Murder, She Reported

by Peg Cochran

  Elizabeth made one last run down to the pressroom and then grabbed her coat and hat and was out the door before anyone even noticed. She put her hat on in the elevator and pulled on her gloves as she walked across the lobby.

  A taxi pulled up to the curb as Elizabeth was leaving the building. An older woman, with her gray hair pinned up in a French twist and her arms bulging with shopping bags, got out. Elizabeth decided to take the taxi to Pennsylvania Station—she’d left the newsroom later than she had intended.

  She waited while the woman fished some bills out of her alligator purse and paid the driver. Finally, Elizabeth got into the cab and told the driver to take her to Pennsylvania Station.

  Traffic was light as the taxi sped across town, finally depositing Elizabeth at the curb in front of the station. She paid the driver and hurried up the steps and into the main concourse of the terminal.

  She stopped for a moment to glance at the clock hanging between the arches on the far wall. Her train departed in ten minutes. Fortunately, there were only three people in line at the ticket window. The clerk handed her a yellow ticket marked Good only in coaches between NEW YORK (Penna. Station) and AQUEDUCT.

  With her roundtrip ticket in hand, Elizabeth checked the signs and found her way to the stairs leading to the platforms for departing trains. She was a little nervous but excited, too—this was the first time she’d ventured on an unfamiliar line to someplace she’d never been before. She took a deep breath to steel herself and stepped onto the platform.

  Only a few people were waiting and when the train arrived, the car was nearly empty. A man sat in the last row of seats by the window, his head lolling on his chest, a bottle wrapped in a paper bag clutched in his hands. His clothes were ragged and dirty, and the top of his right shoe was separating from the sole.

  For a moment, Elizabeth thought of changing cars, but the man seemed harmless enough. He probably rode the train so he would have a place to sleep where he would be warm and safe and out of the elements. She kept a wary eye on him and took a seat as far away as she could. She could imagine what her mother would say—and her friends for that matter—if they saw her riding the train with a derelict. They spent their lives carefully insulating themselves from the suffering of the poor and mentally ill.

  Elizabeth tried to concentrate on planning what she was going to say to O’Doyle, but the swaying motion of the train and the monotonous clack of the wheels on the rails soon had her nodding. She woke with a start as they pulled into the Rego Park station and when the train left Ozone Park, Elizabeth began to gather her things together.

  She waited at the door behind two other people: a man who looked very nonchalant, as if he visited the track regularly, and a woman who was wearing too much makeup and a very liberal application of Shalimar.

  The wind had died down somewhat since that morning, and the rain had stopped by the time Elizabeth got off the train at the Aqueduct Racetrack station, although the skies were still overcast.

  As Elizabeth neared the racetrack the odor of horse manure and horseflesh drifted toward her on the air along with the sound of people yelling and cheering. She bought her ticket at the window and entered through the gates.

  The roar of the crowd intensified and was combined with the sound of horses’ hooves pounding the pavement. The grandstand was filled and men in overcoats and felt hats crowded along the rails shaking their fists in the air and yelling encouragement to the jockeys.

  Elizabeth caught a brief glimpse of the track, the bright reds, blues, pinks, yellows and greens of the jockeys’ silks flashing by like the colors in a kaleidoscope.

  A few men in short jackets and tweed caps stood at the back of the crowd, straining to see, sheaves of racing forms clutched in their hands, desperation written on their faces.

  “And it’s Dusty Dutchman by a length and a half!” the announcer yelled over the loudspeaker, and the crowd went wild.

  A young man standing near Elizabeth ripped off his cap and tossed it into the air. He turned around, grabbed Elizabeth by the lapels of her coat and kissed her before running off to cash in his ticket.

  He’d so taken her by surprise that Elizabeth was momentarily stunned and stood staring after his retreating back until he disappeared, swallowed up by the crowd.

  She opened her purse, rummaged around for her handkerchief and dabbed her lips carefully. She hoped he hadn’t smeared her lipstick. She managed to fish her compact out, open it and check her reflection in the mirror.

  By now the next race was about to start. Spectators pressed against the rails, and a hush fell over the crowd.

  “And they’re off!” came over the loudspeaker and a deafening roar went up as the horses thundered around the track, their motion shaking the ground. Elizabeth could only glimpse the race through breaks in the crowd, but the announcer kept up a rapid-fire play-by-play of the Thoroughbreds’ progress around the oval. “Slap-happy is fourth to the outside….Candy Thief is out front with Margarita closing in on the lead….Outside Counsel is all the way in the back field….Candy Thief and Margarita are moving together on the first turn….Jaywalker is coming all the way up to battle with the leaders….Here comes Candy Thief and Margarita into the final furlong….It’s Margarita out in front….Margarita wins by a nose!”

  The crowd went crazy, emitting a mixture of whoops of triumph and groans of despair. Candy Thief had been the favorite to win but the DeWitts’ horse had come out in front in spite of the odds.

  Elizabeth knew it would be a while before Margarita was led back to the stables and she would be able to talk to O’Doyle. She pulled her camera out of the case. She might as well get some photographs. Perhaps the Daily Trumpet could use them on the sports page.

  Soon the horses were thundering around the track again in the next race and the announcer was proclaiming, “It’s Exotic Day by a length and a half!” A short while later, Exotic Day was paraded into the winner’s circle.

  Elizabeth began making her way through the crowds in what she hoped was the right direction. The ground beyond the stands was rutted and muddy from all the rain that had fallen. The mud sucked at Elizabeth’s shoes, threatening to pull them off with every step.

  At one point she stopped a young man in a thick wool sweater and tall rubber boots and asked directions to the barn. He looked at her curiously but pointed toward a large wooden structure about seven hundred yards in the distance.

  Elizabeth’s hands and feet were freezing by the time she reached the barn. It felt good to be inside and out of the wind, which had picked up again, causing the temperature to drop.

  Margarita was standing outside her stall, a red blanket matching the DeWitts’ colors draped over her glossy dark back. O’Doyle was bent over, applying something to Margarita’s legs. He looked up when he heard Elizabeth enter the barn.

  He was terribly handsome, Elizabeth noticed. No wonder Gloria had fallen for him. He had thick dark hair and cobalt blue eyes. Up close, Elizabeth noticed there was a small chip in his front tooth and a smattering of freckles dotting his nose and cheekbones that gave him a boyish appeal.

  “Congratulations,” she said. “I’m Elizabeth Adams from the Daily Trumpet.” When O’Doyle looked skeptical, she added, “I’m also a friend of Gloria DeWitt’s. Would you mind if I took a few photographs?”

  “Of Margarita? Sure. Let me finish putting the poultice on her legs.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a clay mixture that helps her legs recover after a race.” O’Doyle slapped the horse on the rump affectionately. “She’s a winner, aren’t you girl?”

  “I imagine the DeWitts are pleased.”

  “Sure are. Do you want me to take her blanket off?” O’Doyle said as Elizabeth focused her camera on Margarita.

  “No, that’s fine. Why don’t you stand with her?” She motioned toward the horse with her free hand.


  “Me?” O’Doyle looked stunned.

  “Why not? You’re her trainer, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but we don’t usually pose with the winners.”

  “I think it would make a nice photograph.”

  O’Doyle looked uncomfortable but stood next to Margarita. He winced when the flash went off.

  Elizabeth was still trying to decide how to broach the subject of Gloria’s coming-out ball. Should she lead into it subtly or simply plunge in and hope for the best?

  “Did you have a good time with Gloria at the Waldorf?” she said as she inserted a new flashbulb.

  “What?” O’Doyle’s eyes were wide and startled.

  “I saw you and Gloria dancing together. You made a wonderful pair. I think they were playing ‘Begin the Beguine.’ I’ve always loved that song.”

  “You were there?”

  “I was taking pictures for the Daily Trumpet.”

  O’Doyle gave Elizabeth a smile that absolutely oozed charm.

  “You won’t say anything, will you?” he said persuasively. “I’d lose my job if Mr. DeWitt found out.”

  “My lips are sealed.” Elizabeth put her camera back in the case. “It must be difficult for you and Gloria. I mean, given that her father doesn’t approve. And I don’t imagine Frances approved either.”

  O’Doyle stroked Margarita’s neck. “That’s the truth. Gloria said her stepmother was trying to marry her off to some old geezer with money.”

  “That must have made you mad.”

  “It sure did. Say, wait a minute. You don’t think I had anything to do with Gloria’s old lady’s murder, do you?”

  “Did you?”

  As if sensing her trainer’s tension, Margarita snorted and tossed her head.

  “Steady, girl,” O’Doyle said, patting her reassuringly. He turned to Elizabeth. “Listen. I left the Waldorf right after Gloria and I danced to that song—‘Begin the Beguine.’ I had to change clothes and then catch a late train to Long Island in order to exercise Margarita first thing in the morning.”

  “You did?” Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. Was he telling the truth?

  “Sure. I took the train. Look—I’ve still got my ticket stub.” He dug in his pocket and pulled out a canceled train ticket. He handed it to Elizabeth.

  She glanced at it. O’Doyle was right. In order to make this train he would have had to have left the ball well before Frances was killed.

  So why did Gloria insist he’d been with her for the entire ball?

  Chapter 21

  Elizabeth made her way back from the barn toward the racetrack. It had started to drizzle again. Crowds of men in homburgs and fedoras were still pressed against the rails as horses continued racing. She heard the announcer yelling, “And it’s Handy Andy by a nose!”

  She shifted the strap of her camera case to her other shoulder and edged her way through the crowd milling around in front of the grandstand. One young man in a worn navy jacket and a tan cap stood with his face in his hands, his shoulders slumped dejectedly, the day’s racing form under his arm. As Elizabeth passed him, he dropped his hands and stared off into space, oblivious to the crowd swirling around him.

  Elizabeth passed a group of three men in dark overcoats, their hats pushed back on their heads, grinning and slapping one another on the back. One of them slipped a silver flask from the inside pocket of his coat and passed it around. When he noticed Elizabeth looking at him he winked and put a finger to his lips.

  She smiled and nodded and kept moving through the throng. A couple was exiting the grandstand. The woman had her hand tucked firmly—possessively—in the crook of the man’s arm. He was expensively dressed in a dark cashmere coat with a paisley silk scarf tucked into the open neck. The woman was wearing a cheap-looking fur jacket, a dress that was more appropriate for a cocktail hour than a horse race and a pair of strappy high heels that forced her to tiptoe across the soft muddy ground.

  Finally, Elizabeth passed the gates at the entrance to the track and headed toward the train station.

  The wind began to blow harder and by the time the train chugged into view, she was cold to the bone and dreaming of her nice warm home and a cup of hot tea by the fire in the living room.

  The platform was lined with people waiting for the train back to the city. Elizabeth was sandwiched between a man leaning on a cane and a woman with a large pocketbook that kept poking her in the back when she climbed the stairs into the railway car. She took a seat toward the front, by the window, hoping no one would sit down next to her.

  No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than a young man approached.

  “Mind if I sit here?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer but slid in beside Elizabeth.

  “I’m Tom.” He held out his hand.

  His breath washed over Elizabeth—it reeked of alcohol. She touched his hand briefly then recoiled into her seat, pulling her coat around her.

  “So did your horse win?” Tom smiled at her, his words slightly slurred.

  Elizabeth thought about Margarita. “Yes. She did.”

  “ ‘Good show, old chap,’ as the Brits would say.” Tom hiccoughed. “My horse lost its footing coming into the final turn and ended up finishing at the end of the pack. More’s the pity.”

  “I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said and turned her head to the window.

  The heat in the car didn’t appear to be working. Elizabeth put her hand over the vent, but only cold air blew out. She shivered and huddled further into her coat. Her toes and the tips of her fingers were painfully numb, and she thought about changing cars and glanced at her seatmate. He was slumped forward, sound asleep, a bit of drool snaking from the corner of his mouth like the silvery trail left behind by the passage of a snail. She didn’t want to go to the bother of waking him. Besides, what if the heating wasn’t working on the train at all?

  She tried to take her mind off her discomfort by thinking about her conversation with O’Doyle. Was he telling the truth about leaving the ball early, before Frances was murdered? He could have picked that canceled train ticket out of the trash.

  If he was telling the truth, then why did Gloria insist he was with her the entire time? And who dropped the tuxedo rental receipt in the ladies’ room if it wasn’t O’Doyle? Maybe the receipt wasn’t related to Frances’s murder at all?

  Elizabeth rubbed her temples. The cold was making her sinuses ache and her head was beginning to hurt. She was longing for a warm place to curl up and a hot cup of tea to warm her hands.

  Afternoon was turning into early evening. The street lamps had come on and lights twinkled in the darkness surrounding the train tracks as they passed through one town after another.

  Elizabeth’s seatmate was still asleep—snoring gently and swaying with the motion of the car. Elizabeth bit her lip. Should she wake him? She had no idea where he was meant to get off and didn’t want him to miss his stop.

  Suddenly his snoring stopped abruptly and he sat up, shaking his head. He peered out the darkened window as they pulled into the Brooklyn Manor station, grabbed his hat from the overhead rack and bolted for the door.

  Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief and stretched out her legs. They were pulling out of the station when a thought occurred to her.

  What if Gloria wasn’t giving O’Doyle an alibi? What if Gloria was giving herself an alibi by claiming to have been with O’Doyle the entire evening?

  Maybe Gloria was the one who had rented the tuxedo for O’Doyle and had dropped the receipt accidentally—dropped it when she followed Frances into the ladies’ room and shot her to death.

  * * *

  —

  The train came to a halt between the Rego Park and Grand Street stations. Elizabeth stared out the window but could see no reason for the delay. The conductor came rushing through
their car, but before Elizabeth could stop him and ask him why they weren’t moving, he already had the door to the next car open.

  The more Elizabeth thought about Gloria, the more she felt she had to know the truth. Had Gloria been using her? Had Elizabeth been aiding a murderer all along?

  Gloria certainly didn’t look like the sort to pick up a gun and kill someone in cold blood, but there was an underlying ruthlessness in her—a disregard for other people. Elizabeth suspected it came from having her every whim indulged and catered to. It was well known that no one ever said no to Gloria.

  Elizabeth decided she had to go and talk to Gloria as soon as she got back into the city. If the train would ever get underway. She peered out the window again, but she couldn’t see any more this time than she had the last time she looked.

  Finally, with a bone-wrenching jolt, the train began to move—slowly at first and then picking up speed until the lights outside became a blurry streak through the darkened window. Elizabeth was tired and chilled and sighed with relief when they pulled into Pennsylvania Station.

  After studying the subway map, which involved a lot of changes and a certain amount of walking, Elizabeth decided to hail a taxi.

  People were lined up in front of the train station waiting for a cab, so Elizabeth began to walk east to Seventh Avenue hoping for better luck. By now it was raining again, and somehow one of the spokes on her umbrella had broken. Water trickled off the umbrella and dripped down her back. She decided that instead of being hot and filled with fire, hell was no doubt a place that was cold, damp and wet.

  Cars streamed along the avenue. Taxis passed Elizabeth at breakneck speeds, horns blaring as they wove in and out of traffic. Every last one was occupied. The rain had picked up and, despite her umbrella, Elizabeth’s coat was now damp from the knees down. She felt as if she’d been wet and tired for an eternity.

  A passing car sent a wave of water washing up over the curb. Elizabeth stared in dismay at her silk stockings, which were now splotched with mud.