.”
Carter looked to Nell and touched the brim of his hat. “Again, my condolences, Mrs. Murphy.”
Sean didn’t hear Nell’s response before Carter moved a few paces away, gesturing for Sean to follow. “Call me after you finish with the lawyer. I’ll send a patrolman over to watch the merry widow and then we’ll move the boy. Have you set it up with your cousin?”
“Yeah.” Sean had spoken to Mary Margaret on the telephone that morning. For now, most of the mourners had left the graveside and were climbing into their vehicles. Two patrolmen were busy setting up a barricade to delay the press so that Sean and Nell could leave without being followed. “I’ll check in,” Sean said.
A sudden weariness dogged him as he settled into the driving seat of the Lafayette. Nell had raised her black veil and sat staring at him, quietly livid.
“What?” he asked. “Was Carter bothering you?”
“No,” she said and Sean realized that it wasn’t Carter’s impromptu visit that had rattled her. It was the folded tabloid-size newspaper she held in one hand. If he hadn’t seen the New York Morning Examiner banner, the blaring headline splashed across the front page—CATFIGHT!—would have been enough to tell Sean which paper it was and which reporter’s byline appeared with it.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked.
“It was on my seat.”
Someone had slipped the scandal sheet into their vehicle while they’d been graveside. Trix? Possibly, but he doubted it. It could have been any one of two dozen reporters in that crowd. It didn’t matter.
“Like a rabid she-cat!” Nell flung the paper into Sean’s lap. Sean picked up the paper and scanned the article as she fumed next to him. “That girl of yours is pure evil.”
“She’s not my girl,” he mumbled, already distracted. The article was accurate, although unnecessarily colorful. Trix certainly knew how to command a reader’s attention. The photograph of Nell and Sean that accompanied the article was an eye-opener as well.
Sean wasn’t pleased. If there were any doubts as to his identity, the caption beneath dispelled them. Johnny Blue Eyes’ widow Nell Murphy emerges from hiding to attend her husband’s wake on the arm of New York City Police Detective Sean Costigan.
A second article with a less ostentatious headline appeared in a sidebar near the bottom of the page, Police Presence at Murphy Wake, alongside a photo of Carter, Grottano and Chief Keegan as they entered the funeral church. Out of the three, only Grottano’s face was in full view as he’d turned to scowl at the press corps. Keegan’s back was turned and Carter had been caught barely in profile.
Sean set the paper aside and concentrated on starting the engine, giving a rev up on the accelerator and adjusting levers for which he didn’t have a good feel. He would have preferred to drive his own Ford, but Nell had insisted on taking Johnny’s Lafayette. She was confident that, after the reading of Johnny’s will today, it would be hers. Sean wasn’t sure why she cared. She’d never learned to drive.
“That girl of yours is so jealous over you, she’ll write anything to hurt me,” Nell said, still seething.
Sean glanced at her as they pulled out. He’d accused Trixie of being jealous himself yesterday, but he hadn’t meant that she was jealous of his attentions. He’d been referring to the rivalry that sometimes arose between beautiful women when they entered each others’ spheres. He sensed that now from Nell. “She’s not my girl,” he repeated firmly.
“Maybe she thinks she is. Have you led her on? Did you sleep with her?”
He glanced at Nell, irritated. “What?”
“Does she know about our past?”
“No,” Sean said, then paused. Trixie was a reporter. It was her business to dig up dirt. He sighed and amended his earlier denial. “If she knows anything, she didn’t get it from me.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter anyhow. You need to set her straight.” Nell folded her arms and sat back in her seat. “You can’t trust her.”
Sean kept his attention on the road as they turned out of the cemetery and onto Schenectady Avenue. This conversation was annoying, and in more ways than one. He was surprised by a sudden, ludicrous urge to defend Trixie. Nell was right, of course. Trix was a reporter. Naturally, he couldn’t trust her. He’d been a chump to let her get under his skin as far as she had, but neither could he trust Nell. She had her own unexplained agenda. “I can take care of myself.”
“Of course you can. This is just friendly advice coming from an old...pal.”
At a change in her tone, Sean glanced to see the spark of flirtatious humor in those violet eyes. It was a look full of knowing. Friends? Oh, yes, they’d been friends all those years ago. And lovers too. That was what had made their time together so achingly sweet.
“Thanks,” he said, forcing down those old stirrings. He gripped the steering wheel tighter and returned his attention to the road. “Pal.”
* * *
Nuts. Sean was sore, all right.
Trixie had felt downright sick as she’d watched Sean climb into Nell Murphy’s fancy automobile. Even before he’d let her have it she’d already regretted her decision to spill the beans to Julius about Danny. It felt like a betrayal of his trust, a betrayal that she’d only compounded by violating Sean’s directive not to move Danny when she’d taken him with her to work that morning.
The last she’d seen of Danny was as she and Finn had left to cover the Murphy funeral. He’d been sitting in Julius’s office, wearing his new clothes, his expression tough, but looking small indeed with his short legs dangling from the large chair across from her brusque editor’s desk. Julius had promised her that the boy would be safe. But that wasn’t the point. Trixie had wondered not too long ago where to draw the line when the trust of her editor and the trust of a source were at odds. Now, she’d found her answer.
“Time to beat it,” Trixie said to Finn as she tossed her purse down onto the seat and climbed into the driver’s side of Julius’s coupe. Up ahead, a police barricade was still in place, but several of the other press vehicles were already coughing to life.
Many of her fellow reporters would try to follow Nell’s car from the cemetery to learn where she was staying. Trixie doubted the police would allow that, and even if some newshound managed to slip by the barricade, Sean would be alert enough to spot any tails. In fact, she was counting on it because she would not be part of that nosy pack. She already knew where Sean and Nell were going, and she didn’t want anyone else catching the scent.
“So, what was his beef?”
Trixie hadn’t been paying attention to Finn. She looked at him now, surprised to see him staring back at her from the passenger seat. He was miffed.
“Who?” she asked.
“
Costigan. What did I ever do to him?”
Trixie knew well, of course, what Sean’s beef was, but she didn’t feel much like sharing the humbling details of her role in moving Danny. “Who knows?” she said evasively. “Maybe he didn’t like his picture.”
Even as she spoke, she didn’t know if Sean had seen that morning’s edition yet. That would add another log to the fire. He was liable to murder her before the day was through.
“What’s not to like? What fella wouldn’t want to have his picture taken with a dish like that?” Finn sounded insulted.
Trixie threw him a pointed look.
“What?” Finn asked innocently. “That Nell Murphy is a real heart crusher.”
“Oh, yeah, she’s a heart crusher, all right.” Trixie turned her attention to the line of vehicles in front of them which was already starting to move.
Readying to leave, she gave their engine a rev up on the accelerator with her right foot and held the gear pedal down with her left. Although they had left Manhattan in plenty of time that morning for the cemetery, the coupe had again proven uncooperative, causing them to stall out several times and arrive late.
Not that it had mattered. The cops had barred them from getting close to the gravesite.
Now, though, it mattered that they reach their destination in good time. Trixie hoped to beat Sean and Nell to the law offices of Fabersham, Beekes and Meyer.
“Say,” Finn said as the engine started and they began to inch ahead, “you never told me how you found out about the will. Was it Costigan?”
“I happen to be a good reporter, Finnian MacDougle. Has it occurred to you that I might have other sources besides Detective Costigan?”
“Oh,” Finn said. “You mean daddy.”
“That’s insulting. I don’t need my father’s help for everything. It so happens that he’s out of town.”
“Hmmmmm. Daddy-related then.”
“Just you never mind.”
Finn let out a guffaw as they picked up their pace and they left the cemetery behind.
* * *
The lavish waiting room in the law offices of Fabersham, Beekes and Meyer was nearly empty when Trixie arrived at ten-forty-five on the button. The reading of the will was scheduled for eleven. But for the fact that the heirs would have chosen a roundabout route to get here, Trixie and Finn wouldn’t have had a prayer of arriving early, but luck was with them.
With Finn hiding downstairs in the lobby in the hopes of getting a shot of Nell, Trixie snagged one of the waiting room chairs in the nick of time. She’d just snapped open that morning’s issue of the New York American when a man stepped through the doorway.
Trixie would not admit it to Finn, but it was, indirectly, her father’s associations that had led her here. She’d gleaned from the news wires that Mr. Fabersham had been named executor of John Murphy’s estate. Could she help it if Mr. Beekes of Fabersham, Beekes and Meyer had been corporate counsel to Frank’s Five and Dime since her father’s first store had opened in Manhattan?
Trixie and her sister Harriet had accompanied their father to Mr. Beekes’s office often when they were children. Mr. Beekes’s secretary, Thelma Parker, was the motherly sort who had kept a watchful eye on the sisters. She was also the talkative sort. When Trixie phoned her last week, she’d been a wellspring of information.
The same pert young receptionist who’d greeted Trixie now greeted the man who’d just entered. “Good morning.”
“I’m Egan Murphy. I’m here for my brother’s will.”
Brother? Trixie peeked around the corner of her newspaper. The man was dark and good looking, even dressed as he was in an old weathered overcoat. His resemblance to the deceased John Murphy was unmistakable. Trixie remembered Joey Mack referring to an older brother when he’d recounted Johnny’s history—an older brother that was supposed to be living in England—but she didn’t remember seeing this man at the wake.
“Mr. Murphy, yes, you’re the first to arrive. Have a seat.”
Trixie hid behind her newspaper as the outer door opened again, admitting a man and a woman in the midst of a heated exchange. “I told you, Arnie, I don’t care what Mr. Fabersham says. I know what Johnny would’ve wanted. If you think I’m going to sit by and let that tramp—”
“Lenore, pipe down, will ya?”
Trixie peeked again to see Lenore Stewart and Arnie Cavanaugh. Trixie ducked back behind her newspaper before they could turn her way.
The receptionist spoke up brightly. “May I help you?”
“Arnold Cavanaugh. I got an appointment.”
“Yes, Mr. Murphy is already here. Please have a seat.”
Trixie huddled down a little further as Arnie and Lenore greeted Egan Murphy.
“Egan.” Arnie sounded glad to see the other man. “When did ya get in town?”
“Just this morning. I came as soon as I heard.”
Trixie kept her ears sharp, hoping to glean some useful information, but they both seemed bent on small talk and lamentations over Johnny’s untimely death. Arnie then introduced Lenore to Egan.
While Arnie hung up Lenore’s coat, Lenore flounced down in the chair next to Trixie, where she proceeded to glumly twirl a lock of hair and crack her gum. Trixie didn’t know if Lenore would recognize her from the wake, so she dared not so much as breathe lest she attract the Ziegfeld girl’s attention.
A moment later, Lenore shot to her feet when Sean and Nell arrived. “She ain’t got no right to be here!”
“Lenore—” Arnie began.
There was no mistaking Nell’s cool rebuff. “Well, if it isn’t Miss Alligator Tears. Shouldn’t you be off practicing your high kicks and shimmies?”
Trixie was careful to keep the newspaper square in front of her face. Having anticipated that she would need to change her appearance after seeing Sean at the cemetery, she’d brought a second coat, this one an expensive Hudson seal fur, a leftover from the days when she wasn’t counting her pennies.
Before beating it here, she’d exchanged her serviceable navy blue wool coat for the fur and traded her blue felt bob hat for another cloche—red with a low, folded brim. It didn’t matter. If Sean caught a glimpse of her peeking, all the furs and hats on Fifth Avenue wouldn’t be enough to keep him from recognizing her.
Lenore was on a roll. “You think you’re something, ain’t ya, Nell Murphy? If anyone’s crying alligator tears, it’s you.”
Sean cut in gruffly. “All right, girls, cut the gab. Arnie, you and Lenore, sit over there. Nell, you’re with me.” Then, presumably to the receptionist, “Nell Murphy to see Mr. Fabersham.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I need to use your phone.”
“Certainly.”
Trixie peeked around her newspaper to see Sean as the receptionist passed the phone to him. While he made his call, Nell crossed the room to talk with Egan Murphy. Arnie began to pace as Lenore again took her seat.
The brother, a thug, a dancer and the widow. Trixie mulled over potential leads as she ducked behind her paper again. Could one of them be Johnny’s killer? Johnny’s estate was substantial. Which of them stood to benefit the most? Were any in particular financial straits? Maybe Johnny’s murder had nothing to do with his gangdom connections. Money was a classic motive for murder.
Before Trixie could ruminate further, Mr. Fabersham appeared and Lenore was on her feet. “You can’t keep me out!”
“I’m sorry, Miss Stewart, but as we discussed on the telephone, there’s—”
Arnie cut in. “Lenore, just wait here. Ain’t no use in getting yourself all worked up.”
“But—”
“Lenore. Sit.”
“We should put a muzzle on her.” Nell tittered, sounding smug.
Lenore let out a shriek and the conversation disinte
grated into a shouting match. With the two women bellowing over each other, Trixie was hard-pressed to decipher the words, but it didn’t matter. Lenore hadn’t been named in the will. Interesting.
Between Arnie and Sean, the women were separated and Nell was led back to Mr. Fabersham’s office while a sniffling Lenore stayed behind with Arnie. Trixie was close enough to overhear their exchange.
“Lenore, I told ya not to come. Johnny’s gone, and things is what they is. Now wait for me here.” The pleading in Arnie’s voice was clear.
Lenore sobbed softly. “Arnie, don’t be sore. Are you still my big huggy bear?”
Trixie’s mouth dropped open.
“Sure, sure, but pipe down about it, will ya?” Arnie sounded abashed.
As Arnie followed the others, Trixie absorbed what she’d just heard. Were Arnie and Lenore a couple? Had their romance started before Johnny’s death? What if Arnie had decided that he wanted Lenore all for himself?
Lenore walked to the receptionist’s desk. “Say, you got a ladies’ room in this joint?”
Trixie peeked as Lenore was directed down the outside hall. When Lenore stepped out, Trixie tossed her newspaper aside and followed.
Time for some girl talk.
Chapter Fifteen
If she’d gone to all the trouble of disguising herself to sit in the waiting room, she should have remembered to change her shoes. They were the same pair—right down to the tiny scuff on the left toe—she’d worn the day they’d worked the West Side together looking for Danny.
It surprised Sean to realize that, while he was still plenty annoyed with Trixie, his anger was spent. He was having second thoughts.
It was her job to play it straight with her editor. When it came to keeping Danny under wraps, maybe it was partly his fault that she’d been put in the untenable position of having to choose between her job and his orders. That wouldn’t have happened if he could have trusted in the integrity of his own department.
The conference room was spacious, with bookshelves lining three walls and polished mahogany furnishings. The attorney, Malcolm Fabersham, Jr., was not one of the distinguished founders of the firm, but the eldest son of the late Malcolm Fabersham, Sr.