His face still a blank, Joe crisply saluted and headed for the door. Alice followed on Joe’s heels, aware of Pierce behind her. The lantern illuminated the way and the large curving bones of another leviathan in the left wall, hidden in the dark earlier. She ran into Joe when he suddenly stopped.
Rubbing her nose, she said, “Geeze, Boss, what …” And then she saw it.
Among the whale bones, a smaller set of bones protruded. For a moment, she thought them more prehistoric bones, the size of a dolphin or a …
Joe whirled around. “Alice, don’t look …” But it was too late. In the enormous whale ribcage, she saw a human skull and the long fingers of a human hand.
Joe grabbed her arm and hurried her to the door. Alice started shaking as he fumbled for the handle. She glanced back to see Pierce following more slowly, letting the lantern light linger on the bones. At the end of the jagged scar on his face, he wore a faint smile.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Anything stand out in what the Admiral said?” Joe asked.
As Alice dug out her stenographer’s pad, her boss leaned against the small market (still closed), eating the squashed sandwich from the inn and staring down the pitted road for their taxicab. From her vantage point near a boulder behind the bodega, Alice thought he looked tired but not wrestling with his demons. A good thing.
The crackling of squibs from over the hill caused her to flinch, but Joe only smiled. “Rough day?”
She straightened. “No.” She itched to ask about the Admiral and how Joe knew him, but they were on a case and that came first. Still, she couldn’t let one thing go.
“Joe, tell me about that skull in the wall or I’ll inform Reynolds.”
Pocketing the sandwich wrappings, he looked at her with surprise. She had never threatened him before. No matter the reason, a good secretary wouldn’t. But that fragmented skull leering at her from the belly of a prehistoric whale merited a harsh tone.
Joe met her challenging glare. “It has to do with the war,” he said.
Which immediately deflated her. It had been an unvoiced agreement between the them that terrible things had occurred to and around Joe Finnegan during the Great War. Alice stood guard over Joe (both metaphysically and practically) when the ghosts appeared, but they never discussed it.
Shockingly, Joe crossed that silent perimeter. “His name was Jonah Luciano.”
When he didn’t continue, she made a tentative foray of her own. “Jonah? As in the one swallowed by a whale?”
A faraway look appeared in Joe’s eyes. “Jonah was in our platoon. When we talked about death, he asked us to pitch his mortal remains into the sea if anything should happen to him. He believed that a whale would recognize him as another Jonah and swallow him whole.”
Wondering what magic had loosened Joe’s tongue, Alice scarcely breathed. Had it been seeing the Admiral?
“He died in a bombing party. Shot near a trench as we approached. When he fell in, he yelled the order to drop our grenades. Afterwards we found only part of his head and bits of bone and uniform.” He studied his hands, not lifting his gaze to hers.
Alice felt sick but a secretary always listened. Maybe talking would begin to heal his horrifying memories. “Why did you not put him in the sea?”
“The Admiral took charge of his remains. I thought he had put him in the sea. A few years ago, when he invited me to visit his bunker under Signal Hill, I saw what he’d done with Jonah.”
“It seems …” She hesitated. Then in her forthright way, she continued, “It seems macabre to me.”
This time his gaze met hers. “Being in the belly of a whale was what Jonah wanted.”
Since he didn’t seem to sink in a funk after his extraordinary revelations, she felt safe in returning to something more prosaic. She settled on the boulder and consulted her notes.
“We learned more about the bootlegger, Robbie Tauscher. We know his death was not the result of bootlegging. The Admiral …” She hesitated over his title. Gritting her teeth, she continued.
“The Admiral proposed two options for Mr. Tauscher’s death. One, that he’d seen something he shouldn’t have. He conjectured that had something to do with Mr. Evans’ murder. Two, that he’d attempted to blackmail Evans’ killer and was murdered as a result. The bootlegger also mentioned that the handyman was covered with blood with a ‘wild look in his eyes’ about the time the owner might have been killed. As at least two men filtered that information before it reached the Admiral, it could be unreliable.”
“Anything else?”
She wanted to ask why no one thought the Admiral or one of his hooligans murdered the three men. Perhaps they’d killed Mr. Evans for not paying his liquor bill. Although why they then hid his body under bags of gravel in the Evans’ basement made no sense. What she knew of smugglers, and that was very little, it behooved them to advertise retribution openly to discourage others who might welsh on their own bills.
Perhaps Officer Reynolds would use Joe’s entry into the Admiral’s world to find out that very thing. She should warn her boss.
“The Admiral mentioned that killers who use knives stick to that method.” She wrinkled her nose remembering his words: By someone who enjoyed sticking a knife into a man, twisting it, and feeling blood warm his hands.
Joe shifted. “That’s not news. Reynolds already believes that one person killed the three men.”
She chewed the inside of her cheek. “That man Pierce …” Joe frowned at her but she plowed on anyway. “He has a knife wound on his face. Officer Reynolds said that knife fights were common in speakeasies and on the waterfront. If Pierce…”
“That’s not a knife wound.”
She blinked at him. “How do you know that?”
“Because Pierce’s face was scarred by the grenade that killed Jonah Luciano.”
Fortunately for all her secretarial protocols and sensibilities, the taxicab hove into sight, preventing her from pelting him with the questions long pent inside her.
In the taxicab, his own lips quirked seeing hers tightly compressed. “Doll—when this is over, I’ll tell you about the Admiral, Pierce, and that bunker under Signal Hill.”
She relaxed the hold on her purse. “Everything?”
His smile widened. “Not everything. A sleuth’s gotta have some mystery about him. Now give me a minute to look over the folder the Admiral gave me.”
She allowed herself a disdainful sniff.
The driver distracted her for the rest of the trip, trying to pry information from her about what they’d done at Signal Hill and why return to the crime scene at Bixby Knolls. Alice would like to know about the latter herself. When Joe finished skimming the folder, he changed the conversation to harvesting abalone off the coast. That took them to their arrival at the white house on the hill.
Except for a single copper standing over the piles of dirt, no one and no thing remained of the insurance man’s death.
“Time to meet the handyman.” Joe moved jauntily up the long path to the house. She trailed behind him, still thinking about the scar on Pierce’s face. Had it really been a grenade or had Joe somehow injured Pierce? That would explain why Pierce had been hostile to Joe in the tunnel. Hostile wasn’t the right word. She wasn’t sure why Pierce had delayed in allowing them into the Admiral’s office. She wasn’t even sure that emotions played a part in it.
She had time to catch her breath after the climb. It took a good five minutes for someone to respond to the bell.
“Yes?” A broad woman dressed all in white answered the door: white shoes, white stockings and a smart ivory brooch with a white feather on her left shoulder. Her dress fell below her knees—a white sheath with a lace overlay, not above the knees like what flappers wore. She did wear her dark hair faddishly short and pressed into waves.
“Edna Jeffers?” Joe asked.
“Yes?” The large woman looked ready to slam the door shut.
“We’re working with the Long Beach police depar
tment on Mr. Tauscher’s death. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
She looked Joe over good. She may have been old enough to be Joe’s mother, but her interest wasn’t maternal.
“How do you mean you’re working with the police? Are you G-men?”
“No, ma’am. We’re consultants.”
She blinked. No, she batted her eyelashes at Joe. Not once had she looked at Alice.
“Consultant sounds mighty fancy.”
“Don’t mean to be.” Joe often modulated his own accent to be more sympathetic. Alice could have told him that his looks had already roped in Edna Jeffers.
“We’re like you, Mrs. Jeffers,” he said. “We do the housework for the department. We sweep the area for anything the police might have missed, we organize the evidence, and we offer a fresh view from a dirty window.”
“That’s not me,” she said.
Joe frowned. “Pardon me?”
“First off, I’m not the housekeeper. And I ain’t a Mrs.”
Alice searched her notes. “I apologize, Miss Jeffers. The police told us you were, are, the housekeeper for the Evans.”
She ignored Alice. Stepping from the doorway, she stood between Joe and Alice. The woman looked bigger when the sun illuminated her. Joe didn’t seem unnerved, but Alice checked to see if the policeman at the crime scene was watching.
Playing with her feathered pin, Miss Jeffers sashayed back to the doorway. If she hoped to seduce Joe with that smile, she hadn’t a chance. Even if she’d been younger or prettier, her smile did not soften her obsidian eyes.
“I weren’t paid for keeping house. You understand me?”
Joe nodded carefully. “You offered the Evans a different sort of service?”
She eyed Joe again, but this time not like he was a prime cut of meat. Now she seemed to be speculating on how much she could shock him. “More a service for Stanley, though his wife didn’t seem to care much about what we did.”
After years of working with Joe, Alice was familiar with the seamier side of mankind. She didn’t have to like it, but she could listen to the sordid details without reacting.
“Miss Jeffers, you are giving us an excellent reason for why you would kill Stanley Evans.” Joe’s face was unreadable, but his tone invited her to reveal even more.
It had the opposite effect. Her lips thinned. “Why would I kill my meal ticket?” she spat. “I get nothing from him being dead. Didn’t you hear the sister’s selling the house? Soon as that happens, I’m out on my keister.”
She inched the door shut. “You done with your questions?”
“We’d like to talk to you about Gordon Laughlin,” Joe said.
She immediately widened the door. “You think Gordy did it?” The thought seemed to interest her, but her tone dripped scorn.
“We heard Mr. Laughlin was present for all three murders.”
She shrugged. “What of it? He’s Johnny-on-the-spot most nights. He don’t have anywhere else to go.” Her eyes shone black and fathomless. “I was here too. So were most of the neighbors. More important, the woman who killed Stanley was here. His mad, sad, useless wife did him in.”
“I’m more interested in Mr. Tauscher’s death, Miss Jeffers. Did Gordon Laughlin’s behavior seem suspicious that day?”
Miss Jeffers pursed her lips. “Tauscher’s the bootlegger, right? Not the fellow found this morning? In any case, I don’t pay Gordy particular notice.”
For the first time, she cast a coarse look at Alice. “He should be in his apartment above the carriage house if you want to talk to him yourselves. I got better things to do with my day.”
She shut the door with a distinct snick.
On the hike to the garage, Joe smirked. “Takes all kinds, don’t it?”
Alice said nothing. Just like a man to excuse a woman just because she flirts with him. She expected Edna Jeffers was that particular sort of woman who would use whatever charms she had to make her way in life. And look at her now. Already bemoaning the loss of the house she’d had rent-free for these many months. Nary a grateful mention of the man who had hosted her or the poor wife now in an asylum.
Not that she approved of the situation, but people like Edna Jeffers fixed their own fates. She saw it nearly every day working for Joe.
At the top of the stairs, Joe rapped on the door to Gordon Laughlin’s apartment. From this vantage, Alice had a view of neat Japanese farms and city roads that wound nearly to the sea. The view from the widow’s walk at the top floor of the house would have been spectacular.
After Joe knocked a third time, the door swung open, loosing smells of unwashed clothing, charred beans, and things even more unsavory. A narrow man loomed over them and then backpedaled into the gloom when the light struck his eyes.
“What d’you want?” Laughlin definitely had a surly manner.
Alice compressed her lips. Mid afternoon and the man was well on the way to a bender. A thought arrested her. Perhaps he started drinking from the guilt of killing the insurance agent.
In Joe’s inimitable way, he stepped over the door threshold with a friendly grin. “Mr. Laughlin, we’re consultants for the Long Beach Police Department. I’m Joe Finnegan and this is Alice. Thank you for giving us a few minutes to talk about the murders.”
Laughlin retreated, and Joe followed him step-by-step, his grin never fading, till he and Alice stood well inside the apartment.
“Okay,” Laughlin said. “But just a few minutes. I got stuff to do ‘round the grounds.”
“I understand.” Joe nodded emphatically, ignoring the cigarettes piled high in ashtrays, one still smoldering, and the reek of alcohol on the man’s breath. “Your time’s valuable. Alice, you sit there. More comfortable for taking notes.” He pointed to a wooden chair, probably the cleanest seat in the place. Alice sat.
For furniture, the apartment had a worn sofa, a much-patched, over-stuffed chair, and a scarred coffee table in the middle of the apartment. An unmade bed was tucked at the front. At the back of the apartment, a small galley contained a sink, a narrow counter, an icebox, and an old-fashioned potbelly stove. Two interior doors were cracked slightly open. Probably a washroom and a closet.
“Mr. Laughlin…” To the detriment of his slacks, Joe sat on the sofa.
Laughlin eased into the patched chair. “It’s Gord. Just Gord, Mr. Finnegan. No need to talk highfalutin with the likes of me.”
Alice expected the man to be bitter about his low status among the well-to-do of Bixby Knolls, but he only sounded defeated. She compressed her lips again. He should stop drinking then and make something better of his life. Opening her steno pad, she flipped to a page past her numerous notes on Miss Jeffers and started a fresh one for the handyman.
Her boss leaned forward from the sofa. “Thanks, Gord. And you call me Joe, okay?”
Laughlin nodded.
“Miss Jeffers says you were here the nights the three men were killed. Is that right?”
At Miss Jeffers’ name, Laughlin tensed. “I ‘spose I was.”
“You afraid of Edna Jeffers, Gord?”
He shook his head slowly and then stopped, his face turning almost green with the motion. “No. She been better to me than most.”
Alice found it difficult to believe that Miss Jeffers had a kind bone in her body. Maybe her attentions to men might be considered “better” to lost souls like Gordon Laughlin.
“Did you see or hear anything the night Robbie Tauscher was killed?”
Gordon rubbed his close-cropped hair. “Which one were he?”
“The man who died three months ago. The bootlegger.”
Now he scratched his unshaven chin. “Nah. I didn’t see anything.”
“When Mr. Evans died? He was the first one, yes?”
Ignoring the stub still smoldering in the ashtray, Laughlin shook out another Camel cigarette. “I didn’t even know he were dead till they found him under all that gravel. Funny thing.”
He lit the fag on the third t
ry and dropped the spent match in the ashtray with trembling fingers.
“I heard you were seen covered with blood about the time he died.”
The handyman froze. “I don’t recall when … Are you talking ‘bout the time the butcher wagon spilt all that blood outside the kitchen door? It were just cow blood, sir. Mrs. Evans told me about it happening and asked me to clean it off the back porch area. Took me a fair piece to scrub it down and I ‘spect I got some on me. Had to burn that old shirt afterwards.”
“Do you remember any fights at the house ‘bout the time Mr. Evans was killed?”
Laughlin ducked his head. “There were always fights. Mrs. Evans wasn’t right in her head, and she would go at him something fierce. Sometimes she would throw stuff. Edna was always having to clean up broken glass and such in the middle of the night.”
“Do you know why they fought?”
“Drinking, I suppose. Don’t all wives pester their men about that? I think they fought about him having other women, too. Least, so I heard.”
“Heard from …?” Joe asked.
Laughlin ducked his head again. “You know, just heard ‘round. That he had women on the side. The rich generally do, don’t they?” He concentrated fiercely on the glowing tip of his cigarette.
“Did you know Mrs. Evans well, Gord?” Alice glanced up in surprise at Joe’s gentle voice. He’d been friendly to the drunk from the start, but now compassion softened his questions.
“Not well. It was Mr. Evans who gave me the marching orders about what to do ‘round the house and yard. Once she asked me to prune back a bush and another time to cut some roses for the house. If she were sitting on the porch, I’d say “G’day, ma’am.” Unless she were crying. Then I’d just walk past without a word.”
“She cried a lot?”
He nodded. “Yep. Like I said, she weren’t right in the head. Cried most days. Yelled most nights.”
“You think she killed her husband?”
Laughlin started to say something and stopped. Finally he mumbled, “They arrested her, didn’t they? That says it all.”
The Admiral of Signal Hill Page 3