The Admiral of Signal Hill

by Michelle Knowlden

  THE ADMIRAL OF SIGNAL HILL

  ∞

  Michelle Knowlden

  The Admiral of Signal Hill

  A mystery novella

  In 1922, Alice and her private detective boss leave their Chicago office to consult on a bootlegger’s death in Long Beach, California. Discovering that Robbie’s murder is linked to two others, Alice and Joe meet with a housekeeper having a litany of opinions and stories, an unforgettable handyman, a rich man’s mad wife, and the Admiral who lives under Signal Hill.

  In the shadows of trenches and prehistoric whale bones, this mystery novella tells of WWI survivors, their friends, and the ghosts that haunt them.

  The Admiral of Signal Hill

  Copyright 2015 Michelle Knowlden

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Epilogue

  An Excerpt from Sinking Ships

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Long Beach, California

  March 1922

  “I smell murder.”

  At Joe’s exuberant words, Alice shivered. On the mist-shrouded station platform, the older woman walking in front of her turned and blinked anxiously at Joe. Hurrying away, the woman disappeared in the stream of other passengers leaving the train. Next to Alice, two young females batted their eyelashes at Joe and giggled.

  Alice took her boss’s arm and headed to where porters stacked the arriving passengers’ luggage. She sniffed, but smelled nothing of murder. Instead, the briny air proved a heady tonic for a Chicago girl.

  “It’s best not to discuss the case publicly,” she said.

  He grinned at Alice, unabashed. “The police say everyone in California’s talking about it.”

  “Not all of the police.” Keeping an eagle eye on their luggage and a firm hand on Joe, she hailed a porter. “Your Officer Reynolds is not discreet.”

  To the porter, she said, “The black trunk and brown satchel with ivory ribbons are ours. Would you fetch them to the taxi stand, please?”

  They strolled through the station to the stand outside, neither glancing back at the porter. When Alice issued a command coupled with a honeyed tone and steel in her hazel eyes, even smart-mouthed street urchins leapt to do her bidding.

  “We’re set to freshen up at the Harbor Inn,” she said, “and then meet Officer Reynolds before lunch at the Long Beach police station.”

  Joe nodded, his enthusiasm waning as he watched the porter and a cabbie maneuver their luggage into a taxi. His free hand flicked absently at the roses lining the sidewalk, morning dew scattering at his touch. Alice had worked for Joe Finnegan since she arrived at his detective agency seven years ago, fresh from secretarial college. Feeling his muscles go rigid through the rough sleeve of his suit, Alice recognized the incipient signs of shellshock. Her fingers tightened on his arm.

  “I’ve put the case notes in your attaché,” she said.

  Still facing the roses, he didn’t react to her touch or words.

  He’d seen something. She looked behind them and hunted through the people milling in front of the station—the ones hurrying to the ticket office and those leaving for other destinations.

  Seconds later she spotted the man in the wheelchair, his left arm and leg missing, the his face hideously scarred. A nurse pushed the wheelchair toward the arched columns of the station. Patient and nurse vanished inside.

  He could have been maimed in a hundred different ways, but Alice knew, as Joe did, that the young man was a casualty of the Great War. It may have ended three years earlier, but the reminders of Belleau Wood and Flanders Field still lived among them.

  “The consult won’t take long.” Alice squeezed Joe’s arm as they moved to the open door of the taxicab. “Dead bootleggers aren’t that uncommon. An investigator with your skills will find the answers fast.”

  When he turned to her, she saw old nightmares flare in his eyes.

  “It’s not my skills they want.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Harbor Inn wasn’t as nice as Officer Reynolds promised, but it would do. Especially if their stay was short. Alice unpacked her satchel in a thrice, shaking the wrinkles from her blouses and skirts. She hung them in the wardrobe, the only nice piece of furniture in her room. The lodgings were clean, the bed looked comfortable for all that it squeaked, and a fresh breeze blew in from the window.

  She made use of the lavatory at the end of the hall, the only one on the floor. Afterwards she checked Joe’s room at the top of the stairs. He wasn’t in it and his trunk sat unopened at the foot of his bed.

  When she heard paper rustling in the room below, she quickened her pace down the stairs. Standing at the parlor door, she studied Joe Finnegan. His jacket had disappeared. His shirt was rumpled, but he had shaved and slicked back his hair. Fingering a note of plain stationary, he stared out the window, his eyebrows drawn together. His shoulders bunched under the lawn of his shirt in a predatory fashion.

  For the moment, he’d shaken off his demons.

  She moved to the kitchen where two maids halted mid-conversation to stare at her curiously.

  “May we help you, Miss?” asked the one with tight red curls half-hidden under a white cap.

  Alice suppressed a sigh. The girl was Joe’s type. She turned to the sallow one wearing spectacles. “Would you retrieve the gray jacket from Room 14 for Mr. Finnegan? He’s in the parlor.”

  The girl nodded. The door swung shut after her.

  When Alice returned her attention to the redhead, the girl’s eyes sparkled. “Is Mr. Finnegan your husband?”

  The girl knew he was not. No rings interrupted the smooth line of Alice’s gloves.

  “I am Mr. Finnegan’s secretary,” Alice said. “Would you prepare a tray for us? Black tea, no sugar, no cream, two sandwiches and fruit. Fresh if you have it.”

  The Inn only served breakfast, but Alice suspected they had the makings for a simple lunch. The redhead nodded after the briefest hesitation.

  “You want it in the parlor or breakfast room?”

  “Parlor. Thank you.” Before she could depart, the girl leaned forward.

  “That Mr. Finnegan is a looker, no doubt about it. Is he a movie star? Is he here to do a film?”

  Alice never understood why women threw themselves
at Joe. For those who liked that sort of thing, he had the brooding look of a Romantic poet and the graceful moves of a cat. Joe was an inch shorter than her and three weeks younger. She preferred men taller and more seasoned. Quieter in temperament too.

  She didn’t mind him for workdays, but heaven help the woman who took him on full time.

  Alice shook her head. “Not a movie star. A private sleuth. Returning soon to Chicago.” As she headed for the parlor, she added silently: And he’ll have no time for the likes of you.

  She found the other maid in the parlor handing Joe his jacket with the reverence of holy vestments.

  Joe brightened at Alice’s entry. “You’re here! Excellent. Reynolds left a message for us to meet him in Bixby Knolls.”

  “I’ll order a taxi,” she said. “That will give us time to eat before it arrives.”

  He looked around with interest. “You found something to eat?”

  His melancholy had vanished. Good. He was in fine fettle for dealing with the homicide.

  Alice called for a taxicab from the lobby telephone and upon returning to the parlor, she found the saucy redhead laying out their lunch and chattering about popular Long Beach nightspots. Joe seemed amused by the attention, but his fingers drummed impatiently on the sofa’s armrest. When Alice dismissed the maid, Joe reached for a sandwich.

  “Officer Reynolds wishes you to see the murder site before examining the evidence at the police station?” She settled in the wing chair near the window with a deviled egg sandwich and orange sections. “What can remain at the scene after months exposed to the elements?”

  “Someone was killed there earlier this morning. Not far from where the bootlegger was murdered.”

  A thrill ran down her neck. “Another bootlegger?” she asked calmly and set aside her sandwich.

  “Reynolds didn’t say. I suspect not.”

  “Why?”

  Swallowing a massive bite, Joe mumbled, “He wouldn’t call me to the neighborhood to view a bootlegger’s body.”

  Alice finished her sandwich while ruminating that Reynolds had no compunction in bringing them from Chicago for the first murder. What wasn’t Joe telling her? What had he meant earlier when he said he wasn’t acting as a detective here?

  A horn blared outside. She gathered her things while Joe wrapped his sandwich in a napkin and pocketed it in his coat.

  Fog still drifted in the streets. On the way to Bixby Knolls, the driver talked about the bathhouse and boardwalk at the Pike. He urged Alice to see the fortuneteller there. Apparently she’d predicted the meeting of him and his future wife. None of these pastimes interested Alice. March was too early to be bathing in the ocean, even for California, and she trusted more to her instincts about husband material than to a charlatan on the pier.

  The driver’s patter about salt water taffy and the carousel aroused her interest till she registered Joe’s inattention. That meant no time for sweets and brass rings.

  When they arrived, the taxi parked near a group of onlookers, mostly women hungry for scandal. Joe asked the driver to remain and helped Alice alight from the automobile. He abandoned her when he saw Reynolds heading for them. Joe’s gaze shifted to the cluster of people standing around a mound in a park-sized front lawn. A large white house sat at the top of the lawn, its windows staring vacantly at the crime scene.

  She could see nothing of the body that lay fifteen feet away because of the standing and crouching men, some in uniforms and some in plain suits. According to Joe, a handyman discovered the body several hours ago. She understood why Reynolds allowed the body to remain at the killing site for Joe to view, but not why others still studied it. Were California policemen slower than those in Chicago, more thorough, or had they come late to the scene? None appeared to be interested in Joe, but perhaps they had heard of his work and lingered to observe him.

  “’Morning, Al,” Reynolds said after shaking Joe’s hand.

  Alice’s lips tightened. Even after seven years, Reynolds treated her with too much familiarity. He showed up in their Chicago offices every six months, purportedly because he liked the local fishing. He talked to Joe about cases, often bringing him to California as a consultant. It flattered Alice when Reynolds suggested she should come this time but she wished he wouldn’t call her “Al.”

  Joe rarely called her anything but Kid when barking orders at her or Doll when he was in a good mood. He would never call her Al.

  “It’s Miss Glenn.” She clarified the point with a hint of steel in her voice.

  “Sure it is.” Reynolds’ gaze strayed to Joe. “You call on the Admiral yet?”

  Alice straightened alertly. Admiral? Was this the real reason they were here? Odd that Joe would know an admiral. He’d been in the infantry during the war, not the navy.

  Joe shook his head, moving without invitation to the crime scene. “I thought it best to have all the details before seeing him.”

  Alice never questioned Joe or the police while in the field. Instead she produced a pencil and stenographer’s pad and sketched the area around the murder site. From the sidewalk along a street that curved upwards to the left and out of sight, she then shaded in the hedge to the right that hid the body from anyone passing by. Then up the stretch of lawn to the sprawling white mansion with its slate roof, four chimneys, and a widow’s walk with a cunning fence.

  Why so many chimneys in a place as warm as California?

  The house would have a fabulous view especially from the widow’s walk. The rich liked hills because of the impressive views, and knolls had canyons and curves that hid secrets.

  She debated climbing up to the porch so she could sketch farther into the trees separating the houses. In the end, she joined the small mob hovering over the draped body.

  “… around four a.m. The medical examiner said he was killed likely by his throat being slashed ‘though he had plenty of damage to his belly and hands too.”

  Reynolds consulted his notes as he talked. Alice jotted down the particulars on her pad. When he looked up, he winked at her. Ignoring him, she scribbled more details about the grass torn around the body and the clods of dirt piled nearby. Evidence of the victim struggling with his attacker? Or attackers? Something more sinister than a desperate man’s attempt to escape?

  The murder site was hidden from the street and most of the main house by the shadow of the tall hedge. Had someone tried to bury the body? Perhaps he’d been interrupted and left the body exposed.

  “Kid.” Joe nudged her. “Write this down. Victim was a Walter Silver. Insurance agent. Had on office on Pine Street. The police have informed the wife.”

  Not a bootlegger then. “He had a client near here?” Alice asked.

  Reynolds shrugged. “No one’s answering the phone at his office. Wife said she hadn’t seen him seen he left for work yesterday morning. Nothing in his pockets say he was meeting anyone. Probably trolling for customers in the Knolls. A neighbor said she saw him stuffing mailboxes. She got nothing herself.”

  Joe nodded at the large house topping the lawn. “Did the owner see anything?”

  Reynolds’ attention drifted to a clutch of women standing on the sidewalk. Two of them were in curlers and one held a steaming cup in her hands. A uniform stood between them and the body, but they’d drifted closer since Joe and she arrived. One puffed out her chest and wiggled her fingers at Joe.

  To the disappointment of the eavesdroppers, Reynolds gestured to the walkway that led to the house. Alice and Joe followed the policeman to where he paused halfway to the porch, out of earshot of the neighbors and house residents. At this vantage point, Alice could see farther down the street where their taxicab waited, the driver smoking a fag and kicking the curb.

  “That’s the thing,” Reynolds said. “The owner’s dead too. His wife killed him ‘bout five months ago and stashed the body under bags of gravel in the basement. No one noticed him missing for a month. House workers thought he was in Idaho visiting his sister. It was the sister wh
o alerted us. Thought something fishy had happened to her brother.”

  Alice wrote swiftly. “House workers?”

  “Yeah.” He referred to his own notepad. “Edna Jeffers is the housekeeper. She lives in a room off the kitchen. Gordon Laughlin is their handyman and lives above the garage.”

  A curtain moved on the second floor. “They’re still living there?” she asked.

  “The sister’s trying to sell the elephant and doesn’t want it sitting empty till she does.”

  “What happened to the wife?” Joe asked.

  “Court decided she was cuckoo. She’s in an asylum ‘bout 20 miles north of here.” Reynolds grimaced at the house. Seeing it closer, Alice decided she didn’t like it. It reeked of neglect and calamity.

  “The housekeeper said the woman was always delicate. Evan’s sister said her sister-in-law suffered from nerves.”

  Joe’s eyebrows lifted. “Yet she had the gumption to do in her old man and stow him in the basement?”

  “That’s what’s got me crazy.” Reynolds tugged at his collar. “Stanley Evans—that’s the owner—was stabbed. Same for the bootlegger nine weeks later, when Mrs. Evans was locked in a hospital mental ward. And that’s how this insurance fellow was killed. Nearly five months after the owner was murdered.

  “When the bootlegger turned up here with a knife in his ribs, we thought he was making a delivery and another bootlegger didn’t like him treading on his turf. We didn’t find the weapon that did in the owner. Coroner figured the wife used a steak knife, cleaned it good, and put it back where it belonged. The pig sticker used on the bootlegger is the same kind of Bowie knife carried by the riffraff in speakeasies and on the waterfront.”