by B A Black
Clarence is a round man of short stature, surprisingly nimble and unfalteringly strong when he needs to be. Small, round glasses complete the picture of a man out of time—something from 30 years ago transposed forward to this date. He’s wearing a filthy apron that perhaps was white two days ago, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up past the elbows to keep them as clean as possible. He’s drying freshly washed hands, and rakes his squinting eyes over Houston.
“Houston Mars. I thought you were one of those heels from the Tribune, you son of a gun,” Clarence says. It isn’t truly warm, but Clarence always emulates the words of someone happy to deal with you, while being wholly unable to match them with a sincere tone. “What are you doing ogling my clients?”
“Working,” Houston says. “Mrs. Winsome asked me to look into Charlie’s death.”
“Charlie?”
“Charles Winsome,” Houston corrects, realizing his mistake. He gestures at the partially uncovered body still mostly under the sheet.
“Alright, Detective Mars,” Clarence says like a tolerant uncle. “But you should know there’s not much of a case.”
“What do you mean?”
“Looks like an accidental death,” Clarence explains carefully. His tone is low and slow, as if he were soothing a spooked animal.
“Accidental, hell,” Houston says, perplexed. “This man’s been in the water.”
“Cause of death is freezing,” Clarence plods on, ignoring Houston’s sounds of protest. “I’m just about done with the paperwork…”
“Open him up, Clarence, there’s water in his lungs.”
Clarence looks Houston dead in the eyes. “You listen to me, Detective Mars.”
He reaches out and gets a hand in the sheet still covering most of Charles Winsome’s body. “The way I see it, the way I’m going to rule it—and a coroner’s jury will agree with me on this—is accidental freezing due to being improperly dressed for the weather.”
Clarence yanks the rest of the sheet off of the water-bloated body, revealing the bright remains of a red-satin dress with a long skirt and plunging neckline, high heeled shoes hanging half askew off the swollen feet. The skirt is twisted up around Charles’ knees, revealing smooth shaven legs and bare, darkly bruised ankles.
It’s a garish image, horrifying in its freshness. Here is the mummy of the museum before time has fully transformed it—human in shape but not in form.
The bruises on Charlie’s ankles, Houston sees—when he can stop looking at the plunging neckline over the bulging stomach—perfectly describe the links in a chain and form an unbroken line around both crossed ankles.
“Now,” Clarence continues when Houston has nothing to say. He begins to tuck the sheet back over the body, hiding the shame. “In the water or out of it, this man froze, and to spare his family and that poor woman out there that he married—since he surely never cared to spare them anything—that’s the last I’m going to say about it.”
◆◆◆
Effectively dismissed, Houston steps out through the main doorway into the hall, lighting a cigarette so he can gather his thoughts before he returns to the waiting room. His mind is in a whirl. What is he to make of it all? The dress, the signs of drowning? The vivid bruises on the ankles?
Something doesn’t add up. It was doubtful that Jacob and the rest of the Sappho oldguard simply didn’t recognize Charlie because he was an Eonist. Houston doesn’t believe that Charlie was really was committed to the idea, if Mrs. Winsome had never seen him crossdress. He doesn’t believe that, before last night, Charlie had ever been anywhere near Sappho—but someone was intent on putting him there.
It’s a setup, and it seems effective—it’s nearly shut down the entire investigation.
Houston gathers himself, pulling his thoughts together. He turns back toward the waiting room door, and suddenly raised voices from behind it catches Houston’s wary attention—two male voices overriding and overwhelming Mrs. Winsome’s lower protests.
With no regard for what he might be interrupting, Houston completes the circle of his path and swings the door from the hall open abruptly and lets himself in. The occupants are so absorbed in their argument, none of them notice his entrance. Houston takes in the scene, and recognizes the figures from the society article in the paper after a moment.
The two older Winsome brothers are powerfully built and like-looking men just starting to go over to age. Houston thinks they favor their father a little more than Charlie, but he never met the man while he was alive. Arthur Jr. is older by two years than his brother Robert, and his hairline has receded into a horse-shoe of greying and thin hair over his ears. He is clearly used to taking the lead.
“Alfreda, be reasonable,” Arthur. is saying. “You don’t want this in the press, do you?”
The brothers have cornered her by standing over the chair she is sitting in. Alfreda Winsome holds her ground like a lioness warning that she is about to lash out.
“Think of your reputation,” Robert says, leering over her with a deliberately intimidating manner.
“Why would I need to, when I’ve got you to think of it for me?” she dares, looking up at Robert with dark, angry eyes. “While you think so hard about your own reputation, anyway.”
“Be reasonable,” Arthur says. “You’re grieving; in shock.”
“As she should be, fellas,” Houston butts in. He can’t abide bullying a woman. “Her husband’s one room over and this is how you comfort his widow?”
Three gazes turn toward Houston—two burning with hostility and one brightening with relief. Houston steps in closer, ignoring the warning glares of the brothers.
“Who the hell are you?” Arthur demands.
“I’m Houston Mars. I’ve been looking into your brother’s disappearance.”
“And a fine job you did finding him,” Arthur says. “He’s no longer missing, Mr. Mars. You can go.”
“I don’t think so,” Houston says. He drops his cigarette on the floor, stepping on it as he elbows past Robert and offers his hand down to Mrs. Winsome.
“Your services are no longer required, Mr. Mars,” Arthur’s voice raises in pitch and volume as Houston disregards him—a man used to instant obedience. “You are dismissed.”
“I have a few more questions for you, ma’am,” Houston tells Mrs. Winsome, as if the burning fury of the brothers is no more to him than a buzzing fly. “And I think you’ve had enough of the morgue today.”
She takes his hand and offered excuse, lifting herself out of the chair.
“Why yes, I think I would like some fresh air after all,” she says. “And then I’d like to go home. I’ll see you there I’m sure, boys. Make sure you pay your respects before you go.”
She walks out with her chin lifted and her back straight, showing strength so the predators won’t start circling again.
Houston guides her out the back door after gesturing for her accompanying patrolman—a stony-faced youth that has the bearing and personality of a soldier at attention—to meet them back there with the car.
“Why the back, detective?” she asks, as they step out onto the dock. There’s no sign of the ambulance or its attendants but tracks in the snow.
“We don’t know what the press has heard. I figured you’d had enough intrusive demands on your time today.”
She goes quiet, as if she hasn’t considered it. Her jaw is firm, resolved. Houston wonders what drives her to it, to see this through when so much is working against her. I wish I’d known her before all of this.
She produces a Camel cigarette from a slim brass case that fits neatly back into her purse. Houston lights it for her. She lets out a deep, frustrated sigh.
“You said you had some questions for me?” she asks, looking at the filthy alley.
“What was all that inside?”
“They want to steamroll me. To avoid a scandal. They know where he was found, what that looks like. Maybe they have some suspicions. They’re worried about what it might
say about the family.”
“Funny that it wouldn’t say something worse to cover up a murder.”
“They want me to let it go, say it was an accident. If I don’t—well. They’ll hold the purse strings, won’t they?”
“Did your husband have a will?”
“Of course he did. And a lawyer, but he’s not as good or as mean as the Winsome family attorney. If they want something to happen, I suppose they’ll make it happen.”
“The coroner seems to be lining up with them.”
“No surprise,” she says, pushing smoke through her teeth with a hiss of displeasure. “They employ his son and buy in at election season. Whelk wouldn’t dare let them hang out any dirty laundry.”
The patrol car noses slowly up the alley, coming to a stop below the dock.
“What do you want to do about it?”
“Are you going to go to the press, detective?” she turns an assessing eye on him.
“Ma’am, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“The money could be good. You’ll know more than they can find out, and they’ll pay for it.”
“You paid me plenty.”
Quiet stretches out as she considers his answer and her own options. “I want to know.”
“They may never come to justice,” Houston warns. “They may never even come to trial.”
She shakes her head and repeats herself with conviction, “I need to know.”
“He doesn’t normally dress like that, does he?”
Mrs. Winsome pulls her lower lip in between her teeth, not in a tentative gesture but a fierce one. She shakes her head.
“Not ever?”
Another shake. “Not even once, Detective Mars.”
Houston believes her.
She hesitates, then says, “Someone put it on him after he was dead.”
“What leads you to that?”
“I had them turn him. I had a hunch. I said I had to see a birthmark on his back.” She sighs out smoke, dropping her cigarette in the snow gathered at the bottom of the dock. “The dress was slit all the way up the back, one neat line. I can’t see any reason to put a dress on yourself or on a live, cooperative subject that way.”
Houston has to agree.
“I’ll come in to your office tomorrow for a new contract and with the next check,” she promises, descending the steps to the waiting patrol car.
“Take care, Mrs. Winsome.”
“You find out who did this, detective,” she pleads, and then she slips into the car and it pulls away.
Houston watches it go, finishing his own cigarette and letting the new information turn over in his thoughts. In his mind, one clear image forms: a silk negligee draped over the tail of a fox.
Suddenly Houston is yanked backwards, almost off his feet and he finds himself shuffled inside again, choking on smoke and spun about to stand in front of the Winsome brothers. They have such stern expressions he can’t help but feel a little bit like a schoolboy called to task.
Houston squares himself up, facing them down without giving any sign of intimidation. He never did like being punished in school.
“You stay out of this, Mars,” Arthur says. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go home and come down with the flu.”
“That’s funny, sir,” Houston says. “I feel just fine.”
“If one word of this gets out, Mars,” Robert chimes in, leaning forward until his reek of cigars and aftershave is nearly overwhelming. “I’m going to hold you personally accountable.”
“Jeez, fellas,” Houston says. “I’m starting to think you don’t want to know who killed your brother.”
Arthur’s neck is bright red, his mouth twisted in a leer that shows his crooked lower teeth in a clear, animalistic threat. “Just stay out of it.”
5.
Houston finds Sal back at the office like he promised, sitting on the floor with his back pressed against the radiator. The office is still cool; he must have only just gotten back. Houston hangs up his wet coat and settles into the chair behind Sal’s desk.
“What happened to you?” Sal asks, looking at Houston with a slowly expanding smile.
“Picked a fight,” Houston says. The whole left side of his face aches, and he’s cold through from a trip down into the slush and half frozen mud.
“I hope the other guy looks that bad.” Sal’s eyes are keen on Houston.
Houston has made it home under his own power, therefore he knows it’s a war story and not a worry. “I didn’t touch ‘em. Bad luck.”
“Bad luck?”
“To punch a brother before a wake,” Houston answers, on-beat like a punchline.
“Well, hell. I miss all the fun.”
Houston smiles, watching Sal shifting when the radiator gets too hot against his back.
“It’s gonna be a hell of a shiner, Mars.”
“Good. Damn badge of honor.”
“What’d you disagree over?” Sal pulls out a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes, fishing one out.
Houston’s pack of Chesterfields is crushed from the scuffle. He displays it for Sal, before dropping the remains into his wastebasket. Sal tosses his pack over in a gentle arc. Houston catches it and helps himself.
“They want the whole thing to just go away,” Houston says. “They’ve got the coroner ready to rule the death accidental.”
“You’re sure it’s not?” Sal leans his head back against the wall over the radiator to look at Houston from beneath his long, dark lashes.
“I’m sure he didn’t freeze, anyway.”
Houston recounts his visit to the morgue, his conversation with Clarence Whelk, and then the Winsome brothers, as well as his observations about the body and Mrs. Winsome’s commitment to getting an answer.
Sal listens, quiet, clearly tired and aching but with a bright spark of interest in his blue eyes. “Sounds like we better take a closer look at Eddie. Drowning suggests that Mr. Winsome was a hell of a lot closer to the lake than the Sappho.”
Houston leans back, closing his eyes. He thinks, briefly, of Charlie’s last moments—dragged down alive beneath the water by a merciless, inescapable chain. Watching the desperately desirable surface recede away like his hope, as unreachable and cold as the moon above. Did he fight?
Houston comes back to himself in the office and finds his cigarette has extinguished itself on the filter in his hand. He reaches forward and puts it in Sal’s ashtray. “What’d you find?”
“The police are a bunch of assholes. They cleared the whole Sappho out. I did what I could where it was getting rough.”
Houston sighs, hoping that Exeter has enough loyalty and honor to step in where he could. “What about the alley?”
“A dump site, like you said. The body barely left a dent in the snow. No sign it was ever warm while it was there—no blood. Maybe there were tracks leading in, but nothing was left of them after the swarm of police ran all over it and cleared out.”
“I wonder if they’ll ease up on the Sappho guys when it’s announced that Whelk thinks it’s an accident.”
“It’s a good question. The police had a question or two for me about where you were this morning, but by the time I left they were already abandoning the scene.”
“Diligent and attentive police work,” Houston says, “as always.”
“So what’s next?”
“I think we’d better go talk to Mr. Phillips,” Houston gets up.
“You better change your shirt,” Sal advises, making no move to follow him up.
“Yeah?” Houston smooths his hands over his mud-stained shirt.
“And drink a cup of coffee,” Sal calls. “It’s cold outside.
“No surprise,” Houston pulls his shirt off, folding it up and retrieving an emergency backup shirt from the small closet in his office. He eases the clean shirt over his dirty undershirt carefully, and buttons it up again. “It’s December.”
“Say,” Sal says, as if something has just occurred to him. He begins to
hoist himself reluctantly off the ground again. “Does the lake ever freeze over?”
“Lake Michigan?” Houston can’t resist giving Sal a hard time.
“Where else?”
“Not that I recall. I remember in 1903 it got pretty close, but it didn’t go all the way.”
“You think they put him in the lake?”
“We’re gonna find out.”
“Alright, sure, but this time, we’re taking my car.”
◆◆◆
Sal’s car is an 1923 Ford Runabout with a cloth roof that can be folded down against the back and open, dinged up sides that served only to channel freezing air in, instead of the windows that newer model cars have. To combat this, he provides several blankets to wrap up in for himself and passengers. He himself puts on thick leather and sheepskin gloves, tucking them into the sleeves of his wool coat.
It is not a pleasant trip on the icy roads out of the city, even at safe speeds. Houston huddles down into the blankets, feeling cold slowly steal sensation from his face.
“I’m sorry we didn’t take the bus,” Houston says as one passes them, splattering the sides and buckboards of the car with slush.
The cold is pervasive and penetrating out here, with no city buildings to stop the wind which reaches cutting, icy gusts into the the car and against their exposed skin. Sal’s lower face is wrapped in a striped scarf his aging mother made after one such ride in Sal’s car.
“You’ll be less sorry when we don’t have to walk to the train station,” Sal’s voice emerges through the wool of his scarf as he drives, navigating the snowy roads expertly—if, in Houston’s opinion, a little recklessly.
Houston doesn’t argue, he just keeps his hands under the blankets, tucked against his sides, and watches the world go by from beneath the brim of his hat. It’s colder this close to the lake, with a dangerous edge to the wind that blows over the surface like a snake rearing up to strike at any exposed skin.
The cabin looks darker and more foreboding than it did two days ago, hunched down now under a fresher, deeper coat of snow. Houston thinks it will soon be wise—if it wasn’t already—to close the place up for the winter. Surely Edward Phillips has a place in the city, too.
