All of this creative imagining energized her. She loved being a detective. The more secrets she uncovered, the more she wanted to uncover. How many of those secrets Winthrop could be billed for, or would pay for if billed, dampened her outlook, but only a little. The murderer wouldn’t remain hidden much longer and when she found him, she could sell the story to the Tribune or the Evening Journal. She couldn’t wait to tell Garnick what she’d learned from Stram and Rhetta and to find out what he’d gleaned from his meeting with Verner. She climbed into the waiting hack and directed the driver to take her to the office. This round-trip ride with the wait time would cost even more than her breakfast, but at this moment she didn’t care.
Her qualms about talking with Garnick had melted away. Nothing changed the fact that he was her partner and best friend. She should have guessed he had a woman. He wasn’t a hermit. Released from prison in a city five hundred miles from home, widowed and friendless and alone, he’d naturally sought female society. If she disapproved what sort of female society, she wouldn’t permit prejudice or wounded pride to blight their partnership. That impetuous kiss had unbalanced her, unbalanced them both. She hoped Garnick had lost the desire to explain himself, but if he did say something, she would be rational and understanding and things would return to normal. They would put their heads together, evaluate the suspects and motives, and come up with a plan of action.
Her belongings had to be transported from Mrs. Mills’ boarding house by the end of the day, but that would be a waste of Garnick’s time. In a fit of extravagance, she struck a deal with the hack driver. When he let her out at the office, she gave him the address and cautioned him not to answer nosy questions. He drove off and she practically ran into the office. Garnick wasn’t there.
The tide of excitement ebbed. Where was he? He wouldn’t have left the door unlocked if he intended to be gone long. Maybe he’d just stepped out for lunch. She went to the rear window to see if Leonidas was hitched in his usual spot under the shade of an arching white oak. He wasn’t, but the window had been screened with a sheet of woven wire since yesterday.
Restless and impatient, she sat down to wait. As soon as the hack driver returned with her trunk, she’d be free until Winthrop...drat! She’d forgotten about their dinner engagement. He had to be told to call for her here. His office was more than a mile away and the day was growing hotter by the hour. Even if she could find an available hack to take her partway, her dress would be noticeably the worse for wear by the time she got back. She returned to the window, hoping to spot some loafer willing to deliver a message for the price of a beer. Even if she found a willing runner, there was no guarantee that Winthrop would be in his office and no chance the runner would get the message right unless she wrote it down.
Dear Mr. Winthrop
She crossed that out and began again.
Mr. Winthrop,
Please call upon me at my office this evening. Much has happened and I am preparing a report based on my interview with Rhetta. She doesn’t know where Jack Stram is, but she gave me a ring that Delphine’s lover bought for her. It’s quite distinctive and I believe we can trace the purchaser by inquiring among local jewelers. I will safeguard it in our office – Did that sound insufficiently prudent? – in our office’s undetectable secret safe tonight and will visit the likeliest shops tomorrow.
Respectfully yours,
Mrs. Sinclair.
She crossed that out.
Respectfully,
Detective Paschal
P.S. I will visit Elfie tomorrow as you suggested.
She copied the note over as corrected, sealed and addressed it, and went outside to look for a runner. A well-scrubbed boy of about twelve with ginger-colored hair and freckles came by dragging a collie puppy on a rope. She showed him a half-dollar and a grin broke from ear to ear. “Yes, ma’am!” He took the envelope and set off at a fast clip. The laggardly collie looked back at her with foreboding eyes. Or maybe that’s the way she looked at him.
Where was Garnick? She needed him to volley ideas back and forth, to help put things in perspective.
Having promised Winthrop a report, she went back to her desk and took out the Jackson file. As she filled in the newly discovered facts, she strove to line up the connections. The one character who didn’t connect to the Kadingers in any way she could discern was Ned Handish. Was the big man who paid them twenty dollars to find Stram the same man who choked his wife in Cairo? What if he was paid to impersonate Handish by someone who wanted to locate Jack Stram but didn’t want his identity known? It made no sense. The murderer had used Stram to suborn Jemelle to lie to the police. He must have known where to find him. And what became of all that money Handish had on him?
Moses horns! What if Handish was Delphine’s secret lover? He was big and ugly and his rough manners wouldn’t fit in with a well-to-do family, but the Kadingers had become well-to-do in a rough business. Rolf was a snuff-dipping ex-lumber shover who’d worked his way up from the docks. Delphine may have seen something of him in Handish, or she may have been attracted to Handish’s raw physicality and air of danger. Sexual predilections were inexplicable.
A sound startled her. She looked up to see Burk Bayer smiling at her through the door pane. His auburn hair gleamed with flecks of sunlight and his come-hither gaze was unmistakable. In her current state of mind, Quinn was immune to sexual allure, especially Bayer’s. Notwithstanding his kindness to Rhetta, he remained a cad in her estimation. She affected a pleasant expression and waved him in.
He entered with the lithe, cat-like grace she recalled, more like a dancer than a lumberman. “Pardon the presumption, but you look especially charming this afternoon, Detective Paschal. You must have no criminal apprehensions on your calendar for today.”
“Only if the criminal drops in and surrenders. Is that why you’ve come, Mr. Bayer?”
“I sensed a certain antagonism at our first meeting, detective. May I ask why you seem to hold me in such low esteem?”
“Other than your cruelty to Elfie, I believe you are what the sensation novels refer to as a lady-killer and an adventurer.”
“Ah.” His mouth curved in a half-smile. “May I sit?”
“Of course.”
“You’re an attractive woman. Have you never been the object of a passion you couldn’t return?”
“That is an impertinent question, sir.”
“You claim the sole right to impertinence? Don’t be so coy. I sense a conflict.”
“I am not amused by your repartee, Mr. Bayer. I am, however, curious about your relationship with Elfie. You say she was nothing more than your housekeeper and yet you lived together as husband and wife, you provided for her and appeared with her in public as if she were your wife.”
“She wasn’t coerced. It was her choice.”
“And that choice has ruined her. She stole money from her mother for you. Have you no sense of gratitude? Of loyalty?”
“She’s not ruined. She has no children to raise and she understood from the beginning I would never be bound to her. Elfie’s a knowing girl. She’ll outgrow this obsession and find another man to take care of her.”
“And you will find another wealthy woman and acquire her fortune. You have captivated Miss Allbright already. Is she your next victim?”
“Victim? Come now, Detective Paschal. You’ve had the opportunity to observe Miss Allbright. She has worked hard to make herself eligible for a certain kind of marriage. She is beautiful, empty-headed, and utterly compliant. If I marry her, she will deem it the crowning achievement of her life. As for my affair with Elfie, thousands of men and women cohabit with no intention to marry and thousands who do marry take their pleasure with prostitutes like Jemelle Clary.”
Bantering about prostitution with this preening peacock gave Quinn the fantods. Her thoughts skidded to Garnick and Minnie and she couldn’t disguise her discomfort. “How did you come to know of Jemelle, Mr. Bayer? Did you take your pleasure with her while you
were married to Delphine?”
“I know about her because her name is reported in today’s paper.” He took a folded page out of his side pocket and set it on the desk.
Quinn brushed it aside. “Why did you encourage Fen Megarian to paint Elfie as a modern-day Medea. Was it your intention to make her the scapegoat in your wife’s murder? Did you pay Jemelle to fabricate evidence against her?”
“Forgive me for remarking, detective, but in spite of Mr. Garnick’s homespun manner, he is an altogether more courteous and sensitive inquisitor.”
“Well he’s not here. Will you not answer my question?”
“I didn’t pay Jemelle or anyone else to fabricate evidence. I went to Megarian because I needed to talk to someone. Elfie raved and raged when I told her I was leaving. She wished she was dead, that I was dead, that Delphine was dead. And then Delphine was dead, murdered in a way reminiscent of that play I’d taken Elfie to see. I thought Megarian would be a sympathetic listener. I didn’t expect him to make it into an extravaganza.”
“Land sakes, he’s a reporter. How could you not have expected it?” Quinn’s stays felt too tight, her dress too hot, and an extravaganza of anger seethed under her Cocodette bonnet. Bayer was putting on a performance, trying to be winsome. “Were you aware Delphine had a secret lover?”
His face darkened. “I’d have thought such coarse slander beneath you.”
“If you don’t believe me, ask Miss Allbright. Delphine confided in her, although it was Rhetta who heard what went on in Delphine’s bedroom.”
“If it is your purpose to blacken my wife’s memory and humiliate me,” there was a poignant little catch in his voice, “you have succeeded.”
Quinn couldn’t tell if the emotion was real or played for show, but if his purpose was to make her feel less cocksure of her preconceptions, he had succeeded. “I’m sorry if you didn’t know.”
“I suppose it’s the detective’s prerogative to lay bare the secrets of the dead. No hard feelings.”
She didn’t know how to respond. “I spoke with Rhetta this morning. She said the affair went on until April. She wanted to tell you but didn’t think you’d believe her. If it’s any solace, she didn’t see the man again after Delphine met you.”
“I didn’t know Rhetta was such a busybody. But she was right. Nothing she could have told me about my wife’s character would have made any difference.”
Because it was only Delphine’s money you wanted, thought Quinn, but she bit back a retort. The desire for money didn’t necessarily preclude finer feelings. She said, “Verner insists that he’s his father’s legitimate heir and the will Mr. Cranston read was a fake. He claims the original will was stolen or destroyed and that you substituted a new one naming Delphine, the brand-new Mrs. Burk Bayer, the only beneficiary.”
“He would say that, wouldn’t he?”
“Do you deny altering Rolf Kadinger’s will?”
“I do, but I won’t deny altering his opinion of his son.” Bayer pushed to his feet, patently offended. “Verner is incapable of getting along in this world unless a living is given to him, but Rolf knew that before. What he didn’t yet know was the reason Verner had to leave Germany.”
“And what reason was that?” she asked.
“You’re the detective. Ask him yourself.”
“And where did you dredge up this dirt about Verner, Mr. Bayer?”
“Rolf made no secret of his son’s escapades. The business in Germany was the last straw.” He dropped a business card for Chicago Bank onto her desk. “I came to tell you I’ve opened an account for Elfie in the hope she’ll be acquitted. If she is, give her that.”
Quinn turned it over. There was a hand-written account number on the back.
“It should be enough to see her through until she’s pulled herself together. Tell her it’s a gift from the Christian women who are paying her lawyer.”
“You should give it to her. It would mean a lot coming from you.”
“The only thing she wants from me is the one thing I can’t give.” He expelled a rueful little sneeze of a laugh and started for the door.
“Wait!”
He stopped and turned back.
“I’ll give you a receipt.” She took her time writing, double-checking the numbers of the account, while she organized her thoughts. His good deeds nonplussed her. She blotted the ink dry and handed him the paper. “Do you know Jack Stram and Ned Handish?”
“I saw Stram once or twice. A malicious looking ne’er-do-well. I didn’t like the cut of his jib. Rhetta found him charming, to her lasting regret as I’m sure you discovered. Another example of a one-way passion. The name Handish doesn’t ring a bell. Who is he?”
“That’s what I want to find out. He may have had something to do with your wife’s murder.”
“You sincerely don’t believe Elfie’s guilty, do you?”
“I do not. There are more believable motives for murder than being forsaken by a man. I’m determined to get to the truth.”
“Take care you don’t let that determination lead you into jeopardy.” His eyes twinkled. “Only those with nothing to lose can afford to pull the Devil by the tail.”
Chapter 16
It was that twinkle that galled. Quinn didn’t know if she’d been threatened or mocked. She stared at the closed door, her hand itching to hurl something. Her fingers were clenched around the base of a cut glass inkwell when Garnick walked in. Her heart did a little somersault. She relaxed her grip and tried to sound nonchalant. “You must have rubbed shoulders with Burk Bayer on his way out.”
“We swapped howdy-dos,” said Garnick, equally nonchalant.
“Did he say anything besides howdy?”
“Said he was sorry he missed me. I reckon that was a mite steep.”
“He didn’t say anything else?”
“Nothing of note.”
“It may be. Tell me.”
Garnick gave her a quizzical look. “He asked how my wife died.”
That jolted Quinn. She’d never asked. Had she really been so self-involved? She’d wondered about Lucy, of course, but only in superficial ways. What she looked like, whether she read books, what she and Garnick laughed about, how they related to each other. The questions a caring friend should have asked – how Lucy got by during the war while Garnick was away fighting, the manner of her death, how it affected him – these Quinn had neglected. She felt a ripple of shame. “How did she die?”
“The typhoid. It took her and the baby.”
Another jolt. Quinn had no idea there was a baby. She was preparing herself to ask the child’s name and age but couldn’t find her voice.
Whether it was the look on her face or the pain of remembering, Garnick turned his back and poured himself a glass of water. “It’s another roaster out there. You want one?”
“Yes, please.”
He poured another glass and set it on her desk. He spun the client chair around backwards, straddled it, and leaned his chin on the top rail. “We’d been married just over a year when I was conscripted into the Confederate army in sixty-two. In February they sent me to defend Fort Henry and then Fort Donelson. I musta brought the side bad luck ‘cause we lost both battles. After Donelson, the Yanks took a few thousand of us Southrons captive and I ended up here at Camp Douglas. Lucy and Gabe died that June. Her sister tracked me down and got a letter through.”
Quinn sipped the water and tested her voice. “Gabe. Was he your namesake?”
Garnick laughed, instantly dispelling the pall of sad memories. “You finally pried it out of me, detective.”
She had to laugh, too. “You’re a hard case. Gabriel. Like the Archangel.”
“Let’s keep it down-to-earth with just plain Garnick. But now you got me talking, you want to ask me about anything else? Or anybody?”
She knew he meant Minnie, knew he wanted to make things right between them. The feeling in his eyes was palpable as a touch. What would happen if she simply held out her
arms to him? But something paralyzed her. She’d rushed into Thom’s arms and after the first transport, after the anticipation ended and consummation was achieved, all she’d felt was disappointment and lukewarm duty. Bayer had planted an idea. Maybe she was afraid she couldn’t return Garnick’s feelings the way she couldn’t return Thom’s. Or was she afraid he couldn’t return hers?
“Quinn?”
She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a cliff. They both were. Whatever they said to each other now would either push them over the edge or pull them back. They could remain friends or they could leap into a sea of complicated and unfathomable emotions. She took a sip of water. “Were you able to interview Verner Kadinger?”
He swung off the chair and walked over to the drinks table. He kept his back turned while he poured another glass of water. When he about-faced, his expression was neutral, his tone casual. “Yeah, I whiled away a few hours jawing with Verner last night. I was just about to sum it up for you.”
Quinn felt abruptly let down. Had she wanted him to push harder? Had she outsmarted herself? Too late for regrets. The moment had passed. “Burk Bayer hinted at some kind of serious trouble that forced Verner to leave Germany. Did he say anything about that?”
“No. He mainly maundered on about injustices done to him on this side of the pond. The man’s got no head for whiskey and no fondness for the recently departed.”
“What did he say about his sister?”
“Vain. Headstrong. Heedless of every rule her folks laid down. When she was fifteen, her pa sent her abroad to a finishing school for young ladies in Switzerland. After a few months, the teachers discharged her for being a disruptive influence and she came home, more unruly than ever.”
“She took lovers,” said Quinn in a matter-of-fact voice and embarked on a full report of her conversation with Rhetta. She had just dropped the bombshell about Jack Stram when the hack driver walked in bent-necked with her trunk hoisted across his shoulders.
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