by Peg Cochran
“But what makes you think the child was Killian’s?” Elizabeth said.
Mrs. Brown’s hand tightened on the knife until her knuckles turned white.
“I saw the way he looked at the girl—always wanting to be near her.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I know he tried to kiss her. I saw him. Men have their urges, you know, and you can’t stop them.” Mrs. Brown’s lips tightened. “And then there was what that doctor done to him. It changed him, I can tell you. It made him quiet but maybe it made him wicked, too.”
“But it wasn’t Killian’s child.”
Mrs. Brown’s eyes went wide and she staggered backwards.
“What are you saying?”
“The child wasn’t Killian’s. We don’t think he got Noeleen pregnant. We think Duff Lambert did.”
“The young man next to the Posts with the fancy sports car? He was the father?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Brown let out a wail that was the most chilling sound Elizabeth had ever heard. Then Mrs. Brown stepped back from the telephone booth and raised the knife in the air.
Chapter 21
Elizabeth screamed as Mrs. Brown lowered the knife and held it to her own throat.
“Don’t do it,” Elizabeth pleaded. “What will happen to Killian without you?”
Mrs. Brown hesitated and Elizabeth grabbed her arm and tugged. She had to get Mrs. Brown to drop the knife.
Mrs. Brown was surprisingly strong and resisted all of Elizabeth’s efforts to get her to let go of the knife. She managed to get it close enough to her neck to slice a long thin line in the skin that immediately filled with blood.
Elizabeth gasped when the blood began to drip down Mrs. Brown’s neck onto the collar of her dress.
She grabbed for Mrs. Brown’s arm again and felt a sharp sting as her hand came in contact with the sharp blade of the boning knife. She pulled her hand back and stared, momentarily mesmerized, by the line of blood that oozed out of the cut, bubbled up and began to trickle under the sleeve of her coat and sweater and down her arm.
“You can’t stop me,” Mrs. Brown said, spittle forming at the side of her mouth.
She held out her wrist, raised the knife high and swiftly brought it down. A deep cut formed, but she hadn’t hit the vein and, while it bled profusely, Elizabeth didn’t think it was serious.
By now, Elizabeth and Mrs. Brown had stumbled out of the telephone booth and were standing on the sidewalk. Although Elizabeth expected that at any moment one of the drivers of the cars going by would realize what was going on and would screech to a halt to help, amazingly, they seemed oblivious to the life and death struggle Elizabeth and Mrs. Brown were engaged in.
A strange look came over Mrs. Brown’s face. It was frightening and Elizabeth quickly took a step backwards. Something had changed—she didn’t know what, but it made her go cold with fear.
Suddenly, Mrs. Brown lashed out with the long, thin knife in her hand, catching Elizabeth on the cheek this time. Elizabeth gasped and immediately put a hand to her face, horrified when it came away dripping with blood.
Elizabeth was stunned, and Mrs. Brown took advantage of her momentary confusion to bring the knife to her own throat again. Elizabeth couldn’t let her do it. If nothing else, Mrs. Brown had to be tried for her crimes so the world would understand what she had done and why.
By now Mrs. Brown had sliced a thin line parallel to the one she had created earlier. Elizabeth suspected that Mrs. Brown was having a hard time actually slashing her own neck. It was a horrible way to die.
But she was wrong. Mrs. Brown held the knife against her throat again, a determined look in her eye. Elizabeth grabbed her arm, managing to turn what might have been a fatal cut into a shallow gash. Still, blood poured from the wound soaking the bodice of Mrs. Brown’s dress.
Elizabeth tried to wrest the knife from Mrs. Brown’s grasp, but the cook changed tack and swiped at Elizabeth’s neck. Elizabeth jumped backwards away from the flashing blade, but Mrs. Brown continued to advance.
The knife was coming toward her. Elizabeth had to do something. She shoved Mrs. Brown as hard as she could. Mrs. Brown lost her balance, teetered for a moment and then fell backwards off the curb and into the street.
Elizabeth closed her eyes and screamed as the brakes of an oncoming taxi squealed loudly. The taxi swerved wildly, narrowly missing a slender ash tree planted next to the sidewalk.
Mrs. Brown landed on her back in the street, the knife falling from her hand and clattering across the pavement and into the opening of a storm drain.
The taxi driver, a middle-aged man with a stomach that strained against the constraints of his navy jacket, jumped from behind the wheel, his face a ghastly white. He stared at Mrs. Brown for a moment before dropping to his knees beside her.
Mrs. Brown rolled onto her side and scrambled to her knees.
“Stop her,” Elizabeth cried.
The neighborhood beat cop was strolling down the street, swinging his nightstick and slapping it against his thigh. He stopped short when he heard Elizabeth scream.
His head swiveled between Elizabeth, the taxi driver and Mrs. Brown. The scene spurred him to action, and he trotted over to where Mrs. Brown was on her hands and knees in the street. The sight of the blood on the bodice of her dress and the oozing wound in her neck obviously alarmed him. He looked around wildly, his face a study in confusion. He was even more startled when he noticed the blood on Elizabeth’s collar and the slash on her cheek.
“I saw them,” the taxi driver said in a heavy Italian accent. “That lady”—he pointed to Mrs. Brown—“had a knife.” He drew a finger across his own throat to demonstrate.
The patrolman looked at Elizabeth as if for confirmation. She nodded.
Just then a patrol car came down the street. The patrolman quickly flagged it down.
Elizabeth got out her camera as they were helping Mrs. Brown into the back seat.
* * *
—
Elizabeth felt no triumph in having solved Noeleen Donovan’s murder. A cloak of sadness weighed her shoulders down. Mrs. Brown was obviously a sick woman. She was glad there would finally be justice for Noeleen, but took no satisfaction in seeing Mrs. Brown go to jail.
It was late when Elizabeth returned to the newsroom. She’d been to the precinct where she was asked to give a statement. While she was waiting for it to be typed up so she could sign it, a young female patrol officer had cleaned and bandaged the cuts on her hand and face.
She retreated to the darkroom as soon as she got back to the Daily Trumpet. She quickly developed the photographs she’d managed to get of Mrs. Brown and, when they were dry, took them over to Kaminsky’s desk and spread them out.
He stared at them in disbelief. “What the…” He swiveled around to face Elizabeth. “What happened to your face?” he asked in alarm.
Elizabeth shrugged. “It’s nothing.” She tapped the photographs with her finger. “What do you think of the pictures?”
“Geez, Biz,” Kaminsky said finally. “I expected you to bring me back some fluff for the story the boss wanted, but this…!”
Elizabeth explained how she had come to the conclusion that Mrs. Brown was the killer.
“What a story this is going to be.” Kaminsky was already inserting a clean sheet of paper into his typewriter. “Pick out the best pictures and let’s get this to the editor in time for the next edition.”
Elizabeth went back to her desk and spread out the black-and-white photographs. She’d managed a close-up of Mrs. Brown as she was being put in the back of the patrol car. Her expression was blank with eyes as glassy as a doll’s.
Elizabeth couldn’t help feeling that it was all her fault. She knew justice had to be brought—she only wished someone else had been the one to do it.
At least Kaminsky was pleased. Eliz
abeth glanced over at his desk where his fingers were flying over the keys of his typewriter, the protruding sheet of paper slowly lengthening until he suddenly ripped it from the platen.
He waved it in Elizabeth’s direction. “I’m taking this to the editor right now,” he said as he pushed his chair back, sending it crashing into the desk behind him.
Elizabeth considered the array of pictures on her desk again. She chose two of them, along with a possible third. The final decision would be up to Kaminsky.
She was about to go get herself a cup of coffee when Kaminsky came flying back into the newsroom, banging the door behind him so powerfully that the pebbled glass insert vibrated from the force.
“Marino’s called a press conference about the Donovan case. I just got word. We’re going to scoop every paper in town. By the time they get their stories printed, it will already be old news.”
* * *
—
A crowd had gathered at the Nineteenth Precinct house by the time Elizabeth and Kaminsky got there. Elizabeth unbuttoned her coat as they made their way through the group of reporters and photographers to an empty spot at the side of the room. Someone’s shoulder caught Elizabeth’s hat, and she put up a hand to straighten it as they waited for Marino to appear.
Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat when he walked out and went to stand in front of the room. She readied her camera as he leaned toward the bank of microphones.
He cleared his throat and the sound echoed around the room. He gave a rueful grin, scratched his chin and began to speak.
“We’ve arrested a suspect in the Noeleen Donovan murder case,” he announced.
There was the sound of papers rustling and flashbulbs popping.
“We’ve arrested a Mrs. Patricia Brown, a cook in the Post household where Miss Donovan also worked as a maid.”
“What evidence do you have?” a reporter shouted.
“We have a confession from the suspect.”
A gasp went through the crowd and the reporters scratched furiously in their notebooks.
“Motive?” someone in the back yelled.
Elizabeth held her breath.
“We’re still exploring that,” Marino admitted.
Kaminsky poked Elizabeth with his elbow. “We’re going to scoop all of them on that count,” he said triumphantly, grinning broadly.
“Is there any connection to the death of Father McGrath?” another reporter shouted.
Marino hesitated. “We’re still looking into that as well.”
The crowd groaned.
“Come on, can’t you tell us something?” a man in a black trilby said.
“You’ll be the first to know when we have more information.” Marino grinned.
The crowd groaned again.
Marino stepped away from the microphones and the reporters began rushing to the exits. It was already too late for them to make the evening edition, but Elizabeth imagined that the news would be on the front page of every newspaper in town in the morning.
But their story would be on the front page of that evening’s edition.
Elizabeth tapped Kaminsky on the arm.
“You go ahead. I’ll meet you back at the newsroom.”
Elizabeth felt slightly sick to her stomach as she made her way against the tide rushing toward the exit. Marino had his back to the room and was heading toward an open door off to the side.
She’d made up her mind. Kaminsky had struck a nerve with his comments about living her life her way. She’d decided she wasn’t going to let Marino get away if she could help it. If he would have her—the thought made her mouth go dry. She licked her lips. She wouldn’t blame him if he said no, but as long as there was the slightest chance he would say yes, she had to try.
She finally reached him. His back was still to her.
“Detective Marino,” she said. “Sal.” She reached out a hand and touched his arm.
He spun around, a look of surprise on his face.
“Elizabeth.”
Chapter 22
Elizabeth’s mother had been quite disapproving when Elizabeth left the apartment wearing high-waisted, wide-legged pants, a short-sleeved emerald cashmere sweater and a short plaid jacket that matched the green of her sweater.
Marino was equally casually dressed in tweed trousers with a V-neck sweater over his open-collared shirt.
Elizabeth felt quite daring as she and Marino strolled arm in arm, with Irene and Tommy Schmidt following behind them, down Surf Avenue toward the red, blue and white towers of Luna Park in the distance.
As they got closer, the weedy smell of the sea intensified, mingling with the scent of food cooking—clams, hot dogs and hamburgers, onions and garlic and cotton candy and frozen custard. And they could hear the barkers enticing customers with shouts of “Three balls for a dime,” “Step right up,” “The ladies play, too!” along with the faint strains of the carrousel organ playing “Bei Mir Bist du Schön.”
It was a beautiful day and the park was crowded with people seeking an afternoon of entertainment for only the cost of a nickel subway ride.
Elizabeth was dazzled by the sounds and smells, along with the sight of the soapy water of the churning sea crashing against the shore. But mostly she was acutely aware of Marino’s arm through hers and the occasional touch of his body.
“Look at that,” Marino said, pointing to the Cyclone where people screamed and threw their arms in the air as the roller coaster plunged down a ninety-four-foot vertical drop. He turned to Elizabeth. “What do you think?”
“Sure,” she said.
Irene and Tommy both nodded their heads.
Marino procured tickets and they climbed aboard. Elizabeth held Marino’s hand as the coaster slowly inched its way up the steep wooden incline to the top where it paused before dropping precipitously and sending Elizabeth’s beret flying.
Then they were climbing again and before they knew it, plunging back down, flying around the curve and coming to a halt where they originally started.
With Tommy and Irene’s help, they soon found Elizabeth’s beret, which had landed on the boardwalk beside the ride. She smoothed her hair with her hands and clapped the hat back on her head.
They ate clams and hamburgers and shared a cone of sweet, sticky cotton candy. The sun sank below the horizon and the lights came on. They were tired but happy.
“One more ride,” Marino announced as they strolled down the boardwalk. “We have to see the lights from the top of the Wonder Wheel.”
The others nodded in agreement.
Elizabeth and Irene sank down onto a bench while the men went to buy the tickets. Elizabeth’s leg was getting tired, and she could only imagine how Irene felt.
“I hope you’re having a good time,” Elizabeth said, turning to her friend. “What do you think of Tommy?”
Irene gave a shy smile. “He’s very nice.” She giggled. “I quite like him, I must admit.”
Elizabeth had been a little worried about fixing up the two of them, but she figured two well-brought-up adults ought to be able to get along for an afternoon. But she’d sensed that there had been an actual spark between them, and judging from the look on Irene’s face, she was right.
“Here we are,” Marino said when they returned. He waved the tickets in the air.
They strolled toward the giant Ferris wheel that twinkled with lights and loomed one hundred and fifty feet over the park.
The wheel shuddered to a stop, the nearest car swaying gently back and forth. Tommy helped Irene inside and Elizabeth and Marino waited for the next car to descend.
Finally they were seated. The car jerked and they began the journey to the top.
“I think Irene and Tommy are having a good time,” Elizabeth said as she watched the lights on the ground retreat farther and farth
er away.
“Tommy is,” Marino said. “He said he’s glad to have met a girl who will accept him as he is. You’d never know it, but he has some sort of seizure disorder. He takes medication and that helps, but not all of the time. Irene assured him it didn’t bother her.”
“I’m glad. Irene likes him.”
They were quiet for a moment, admiring the view as they approached the top of the Wonder Wheel. Elizabeth looked out at the twinkling lights on the ground and the stars overhead. The feeling of being suspended so high in the air was heady and exciting and the darkness made the car seem especially intimate.
“I’m thinking of getting my own apartment,” Elizabeth said, trying to read Marino’s expression in the dim light.
“Really?” He reached for her hand. “Why?”
Elizabeth hesitated. “I want to live my own life.”
Elizabeth heard Marino’s indrawn breath and the car rocked as he leaned forward.
Elizabeth leaned toward him, and their lips met.
“I hope I can be a part of that life,” Marino said, his voice husky, when he pulled away.
“I hope so, too.”
To my dear hubby who has always been so supportive of me on this writing journey.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my wonderful editor Junessa Viloria who helped me make this book the best it could be.
BY PEG COCHRAN
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