by Peg Cochran
Kaminsky was panting slightly and smelled of his usual onions and whiskey, and there was a stain on his striped tie. Elizabeth couldn’t help but break into a grin when she saw him.
The upstairs maid had since returned from her day off and had taken a distraught Gloria to her room where she’d encouraged her to take one of the pills her doctor had prescribed for her nerves. Half an hour later, the maid had tiptoed down the stairs and disappeared into the kitchen to telephone the doctor for Gloria, who was still in her room sobbing uncontrollably.
“Biz, you’re already here. Great.” Kaminsky looked at Elizabeth again. “Where’s your camera?” He pushed his hat back off his forehead and wiped a hand across his brow. “I heard DeWitt’s been taken into custody.” He turned to Marino, his notepad already in his hand. “Mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”
“Sure,” Marino said.
Elizabeth still felt weak-kneed and sat down on the small bench in the foyer. She leaned her head against the wall. The men’s voices swirled around her and she felt her eyes flutter closed.
“How did you know DeWitt was your guy?” Kaminsky was asking when Elizabeth opened her eyes again.
“I gotta be honest with you,” Marino said. “I didn’t. We finally found the shop that rented out that tuxedo we’d found the receipt for in the ladies’ room of the Waldorf the night Mrs. DeWitt was killed. The owner said it was a dame who had come in to get some dinner clothes for her beau. He said she was real classy looking, and we figured it had to be Gloria DeWitt.”
Kaminsky was scribbling furiously, his stub of a pencil moving across the paper at lightning speed.
“So you figured on Gloria Dewitt as the murderer,” he said.
“Looks like we figured wrong,” Marino answered. “When my men got here they heard Miss Adams scream.” He jerked his head in Elizabeth’s direction. “And when they ran through the door, what do they see but DeWitt holding a gun on Miss Adams.” Marino ran his hands through his hair, and Elizabeth noticed they were shaking slightly. “I’ve got a few questions for Mr. DeWitt, I can tell you that,” Marino said.
* * *
—
It was a beautiful sunny day although cold enough to warrant a heavy winter coat and gloves and a scarf. Estelle Draper wasn’t in the office—she’d called to say she was indisposed. Elizabeth had tried to sound sorry that Estelle didn’t feel well, but she feared she’d failed miserably.
Kaminsky was eating his usual egg salad and onion sandwich, his feet propped on his desk and a book of Ernest Hemingway’s short stories in his hands.
A copy of that day’s Daily Trumpet was already on Elizabeth’s desk, the headline, in bold black type, screaming DE WITT ARRESTED IN MURDER OF HIS WIFE. And underneath, in smaller type, GLORIA DEWITT ADMITTED TO HOSPITAL FOR EXHAUSTION.
Elizabeth didn’t need to read Kaminsky’s story. She knew exactly what had happened. She felt a slight pang at not having been able to get some photographs to go with the story, but overall she was simply glad to be alive.
When the noon whistle blew, Elizabeth took her hands off the typewriter keys and picked up her purse. She decided she wanted to treat herself for lunch, and she thought she’d ask Irene to join her. She bundled up, told Kaminsky she was leaving and headed toward the elevator. She was surprised to find it empty when it arrived.
“Lobby, please,” she said to the elevator operator.
He wielded the controls with a flourish and began whistling “I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm.” By now, Elizabeth knew his name was Jack, that he was dating a girl named Thelma and that he was a Brooklyn Dodgers fan.
“You’re in a good mood,” Elizabeth said as she pulled on her gloves and smoothed out the fingers. “Did you win big on the horses or something?”
Jack snapped his fingers. “Better than that. I asked my girl to marry me and she said yes. We’re going to get hitched in June.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thanks. I sure am a lucky guy.”
Jack beamed as he pulled open the elevator door for Elizabeth.
Elizabeth glanced at the sky as she walked toward the subway. It was bright blue without a cloud in sight. She felt her spirits lift. Rose was feeling much better—Dr. Krause said she was over the pneumonia, and Elizabeth’s mother was learning to get around on crutches. Helen had had lunch with some girlfriends the day before and it had cheered her up considerably.
Elizabeth got off the subway at the Fifty-ninth Street stop. She peered in the windows of Bloomingdale’s—a store that took up an entire city block—and admired the display of pastel-colored spring coats. There was a hopeful air about them.
She walked up Lexington Avenue to Sixty-fourth Street, taking in all the shop windows, then headed west until she was standing outside Madame Louise’s dress shop. She saw Irene through the window fussing over a display of hats.
A bell tinkled as Elizabeth pushed open the door.
“They’re lovely. Are they your creations?”
Irene spun around. Color rushed into her cheeks. “Yes.” Her color deepened.
Elizabeth was pleased to see Irene looking so well. She wasn’t nearly as gaunt as she had been, her hair had a shine to it and there was a smile on her face.
“I can’t thank you enough for getting me this job,” Irene said. She ducked her head and began fussing with the placement of a large-brimmed lilac felt hat.
“Madame Louise should thank me.” Elizabeth laughed. “They were looking for a hat designer, and I found them one. They didn’t even have to pay to advertise in the classifieds.”
This time Irene laughed.
“Would you like to get some lunch?” Elizabeth said. “My treat.”
Irene glanced at the ornate gilt clock sitting on a sideboard. “Sure. That sounds swell. But you’ve already done so much for me—I should be treating you. Although all I can afford at the moment is a meal from the hot dog cart on the corner.”
“I thought we’d go to the Colony,” Elizabeth said. She linked her arm through Irene’s and whispered, “Last time I was there I saw the Duke of Windsor drowning his sorrows in a martini.”
Irene giggled. “You don’t say!”
* * *
—
Elizabeth took her time getting back to the Daily Trumpet since Estelle wasn’t there to chastise her for being late. Kaminsky was on the phone when she walked into the newsroom, scribbling something in the notebook he carried with him everywhere. She was about to hang up her coat and hat when Kaminsky shouted from his desk.
“Keep your coat on and grab your camera. They’ve fished a body out of the East River up by Carl Schurz Park, and it doesn’t look like the corpse decided to take a swim. Apparently, there’s a neat little bullet hole in the back of his head.” Kaminsky clapped his beat-up fedora on his head. “We’ve got ourselves a story, Biz.”
Elizabeth followed Kaminsky out of the newsroom, straightening her hat as she scurried to catch up with him.
“You ever seen a body that’s been in the water for a while?” Kaminsky asked as they waited for the subway. He laughed. “No, I don’t suppose you have.”
Elizabeth felt her stomach turn over.
“There’s something about being in the water that erases a person’s features—bloats them until they’re no longer recognizable. Of course, I don’t know how long our corpse has been in the water.”
“So it’s ‘our corpse’ now, is it?” Elizabeth teased, hoping some bravado would hide the quivering she felt inside.
“You bet. My source promised me we’d get a scoop on this one.”
They got off the subway at Eighty-sixth Street and walked east toward the river. Elizabeth occasionally had to trot to keep up with Kaminsky’s brisk pace. He was obviously anxious to get his story. She, on the other hand, wasn’t anxious to see her first drowning victim.
Although he hadn’t drowned, of course, he’d been shot. She suspected that wouldn’t make any difference.
The police had set up a screen around the body. Kaminsky flashed his press pass and weaseled his way through the clutch of uniformed officers hovering around the scene.
Elizabeth had her hand on the clasp of her camera case as she followed in his wake. The body was stretched out on the macadam path that edged the river. Park benches, facing the expanse of the mighty East River, flanked the path. The police must have cleared them because they were all empty—although perhaps the cold weather had chased away the people seeking a bit of fresh air.
A man was bent over the corpse, observing it but obviously being careful not to touch it. Elizabeth recognized the man’s coat and hat. It was Marino.
He gave orders to the men, and they bustled around him obediently. Kaminsky sidled past the uniformed cops and managed to get close enough to Marino to ask some questions. Elizabeth took out her camera and got as near the body as she could. She began snapping pictures, trying to ignore the onslaught of queasiness at the sight of the corpse.
They were still at the scene as dusk began to fall. Kaminsky wanted a shot of the body being taken away in the van from the morgue. By now the temperature had dropped, and Elizabeth was beginning to feel the cold—her feet, the tips of her fingers, her nose. She stamped her feet and rubbed her hands together vigorously.
“As soon as they load the poor sucker in the van and you get a couple of good pictures, let’s get out of here,” Kaminsky said. “I could do with a couple of shots of Old Schenley’s to warm me up.” He clapped his gloved hands together.
The prospect of a shot of Old Schenley’s was actually beginning to sound attractive to Elizabeth. It would burn going down but the warmth would soon spread to her frozen limbs. Elizabeth giggled. What on earth would her friends think of her now?
Finally, a black van with New York City written on the side in white block lettering pulled up. The uniformed officers shifted the corpse to a stretcher and loaded it into the open back doors of the van.
Elizabeth had been hoping to speak to Marino, but he was busy dealing with the crime scene. She felt a stab of disappointment, which surprised her.
She and Kaminsky were about to leave the park when someone called out, “Biz!”
Elizabeth smiled and spun around. It was Marino.
Kaminsky winked at her and kept walking. “See you later, kid,” he called over his shoulder, touching the brim of his hat.
Marino caught up with Elizabeth. “Are you hungry?” he said.
Elizabeth realized her stomach had been grumbling for quite some time. She smiled. Suddenly she felt as if she could fly.
“Yes,” she said. “I am.”
Marino smiled in return—a mischievous looking grin. His dark eyes were dancing. “Have you ever eaten in Chinatown?”
To my dear hubby who holds down the fort while I write!
Acknowledgments
It takes a lot of people to put a book together. I owe a huge thank you to my spectacular agent, Jessica Faust, who helped me craft and hone the proposal for this series. And a big thank you to my editor, Junessa Viloria, who worked with me to fine-tune the manuscript. Thanks also to Kathleen Reed, the copy editor who saved me from any number of embarrassing errors. And I can’t forget Niloufer Wadia, the artist who created such a spectacular cover for Murder, She Reported.
BY PEG COCHRAN
Murder, She Reported
Murder, She Discovered (coming soon)
Gourmet De-Lite Series
Allergic to Death
Steamed to Death
Iced to Death
Cranberry Cove Series
Berried Secrets
Berry the Hatchet
Dead and Berried
Farmer’s Daughter Series
No Farm, No Foul
Sowed to Death
Bought the Farm
Sweet Nothings Lingerie Series (as Meg London)
Murder Unmentionable
Laced with Poison
A Fatal Slip
PHOTO: ANNIE V PHOTOGRAPHY
PEG COCHRAN is the bestselling author of Murder, She Reported, the Farmer’s Daughter Mystery series, the Cranberry Cove Mystery series, the Gourmet De-Lite Mystery series and the Sweet Nothings Lingerie Mystery series (as Meg London). Originally from New Jersey, she now lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
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Read on for a sneak peek of the next book in the Murder, She Reported series
Murder, She Discovered
by Peg Cochran
Coming soon from Alibi
Chapter 1
SEPTEMBER 21, 1938
Elizabeth Adams grabbed the handle of the door to Madame Louise’s dress shop on East Sixty-fourth Street and pulled. The wind, which had been increasing in intensity all afternoon, nearly yanked it from her grasp.
She stumbled into the shop and grabbed for her hat, which had almost been whisked away by a sudden gust.
“It’s positively frightful out there,” she said, shaking out her umbrella as the salesgirl, Irene Nowack, approached.
“You do look as if you’ve been caught in a tornado,” Irene said.
Elizabeth and Irene had been friends since both were hospitalized with polio years before. Elizabeth had escaped nearly unscathed with a faint limp that only became more pronounced when she was tired, but Irene had been left permanently disabled and had to use crutches and wear heavy metal braces on her legs as a result.
Elizabeth took off her hat and shook it sending droplets of water spraying into the air. She brushed off the shoulders of her coat and fluffed her dark hair with her hands.
“Your new hat is ready,” Irene said with a smile. “I think you’ll like it.”
Elizabeth pulled out the dainty gilt chair and sat down at the vanity where she stared into the gold-framed mirror perched on top. Goodness, her hair was a mess. She pulled a comb from her purse and ran it through her thick waves.
Irene had disappeared into the back of the shop. She emerged with a hatbox swinging by a braided gold cord from the crook of her arm. She placed it on the vanity.
Elizabeth held her breath as Irene removed the top. She peered into the box, where a brand-new hat was nestled on a bed of tissue paper.
Irene lifted the creation out reverently. She frowned at it.
“It’s rather severe, I’m afraid, but you said—”
“That I wanted something serious.” Elizabeth’s eyes lit up at the sight of the black felt slouch hat with the red ribbon around the crown and a black and red feather sticking up as straight as a soldier.
“I could change the feather for a silk flower if you’d like.”
Irene bit her lip as Elizabeth placed the hat on her head adjusting it until the angle was just so.
“No, it’s perfect the way it is,” Elizabeth said. She turned to Irene. “I think it’s quite befitting a newly promoted crime photographer for the Daily Trumpet, don’t you think?”
Irene raised her thin, arched brows. “No more gal Friday duties then?”
Elizabeth shook her head and the feather in the brim bobbed with the movement.
“One of the other photographers retired last week so the editor decided to give me a chance.”
“You’ve already been taking pictures for the paper,” Irene said.
“True. But I was still fetching coffee and typing up the society editor’s daily column as well,” Elizabeth said, wrinkling her nose. “Besides, now they’ll have to pay me more money.”
The thought made her feel a bit guilty. She hardly needed the money—not like girls like Irene who were alone in the world and totally on their own. She wa
s still living in her family’s Madison Avenue apartment with the luxury of plentiful meals cooked by Mrs. Murphy and no need to worry about the rent or finding money to pay the electric company.
“Are you sure you don’t want a flower on the hat instead of the feather?” Irene said. She plucked at the pleats of her skirt.
“I love it the way it is.” Elizabeth removed the hat and handed it to Irene.
“If you’re sure then….” Irene took the hat and carefully placed it back in the box.
Elizabeth pulled her wallet from her handbag and handed Irene two dollar bills. The hat was quite dear, but it was one of a kind—Irene had made it especially for her. Besides, she felt entitled to celebrate her promotion at least a little.
Elizabeth put on her old hat, which was still damp from the rain, and gave Irene a quick hug. She was about to leave when the lights in the shop suddenly went out.
Irene giggled. “Maybe Mrs. Gabor forgot to pay the electric bill,” she said, referring to the owner of the shop.
Elizabeth walked over to the window and peered out. “It can’t be. The streetlights are out as well.” She looked up and down the street. “All the lights are out everywhere.” She turned to Irene. “Something must have gone wrong at the power plant.”
* * *
—
By the time Elizabeth left the dress shop, the wind had increased in intensity again and she wasn’t even halfway down the block before it turned her umbrella inside out. She clung to it for dear life half afraid she would suddenly find herself airborne. Finally she was able to wrestle the umbrella right side up but one of the spokes was now broken and two were bent out of shape. She was tempted to throw it into the nearest trash bin but even half an umbrella was better than none at all.