It Had to Be You

by Delynn Royer

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I know, but there’s no turn off back there, not for a couple miles at least. It seems odd that someone would be there one minute and gone the next. Are you sure you saw lights?”

  “Yes.” He sounded less annoyed now than grim.

  Trixie tried harder to see through the lengthening shadows on the ribbonlike path that unraveled behind them. What she’d said was true. The shad bushes and other brush grew almost flush up against the narrow road, affording no place to turn off or pull off without blocking the road. But still she could make out not even the faint glow of distant headlights. If someone had been following them, maybe they’d turned back.

  They were gone now.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  As it had been charged to do since its first light was kindled in 1797, the sandstone lighthouse on Montauk Point beamed its silent warning signal out over the dark Atlantic every five seconds. Visible for over nineteen nautical miles on a clear night such as this, it warned seafaring vessels off from the shallow waters and treacherous currents that surrounded the ragged jutting coastline along the easternmost point of Long Island’s South Fork.

  While their unlikely threesome disembarked from Trixie’s roadster in front of The Shinnecock Inn, Trixie thought about the soft electric glow that shined out from the inn’s quaint windows and the revolving beam that flashed so impassively far overhead.

  One seemed inviting, the other clearly warned to stay away.

  But here and now, as darkness settled over the island, she wondered if somehow these roles might be reversed. She had a bad feeling about what could be waiting for them inside Mary Patterson’s inn.

  “I thought I’d be seeing you two again,” Mary Patterson said when she answered their knock. Trixie noticed that she had changed from that afternoon’s work clothes into a navy blue wool skirt, white silk blouse and navy blue sweater. Although cut to the straight, boyish lines of recent fashion, even that ensemble couldn’t mask the generous curves of her breasts and hips. Her chestnut brown hair was no longer loose, but tied back from her expressive face in a loose chignon. “Egan send you?” she asked.

  “You could say that,” Sean said. “Can we come in?”

  “As you please.” Mrs. Patterson stepped back as the three of them crossed her threshold. Trixie noticed that her expression as Nell passed changed to one of subtle curiosity. As for Nell, she didn’t give Mary a glance.

  Once inside, Mary Patterson led them through an open parlor where two gentlemen boarders were immersed in a game of backgammon. “Business slow at this time of year?” Sean asked.

  “Fair,” Mary said as they followed her through a deserted dining room and into a large kitchen at the back of the rambling structure. Although the sink and table were clean, the enticing aroma of roast beef and vegetables from that evening’s meal arose from a large cast iron pot that still sat atop the coal-burning stove.

  The sight and smell of the food made Trixie realize that she hadn’t eaten since lunch. However, even that failed to hold her attention when she noticed an infant’s playpen set up in one corner of the room.

  A dark-haired baby of about seven or eight months gripped the side of the enclosure with pudgy hands, wobbling on short legs and staring up at them through lovely, long-lashed brown eyes. Although the child favored Mary, there was something about the shape of her tiny forehead and chin that reminded Trixie of Egan and John Murphy. Upon spotting her mother, the child let out a plaintive whimper for attention.

  “Hush, Elizabeth,” Mary said, moving to scoop her up before whimpers could evolve into full-bodied cries. Propping the baby on one hip, she faced Sean, avoiding eye contact with Nell. “As you can see, there’s more than one of us to support. If I have to do some business on the side, then so be it.”

  Trixie stole a glance at Nell—she’d lost her Bahaman tan. Her face was pale as cream as she stared at the baby.

  Sean had enough tact not to ask the obvious question. Instead, he said, “Did Johnny pay you to store his liquor here between shipments into the city?”

  “Is that really what you came all this way to find out?” Mary asked, lifting her chin, almost defying Sean to exert his police authority.

  “No,” Sean said. “Egan mentioned that when Johnny left the Fíorghra on Thursday, he took a box with him. I don’t think he returned with it to the city. Did he leave it here with you?”

  “If he did, why should I give it to you?”

  “It may help solve Johnny’s murder.”

  Mary appeared to weigh this statement, then looked at Nell. “You don’t look well, Mrs. Murphy. Can I get you a cup of tea?”

  Nell blinked, tore her eyes from the baby. She hadn’t yet recovered from her shock sufficiently to work up a good head of steam, but Trixie recognized the tense set of her delicate jaw. “No, I’m perfectly fine, Mrs. Patterson. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Mary’s smile wasn’t quite friendly. “I’m sorry. It must have been a trick of the light.”

  “May I ask where your husband is?” Nell asked coolly.

  “He died of influenza in the war.”

  Nell’s jaw tightened more. “I see. How tragic.”

  “Yes, it seems we have a lot in common.”

  Nell arched a brow. “And what is that?”

  “Widowhood.”

  “Among other things.”

  Mary Patterson managed to hold Nell’s penetrating gaze until her daughter began to fidget in her arms. Lucky timing for Mary. Another few seconds and Nell might have taken her down.

  “All right, Detective.” Mary turned away from Nell and offered Sean the wriggling child. “Here. Take her.”

  Sean raised a hand, stepped back. “Oh, no I—”

  “For heaven’s sake, if you want the box, hold the baby while I get it.”

  “Uh—” Before Sean could protest, Mary pushed the child into his arms. “But—”

  “You’ll be fine,” Mary assured him. The moment she cleared the kitchen doorway, though, Elizabeth screwed up her face to let out a yowl.

  “Hey there, hey there,” Sean said, attempting to head off the storm. He settled the child’s bottom in the crook of his elbow and steadied her with his other hand. “What’s the matter, pretty girl?”

  His sweet talk apparently did no good because the pretty girl let out a howl that just about made Trixie’s ears bleed.

  Trixie raised her voice to be heard over the din. “I don’t think she likes you.”

  “Like has nothing to do with it.” Sean scowled and turned so the child couldn’t see the motherless kitchen doorway that so distressed her. “She’s a baby, damn it. Shhh. Shhh. What’s your name, pretty girl? What’s your name?”

  “Her name’s Elizabeth,” Trixie said.

  Sean gave her a hard look over the top of the screaming child’s head. “I know that. This is baby talk.”

  “What do you know about baby talk?”

  “More than you do. You can’t even cook an egg.”

  “What do eggs have to do with it?”

  “Oh my God,” Nell cut in. She held out her hands. “You’re both idiots. Give her to me.”

  Sean didn’t object as Nell snatched the wailing tot from him. She turned the infant to rest snugly against her shoulder and began patting the little girl’s bottom, cooing and pacing. “There now, shhhh, there now, shhhhh. It’s all right. Mama will be back soon. Shhhhh...”

  The child didn’t stop sobbing entirely, but the decibel level dropped. Behind Nell’s back, Trixie raised her eyebrows at Sean. Judging by his expression, he too was surprised. They had no time to dwell on it, however, as Mary returned laden with a metal strongbox. She set it down on the kitchen table with a thump.

  “I could have helped you,” Sean said.

&nbs
p; “I’m quite capable of carrying it,” Mary said. “Opening it’s a different matter.”

  “I can take care of that.”

  As Sean produced the small silver key, Mary took Elizabeth from Nell and the child quieted. Sniffling, she buried her face against Mary’s neck.

  Sean had the box open. Taking a seat, he extracted a ledger, some files and several large envelopes. He opened the ledger first.

  Trixie moved to peer over his shoulder at two pages crammed full of bold masculine handwriting. Her curriculum during her years at Smith College had prepared her for a life of letters and genteel living but not the business of business—much less the business of bootlegging. All those entries and numbers might have spoken volumes to an accountant but could have been written in Cantonese for all the sense they made to her. “What’s it all mean?” Trixie asked.

  Distracted, Sean only shook his head as he turned several pages, pausing every so often to read. He soon laid the book aside and opened one of the files, which contained bank statements in John Murphy’s name as well as his legitimate and not-so-legitimate business enterprises. Closing the file, he chose one of the manila envelopes and opened it.

  “Are you sure you won’t reconsider that cup of tea, Mrs. Murphy?”

  At Mary’s question, Trixie looked up to see that Nell had taken a seat across from Sean. She watched Sean intently as he reviewed the contents of her dead husband’s strongbox. “No, Mrs. Patterson.”

  “Damn it,” Sean said. He cursed again, more explicitly, under his breath. “Johnny’s last words didn’t have anything to do with a key or his brother. Danny didn’t hear him right.”

  “What?” Trixie looked too late to see the sheet of paper he’d been reading as he shoved it roughly back into its envelope.

  He focused on Nell, angry. “You know what’s in here, don’t you? You knew all along.”

  “Some,” Nell answered cryptically, “but I’m sure not all of it. Egan was right. Johnny never told anyone everything. Not even when we were together.”

  “Your name is here too. You were in business with Johnny.”

  “I did business with him, Sean. There’s a difference.”

  “Like technically legal and not so legal.”

  “Like all legal,” she corrected again. “There’s nothing in there that can incriminate me.”

  “What’s there?” Trixie repeated, annoyed at their little tête-a tête. She couldn’t tell if Sean was angry with Nell or being protective of her.

  “I’ll explain later.” Sean tossed the envelopes and files into the strongbox. The ledger was last, landing on top with a smack before he swung the lid of the box down and locked it.

  “What are we going to do?” Trixie asked. “Take this back to the authorities?”

  “What authorities?” Sean sounded disgusted as he shoved the strongbox key into his trouser pocket.

  Nell took the opportunity to press her suit. “So maybe you’ll listen to me now. There’s still time to leave the country. The Fíorghra doesn’t lift anchor until tomorrow.”

  “There’s always the feds,” Sean said pointedly.

  Nell said nothing.

  “It’s getting late,” Mary announced from where she stood holding Elizabeth, who had fallen asleep. “I have rooms and there’s still warm stew if you’re hungry.”

  “Maybe I can make some phone calls in the morning.” Sean looked at his wrist watch. He sounded tired.

  “Then it’s settled,” Mary said. “I’ll put Elizabeth to bed and ready some rooms.” With her chin, she indicated oaken cupboards over the sink. “You’ll find clean bowls there and spoons in the drawer.”

  Trixie was starving, but she had another, more pressing need as Mary turned to leave the room. The Shinnecock Inn had electricity when most in these parts did not. Trixie hoped it had indoor plumbing as well. “Have you a powder room?”

  “Yes. This way.”

  Leaving Sean and Nell to assemble their modest meal, Trixie followed Mary from the kitchen and up a narrow creaking staircase to the second floor. Ledgers and numbers and paper records were all well and good. Sean had that part in hand. It was the story behind the story that Trixie was interested in.

  Once again, the time had come for some girl talk.

  * * *

  When Trixie emerged from the bathroom several minutes later, Mary was alone, pulling the door closed to a room at the end of the dimly lit hallway. When she opened the door to the next room, Trixie followed to find her turning up the light on a kerosene lamp next to a single brass bed.

  “Can we talk, Mrs. Patterson?”

  Mary didn’t look up as she turned down the bedspread. “You’re a reporter. I suppose that means you ask rude questions.”

  “I’m just interested in everyone’s version of the truth,” Trixie said, refusing to be deflected. “Do you know what’s in that box?”

  The other woman scowled dismissively. “I couldn’t care less what’s there. It didn’t have anything to do with John and me.”

  “But he left it with you.”

  “That’s because he trusted me not to nose around in his business.” Mary gave her a sharp look as she tightened the sheets. “If you want to know what’s in there so bad, why don’t you ask your boyfriend?”

  Trixie was taken aback by the sting of Mary’s remark. She opened her mouth to tell her that Sean was certainly not her boyfriend, then shut it again. This woman was nothing if not frank, and Trixie believed her when she said she didn’t know about Johnny’s business. Her relationship with Johnny had been strictly personal—very personal, Trixie guessed.

  Personal enough to have reasons to want John Murphy dead?

  Pussy footing around would get her nowhere with Mary, and that included denying her own feelings for Sean. Trixie let that go and went for broke. “Was John Murphy Elizabeth’s father?”

  Mary didn’t look up. Neither did she miss a beat as she proceeded to turn up the heat on a radiator. “Elizabeth’s father is not up for discussion. You can dig all you want and you’ll find no record, no proof to say one way or the other who fathered my daughter. She’s mine. That’s all that matters.”

  Answer enough.

  “I understand,” Trixie said. “It’s Johnny I’m interested in. No one will learn about Elizabeth from me.” She waited, hoping that the truth of her statement would sink in. Mary briskly brushed by her into the hallway and opened the door to the room adjacent. Trixie followed. “Off the record, Mrs. Patterson. Just between you and me, how did Johnny react?”

  Mary reluctantly paused at her task. The truth was that Trixie could choose to write whatever she wanted and Mary could do little about it. They both knew it.

  She faced Trixie and folded her arms. “At first not well, but then, after Elizabeth was born, he changed. He was fascinated by her. He started to bring toys every week when he came to visit. A month ago, he opened a bank account for her. There’s over fifteen thousand dollars. Even so, I got the idea that he would’ve been happier if Elizabeth was a boy.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  Mary gave a mirthless laugh. “He asked me once if I wanted to try again...for a boy. He made like it was a joke, but—some nerve, huh? I guess most fellas want sons.”

  Jeepers creepers, what a lout. Trixie wanted to say it, but didn’t. “Oh, I don’t know about that. You gave him a beautiful daughter. What more could he want? Did you love him?”

  Mary looked taken aback. “Love him?”

  “You had a child with him,” Trixie pointed out.

  “Well, I suppose I...” She frowned. “I cared for him, of course. I just always knew not to—”

  “To what?”

  Mary shook her head, began again. “John always liked to say how much he loved women.”

  Trixie snor
ted. “Sure, but mostly on their backs.”

  “Yes. The man was a sex hound, but he could also be charming and surprisingly generous. He had a temper, but he never raised a hand to me and he treated me well, yet for all that, I don’t think he understood women much.”

  “In what way?”

  “Oh, like last week, bringing his fiancée here to stay. As soon as she fell asleep, he came tapping at my bedroom door. He seemed honestly puzzled when I turned him down.”

  “Not very smart?”

  “Oh, he was plenty smart. He was just blind to the pain he could cause. See, in John’s mind, he loved us all, but he put us into separate boxes. What he did with one woman had nothing to do with the next. A girl can’t give her heart to a man like that. It would end up eating her alive.”

  Trixie found it ironic that the man Mary described would be sentimental enough to name his schooner Fíorghra. “Sounds to me like Johnny wasn’t capable of loving anyone.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe not, but if he loved any woman in his own fashion, it was that one downstairs.”

  “Nell?”

  “He almost never mentioned that fiancée of his, but he talked about his wife a lot. About their business, about their fights. She bothered him, infuriated him, thrilled him, made him crazy sometimes. It made me wonder what it was about her that got so far under his skin. Now that I’ve met her, I guess I know.”

  “They were the same.” Trixie spoke it even as it came clear to her.

  “Yes, exactly,” Mary said. “They were the same.” She turned away then, putting an end to their conversation, and tended to her chores.

  * * *

  When they were through with their dinner, Sean rose from his seat, thanked Mary, then excused himself, saying he needed some air. His implication, that he wanted to be alone, was clear, but Trixie wasn’t about to be so easily thwarted. As long as Nell was within earshot, Sean wouldn’t discuss what he’d found in John Murphy’s strongbox, but if she could get him alone, she hoped to coax something out of him.

  No sooner was he gone than Trixie feigned a yawn and pushed back from the table herself. “Golly, I’m bushed. I think I’ll turn in.”