Murder, She Reported

by Peg Cochran

  “You look like your horse just came in at the track,” Kaminsky said, picking up his mug and staring into it. He shrugged, took a glug of the cold coffee and shuddered.

  Elizabeth could hardly stand still. “It’s about Frances Dewitt’s murder,” Elizabeth blurted out. “My friend Irene told me that—”

  “Whoa.” Kaminsky held up a hand. “Start at the beginning. Remember the newspaper reporter’s creed—who, what, when, where and why.”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath. “Okay. My friend Irene works…worked…at the Peacock Alley in the Waldorf. Frances was in the bar the night of her murder arguing with a man. I managed to obtain a photograph of Guy Dupont—the man Lady Darlington said stole her jewels—”

  Kaminsky raised an eyebrow. “And how did you obtain this photograph? I hope you haven’t let yourself in for trouble.”

  “No, no.” Elizabeth shook her head. “My means were strictly legal and aboveboard, I assure you.” She perched on the end of Kaminsky’s desk and leaned closer. “I showed the photograph of Dupont to Irene, and she identified him as the man Frances had been arguing with. And I saw Dupont myself later on that same evening talking to Frances.”

  Kaminsky leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “And?”

  “And I think Frances and Dupont continued their argument later in the evening and that he followed her into the ladies’ room and shot her.”

  Kaminsky whistled. “That might be true. And it probably is. But it’s not a story until we can prove it.” He stared into the depths of his coffee cup. “I wonder how the tuxedo rental receipt the cops found ties into it? Or does it?”

  Elizabeth felt her face fall. “I don’t know. Maybe the receipt had been in the ladies’ room for days.”

  Kaminsky frowned. “I doubt it. I’m pretty sure they do a better job of cleaning than that at the Waldorf.”

  Elizabeth jumped off Kaminsky’s desk and began to pace in front of it. A thought was swirling around in her head, but she couldn’t quite get hold of it. What was it? Was it something Rose had said last night? She thought it might be.

  “Whoa, Biz,” Kaminsky said. “Stop pacing, would you? I feel like I’m watching a tennis match at Wimbledon. You’re giving me a pain in the neck.”

  “Sorry,” Elizabeth said, standing in front of Kaminsky’s desk.

  Somehow the mention of tennis brought her mother to mind. Poor Helen’s broken leg meant she might not be able to play in the spring. She’d be devastated.

  Her mother. It was something her mother had said. Elizabeth snapped her fingers.

  “You mentioned the receipt the police found in the ladies’ room.”

  The door to the newsroom banged open and two reporters tossed their coats toward the hooks on the wall and dashed to their typewriters.

  Kaminsky glanced at them. “Must be a breaking story.”

  “About that receipt,” Elizabeth continued, lowering her voice. “Maybe the killer had to rent dinner clothes for the evening.”

  Kaminsky examined his fingernails. “I would think that rules out Dupont. I imagine that a set of dinner clothes is something of a necessity in his line of work.” He gave a bark of laughter.

  “True. But perhaps someone else was there that evening who did need to rent dinner clothes.” Elizabeth pointed a finger at Kaminsky. “Last night my mother mentioned that one of her friends—Mabel—knew the DeWitts quite well. She called Gloria a ‘handful’ and said Gloria had a penchant for inappropriate men. Like stable boys. If she’d invited someone like that to her debut, they would most certainly have needed to rent dinner clothes.”

  “But why would they want to murder Frances?”

  Elizabeth’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know.”

  “My money’s still on Dupont, but why don’t you have a chat with your pal Gloria and see if she’d added anyone unexpected to her guest list that night.”

  Chapter 13

  Perhaps she would ask Gloria to lunch, Elizabeth decided, as she scurried back to the office with the cup of tea and slice of pound cake Estelle had wanted from the coffee shop around the corner. Elizabeth had been grateful for the chance to escape the stuffy newsroom if only for a few minutes. She kept hoping Kaminsky would take her out on a story, but so far nothing of any great interest had come in.

  Estelle had barely looked up when Elizabeth delivered her tea and cake. Elizabeth went back to her desk and reached for the telephone. She hesitated then picked up the receiver and dialed before she could change her mind.

  A maid answered on the third ring.

  “DeWitt residence.”

  “May I speak to Miss DeWitt, please?”

  Elizabeth twirled the telephone cord around her finger as she waited.

  “Hello?” Gloria’s voice coming down the line was breathless.

  “Gloria, this is Elizabeth. I wondered if you were free to have lunch. I thought perhaps the Colony?”

  “Do you have some delicious news for me?”

  Elizabeth hesitated. “I’ll tell you over lunch.”

  “I’m too terribly sorry, darling, but I’m nearly out the door for my dress fitting.” Gloria was silent for a moment. “Why don’t you meet me at Madame Louise’s on Sixty-fourth Street. It’s a tiny shop between Madison and Park on the north side of the street. She does the most charming frocks. It shouldn’t take too long and then if you have time we can get a table at the Colony.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll see you there in twenty minutes.

  Elizabeth dashed to the ladies’ room down the hall outside the newsroom. There was one stall, a sink with rust stains around the drain and exposed pipes that banged when the heat came on.

  She powdered her nose, ran a comb through her hair and touched up her lipstick. Her outfit wasn’t terribly smart—a slim gray skirt, white blouse and black cardigan—but everyone’s eyes would probably be on Gloria anyway. Gloria made an entrance wherever she went—she couldn’t help it.

  Elizabeth dashed back to the newsroom, grabbed her coat and was on her way.

  She decided to take a taxi rather than risk missing Gloria at Madame Louise’s. She knew Gloria’s type well enough to know that Gloria would hardly stand around waiting for her.

  Traffic was sluggish going up Madison Avenue but the taxi was warm and relatively comfortable and Elizabeth could look out the window and watch the shops go by. The taxi stopped at a light at Fifty-seventh Street and Elizabeth caught a glimpse of a painting in a gallery window in the Fuller Building—a large and rather shocking canvas depicting a woman in a purple coat posing amidst wildly colorful flowers and patterns.

  The taxi continued up Madison Avenue finally depositing Elizabeth at Sixty-fourth Street. She walked east, scanning the names of the stores until she came to Madame Louise’s. It was a tiny shop but beautifully appointed with a Louis XIV gilt-legged sofa and chairs, a dressing room draped with a gold curtain and a mannequin in the window dressed in a gown with pleats and draping reminiscent of the design made popular by Vionnet.

  A saleswoman, dressed all in black with her dark hair pulled back in a sleek bun, greeted Elizabeth. Her only color came from the red polish on her fingernails. Elizabeth had recently bought some exactly like it—Robin Red by Cutex.

  “You must be Miss Adams. Please have a seat.” She waved a hand toward the sofa. “Miss DeWitt said she was expecting you.”

  Elizabeth perched on the edge of the sofa.

  The dressing room curtain was pulled aside and Gloria emerged in a black silk dress with padded shoulders and slim pleated skirt. She went to stand in front of a large, gilt-framed mirror. She made a face and turned to Elizabeth.

  “It’s for Frances’s memorial service. Father insisted I wear black.” She twirled. “What do you think?”

  “The skirt is rather…short,” Elizabeth said, hesitantly.
>
  “If I may interrupt,” the saleswoman said smoothly. “The fashion in Paris right now is for a shorter hemline.”

  “It does look terribly modern,” Elizabeth agreed.

  “Lucia,” the saleswoman called into the back room.

  Moments later a small woman with gray hair emerged. She had a pincushion attached to one wrist and the front of her flowered cotton dress was covered with bits of different colored threads.

  “Yes, miss?”

  The saleswoman pointed to Gloria. “I think the waist needs to be taken in a little.”

  Lucia nodded and went over to where Gloria was standing. She pinched the dress on either side of Gloria’s waist and inserted several pins.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?” Gloria said over Lucia’s head.

  “I think it had better wait until lunch.”

  “That’s fine with me. I’m positively dying for a martini.”

  “Okay,” Lucia said, stepping back.

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” Gloria called to Elizabeth as she disappeared once again behind the gold dressing room curtain.

  Elizabeth wandered over to a display of hats. She had to admit that hats were her weakness. She was grateful that she looked good in them—not everyone did. She also knew she had a shelf full of them in her closet at home. But there was a darling bit of a pink confection sitting on a display stand that she simply had to try on.

  She removed it from the mannequin head and went to stand in front of the mirror. She put the hat on and glanced at her reflection. No, that wasn’t quite right. She tilted it slightly to one side. Perfect.

  The saleslady glided over toward Elizabeth, her hands clasped in front of her.

  “Do you like it?”

  Elizabeth whirled around. “Yes. It’s positively darling.”

  “You won’t find one like it anywhere else. We have…had…a woman who was very talented when it came to creating hats. Unfortunately, she was in a motor car accident and won’t be coming back.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Elizabeth said as she removed the hat.

  “Hopefully we will soon find someone as talented.” She pointed toward the hat. “Shall I wrap that up for you?”

  “Oh, no,” Elizabeth said. “I’m afraid I was only indulging myself by trying it on. I already have too many hats as it is.”

  The saleslady nodded and glided away.

  * * *

  —

  It was a short walk to the Colony at Madison and Sixty-first Street. Gloria chattered about a range of subjects from the DeWitts’ horse’s chances at Aqueduct that weekend to her opinion of the latest spring gowns from Paris beginning to appear in the shops.

  A handful of people were in the lobby of the Colony, peering into the windows of the Van Cleef & Arpels boutique or heading toward the bar to the left with its blue-and-white-striped linen wallpaper.

  Gloria grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and pulled her to a stop. She inclined her head toward the bar.

  “Isn’t that the Duke of Windsor?” she whispered.

  Elizabeth glanced in the direction Gloria had indicated. A small but very dapper man was seated at a table staring morosely into his martini glass.

  “I think so,” she whispered back and they both giggled.

  The main dining room was red plush with ornate chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. The maître d’ led Elizabeth and Gloria to a table in the front.

  Gloria looked around as she inserted a cigarette into her holder and lit it.

  “Last time I was here, I was seated toward the back.” She gestured behind her. “It looks as if I’ve come up in the world.”

  Indeed, Elizabeth noticed the heads of several of the restaurant’s patrons swiveling in their direction. Although whether they recognized Gloria from all the write-ups on her impending debut in various magazines or from Elizabeth’s photograph on the front page of the Daily Trumpet, it was impossible to say.

  Gloria ordered a martini when the waiter appeared at their table then leaned back in her chair and looked at Elizabeth.

  “So what is this news you have for me?” Her eyes were shining. “Don’t tell me you’ve solved Frances’s murder?”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Hardly. But I have come up with a theory.”

  Gloria leaned forward and put her folded arms on the table. “Let’s hear it. Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “It seems Frances had a lover. Guy Dupont.”

  “Everyone knew that.” Gloria blew out a plume of smoke. “That’s one of the things we argued about. Father would have been devastated had he found out and I begged Frances to be discreet, but she only laughed in my face.”

  “From what I’ve heard, Dupont was in it for the money, not the romance.”

  Gloria snorted. “So he was a gigolo. I’m not surprised.”

  “And we…I…think Frances refused to continue paying him. He got mad, they had a fight—someone saw them arguing in the Peacock Alley bar before your debut—and then he shot her.”

  “You’re brilliant,” Gloria said with a smile as she summoned the waiter. “I’m starving.” She flipped open the menu. “I haven’t been hungry in ages.”

  Elizabeth had noticed that Gloria seemed to have lost weight. Her waist had looked so tiny when the seamstress was pinning her dress.

  “I’ll have the chicken hash,” Gloria said when the waiter returned.

  “The same for me,” Elizabeth said, and the waiter nodded and walked away.

  Gloria took a sip of her martini. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’ve solved Frances’s murder.”

  Elizabeth held up a hand. “It’s not solved, I’m afraid. It’s simply a theory I came up with.”

  “But it fits the facts,” Gloria said decisively. “When do you plan to go to the police with your story?”

  Elizabeth fiddled with her water glass, running her finger through the condensation dripping down the sides.

  “I can’t imagine the police would be interested in my theory,” she said. “I don’t have any specific evidence to give them.”

  “But someone did hear Frances and Guy arguing. You should tell them about that.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  Elizabeth had a sudden recollection of Marino’s card in her purse, where she’d put it for safekeeping. He did say she could call if she remembered anything. The thought of speaking with him sent her heart into a funny pitter-patter for a second.

  The waiter appeared with a tray and placed a dish in front of each of them. He bowed then turned to leave.

  “I’m sure you’ve heard about the police finding a receipt for the rental of some dinner clothes in the ladies’ room the night Frances was murdered.” Elizabeth picked up her fork. “All the papers carried the story.”

  “No, I hadn’t heard that.” Gloria looked down at her plate. “I’ve been trying to avoid the papers, to be honest with you.”

  “The police seem to think the receipt may have something to do with Frances’s murder.” Elizabeth took a bite of her hash. “Or not. No one knows for sure. But the receipt does appear to indicate that someone at the ball had to rent evening clothes, which seems rather peculiar to me.”

  Gloria looked up and tilted her head to one side, her eyebrows raised.

  Elizabeth put down her fork. “Think of the people invited to your debut. Wouldn’t most of them already own dinner clothes?”

  Gloria shrugged and ran a hand through her luxurious dark hair. “I don’t know. Perhaps one of the younger men?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Elizabeth didn’t believe that for a moment.

  “Your ball at the Waldorf was so lovely, it’s a terrible shame that Frances’s murder had to put such a stain on it.” Elizabeth patted her lips with her white linen napkin. “I re
member you certainly seemed to be having a grand time—dancing with that young man—I didn’t recognize him. Do you remember? He was terribly good-looking and such a smooth dancer.”

  “I danced with so many boys that night,” Gloria said curtly.

  But Elizabeth wasn’t giving up that easily.

  “I remember wondering if he was someone you had invited. You danced together so well—as if it wasn’t the first time he’d been your partner.”

  “Really?” Gloria drawled in a bored tone.

  Elizabeth nodded. “He had dark wavy hair…slim. The band was playing ‘Begin the Beguine.’ I’ve always thought that such a romantic song.” Elizabeth looked straight at Gloria. “Are you sure you don’t remember him?”

  A slow flush crept up Gloria’s face, turning her pale complexion pink.

  “I do remember him, but you mustn’t tell anyone.” Gloria grabbed Elizabeth’s hand. “Promise. You have to promise.”

  Elizabeth felt a slight thrill of success.

  “I promise.” She was tempted to cross her fingers behind her back the way she and Rose and James used to do when they were children and about to tell a fib.

  Gloria bit her lip. “All right. I admit it. I invited him. But please don’t tell Father. He’d be so terribly cross with me.”

  “Who is he?” Elizabeth glanced up as the waiter silently whisked away their empty plates.

  “Darling, you’ll think I’m the most dreadful person.” Gloria gulped the remains of her martini. “He’s Teddy O’Doyle. He trains the DeWitt horses.” She sighed. “He’s a terribly smooth dancer, don’t you think?”

  Elizabeth could still picture Gloria and Teddy swaying to the seductive notes of “Begin the Beguine.” All eyes had been on them.

  “Yes, he certainly is a wonderful dancer. But I gather your family doesn’t approve?”

  Gloria laughed. “What do you think? Frances was positively livid when she found out. She was determined I would make a match with that dreadful Vanderberg fellow. And if not him, then someone else with pots of money.” She arched a glossy dark eyebrow. “Certainly not a penniless horse trainer.” She opened her purse and pulled out her cigarette case. “I had to sneak him into the ball, but I must say that rather added to the fun—putting one over on Frances.” She tapped her cigarette several times against the case then inserted it in her holder.