by Lee Strauss
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, completing his journey inside. He strode over to Dr. Guthrie and extended a hand. “Detective Cluney. Welcome to Boston.”
Dr. Guthrie was an English gentleman. He stood and accepted the proffered hand, but suspicion flashed behind his eyes. Unlike Chesterton, Boston was filled with non-English folk, and it would likely take a while, if ever, for the doctor to change his biases.
Detective Cluney turned to Haley. “Thought you might like to know that we’ve identified the vic. Name’s Stefano Marchesi.”
Haley’s dark brows arched. “Of the Marchesi gang?”
“The same. Apparently this fellow’s estranged. Tried to distance himself from his Mob family. Even Anglicized his name to Stephen March.”
Haley was incredulous. “Do you think his family killed him?”
“Nothin’ surprises me these days. I wonder what he did to tip their boat?” The detective rocked on his heels. “The Marchesis don’t play nice. I’ve seen what they do to those who cross them. I can only imagine what they’d do if they felt betrayed by their own flesh and blood.”
Haley’s curiosity was piqued. She glanced at the body of Stefano Marchesi and wondered what he’d done that was so bad his own family felt he deserved to die.
As Haley suspected, Detective Cluney hadn’t dropped in purely out of the goodness of his heart. He wanted something in return.
He nodded toward the body. “You got anything for me?”
Dr. Guthrie grunted. “Cause of death: bullet through the heart. Close proximity.”
“How close?” the detective asked.
“Within four feet,” Haley said. “Close enough for gunshot residue to collect on the victim’s clothing.”
“So, you’re saying for certain that the bullet that killed him came from inside the coffee shop and not from a passing car.”
“We are.”
4
Samantha fanned herself with her gloves as she briskly walked home from the office to her apartment on Stillman Street. The redbrick, flat-faced tenement building was among a row of others like it on the south point of what had once been a vibrant Jewish neighborhood. Just a block or two away was a “hotel” that everyone knew was a brothel, including the police in so much as they turned a blind eye. Like alcohol, prostitution was illegal, but also like alcohol, those who wanted the vice could find it.
Samantha hurried inside. Her mother-in-law Bina and her six-year-old daughter Talia waited inside their second-floor apartment.
A slight, stern-looking lady, hardly five feet tall, Bina Rosenbaum took no guff. The lines on her face and the hunch of her back spoke of a difficult life. With a German-Jewish heritage, she and her late husband had immigrated to Boston in 1919, just after the Great War. Samantha had to stir up her empathy daily to remain civil.
“There you are!” Bina declared as she did every single day. She had a way of making Samantha guilty of something, even if it was going to work so they could eat and stay warm in the winter.
“Yes, here I am.” Samantha bent a knee as Talia rushed into her arms.
“Mommy!”
“Hi there, honey.”
Talia shared Samantha’s honey-blond locks and bright blue eyes. Staring at her daughter was like staring at the rare photograph of herself when she was a child.
Samantha kissed the top of Talia’s head. “How was school today?”
Talia grew quiet. “Fine.”
“You should send her to a Jewish school,” Bina said from behind the kitchen wall. “Those other kids tease her.”
“Why?” Samantha said. This was the first she’d heard of any ill-treatment of her daughter.
“Vilde chaya!” Bina said. She thought all gentiles were wild animals. “Because she’s Jewish, that’s why. The Italians are the worst.” Bina pointed her wooden spoon. “Did you know that the Brumbergs have moved out of the building now? They’ve gone to the South End too. Now another Italian family is moving in. We used to attend synagogue together, we were one big family, and now, now, I feel like an orphan. I’m going to die in Italia!”
Bina wasn’t exaggerating. Many Jewish families had left the North End, feeling unwelcome by the mass of new immigrants. The citizens who claimed Puritan roots, much like Samantha herself, were not much better.
“If only Seth were here,” Bina moaned.
When Seth Rosenbaum—Samantha’s no-good husband—had left, it forced Samantha to look for work. She knew she wouldn’t use his name. Finding a job as a single woman was tough enough, and for married women, it was nearly impossible. And, in these tough times, sounding Jewish would only make it worse. Hawke was Samantha’s maiden name, and she was happy to use it.
Besides, if it weren’t for Talia, Bina wouldn’t even recognize their marriage. Samantha and Seth had tied the knot in a courthouse because she wasn’t Jewish (at the age of nineteen and already with child), and Seth didn’t want to have to deal with the fuss of a ceremonial marriage.
Even though the quick and easy wedding had been his idea (to make an honest woman of her!), Bina always blamed Samantha for it. The embarrassment is too much! Bina had recited this phrase like a mantra. It took her weeks before she’d go out in public and dare to look people in the eye.
To Bina, Samantha said, “Why do you keep bringing him up? And please, not in front of—” She tilted her head toward Talia.
“Because he’s my son and her father. You can’t keep the truth from her forever.”
“What truth are you speaking of?” Samantha stormed to her room before her aggravating mother-in-law could answer. They would never agree when it came to Seth. Samantha knew her husband was a thief and a liar, and worse than that, he’d abandoned his family. But to Bina, Seth would always be her dear boy who could do no wrong. She was convinced that her son lay dead in a ditch somewhere. It was the only way she could accept that he was probably gone for good.
And maybe Bina was right. Maybe Seth was dead. It didn’t matter to Samantha. He was as good as dead to her anyway.
“Mommy?” Talia slipped silently into the bedroom. It was small with two dressers and a double bed they shared.
“Honey?”
Talia sat on the edge of the bed and clung to the metal footboard. “Why do you and Bubba always fight?”
“We don’t always fight.”
“Yes, you do.”
Samantha put an arm around Talia’s slim shoulders. “It might sound like we do, but that’s how Bubba and I communicate. It’s just her way.”
“She’s not going to leave us, is she?”
“What? No! Of course not. Why would you think that?”
“Because the Garfields and the Yagers have left. Bubba misses them.”
Samantha’s heart pinched for her daughter. “Oh, honey. Bubba’s not going to leave us. We are family. And sometimes families argue.”
“Do you love Bubba?”
“Of course I do.” Despite Bina’s dominating personality, the woman was the only mother figure Samantha had. Her mother had died of Spanish influenza when Samantha was fourteen.
“Do you love Daddy?”
Oh, dear. The questions from her sweet girl were getting trickier. Samantha sensed there was a deeper question wrapped in that one.
“The love between a man and a woman is very different from the love between a mother and daughter. It’s true that my feelings for your father changed over time, but that will never happen with you. Never.”
“Will Daddy ever come home?”
“I don’t know, honey. I don’t know. Now let’s go eat. You know how much of a bear Bubba becomes when we’re late to the table.”
Their home was simple. The kitchen contained a wooden table with four matching chairs. Attached was a modest living room with a divan and two armchairs. The cream-and-green floral-print wallpaper pulled away at the seams and the corners.
Bina had cooked vegetable soup and dumplings. It wasn’t much, but enough to fill their empty stomachs.
They ate with little chitchat, and Samantha’s mind returned to the events of the day. Finally writing something that didn’t end up solely in the ladies’ pages. Seeing the scene of the crime, at least the part that could be seen from the street. Meeting Dr. Higgins. Though she hadn’t said so in so many words, Samantha got a sense that the forensic pathologist didn’t think the shooting was gang related or random. Samantha tended to agree. Her gut told her there was more.
Maybe it was just wishful thinking. Writing a story was one thing, breaking it was another, and the one thing she dreamed of doing was breaking a big story. Then Mr. August would have to treat her like one of the guys. Then he’d have to give her a raise. As it was, she knew she was making a third of what Johnny made, and he was single. She supported a family of three.
Thinking of Johnny, she said, “Bina, I need a favor.”
The skin on Bina’s face hung more loosely than it had before Seth left. The wrinkles around her eyes were more pronounced. Yet her eyes themselves were as fierce as ever. She narrowed them cautiously.
“What now?”
“Would you mind baking some rugelach?”
“What? Someone else is having a birthday? Why must you bring baking to people who you hardly know? Such needless expense.”
“I promised for a friend.”
“Then you make them.”
Samantha sighed. Bina could be so frustrating.
“I’m working. I don’t have time.”
“Pfft,” Bina said. “I cooked for my whole village during the war. I had no choice but to learn.”
“I can cook.”
“Oi! Not the Jewish vay!
“Will you or won’t you?”
Talia chimed in. “Please, Bubba!”
Bina smiled as she patted Talia’s small hand. “For you, sheifale, my little lamb, I’ll do it.” Her smile fell as she looked back at Samantha. “I’ll need ingredients. And we’re almost out of coal.”
* * *
Death was a part of life for Haley, but when she returned each night to her top-floor apartment on Grove Street near Philips, she tried to leave her job back at the morgue. Some nights were easier than others.
Haley’s housekeeper, Molly McPhail, greeted her in the front entrance as Haley shed her summer cardigan and straw hat, and hung them on the coat rack. The four flights of stairs had her breathing harder than usual. She blamed it on the heat.
Molly, her face flushed and glistening, agreed with the sentiment. “It’s so darned hot.” Even with the windows open, the humidity could be oppressive. “But I daren’t complain because before you know it, it’s winter.”
Haley smiled. Over the last seven years Molly had become more of a companion than merely a housekeeper. In fact, she had become a friend. “I quite agree,” Haley said reassuringly. “Spring and fall are the only tolerable seasons.”
The French doors that led to the living room on the right were wide open to allow for the flow of air. The high-ceilinged walls were neatly wallpapered and trimmed with dark wood. The furniture nestled around a cleaned-out stone fireplace, and tall west-facing windows brightened the room. Several flourishing plants dotted the apartment including a hanging Boston Fern and a four-foot-tall Areca Palm. A formidable polished-wood radio took a prominent position in the corner.
Molly’s black three-legged cat stretched languidly on the plush maroon sofa taking up two seats. He raised a head at Haley’s intrusion and narrowed his yellow eyes disapprovingly. Molly had christened him Mr. Midnight Caller for the time of day she’d discovered him by the back door, damp from the rain and thin from hunger. She’d had trouble sleeping and meant to heat a little milk to help her drift off when she heard the soft meowing. She’d brought the cat inside and shared her warm milk with him, and that was it. The cat had captured Molly’s heart, and had never spent another day hungry or alone. They’d never know what had happened to his missing foot, but such trauma had been long forgotten. The feline was now plump and properly indignant in the way only cats could be. Haley spared a moment to rub him behind the ears which triggered a round of loud purring.
“I’ve got a nice potato and sausage casserole on, whenever you’re ready,” Molly said.
Haley’s stomach growled at the mention of food. “I’m ready now.”
On the sideboard was a framed photo of Haley’s family. Her parents, now deceased, had been farmers in Brookline. Haley was the lone daughter amongst three sons, Benjamin, Harley-James, and Joseph. Joe’s murder was what had triggered Haley’s sudden departure from London where she’d been studying medicine. Joe’s body had been discovered in an alley by a delivery boy in the early morning hours on a wet day in September of 1924. He’d been beaten up and ultimately killed by a knife to the throat. Detective Cluney had been the lead on the case—it was how Haley and the detective had first met—but even by his best efforts and Haley’s amateur investigation, Joe’s murder had never been solved.
The truth was, most murder cases weren’t. Statistically, a mere one in ten saw a conviction in New York City, and Boston wasn’t far behind.
The kitchen was warm and inviting with bright white walls and wooden cabinets painted a soothing sage-green. Approaching the sturdy wooden table, Haley sat in one of the matching chairs. “Smells delicious.”
After they’d dished out their portions, Molly had said grace which was a concession Haley didn’t mind making, even though the prayer was Catholic. Haley had been raised Episcopalian but had found that over the years her work had eclipsed her devotion to her religion.
Molly asked, “Anything interesting happen at work today?”
The twinkle in Molly’s eye raised Haley’s suspicions. “Is it in the newspapers already?”
“Aye. Evening edition of the Daily Record. A shooting on Union Street.”
“I want to see it.”
Molly shifted her weight off the chair and returned with the paper. “Here you go, Dr. Higgins,” she said as she handed it to Haley. It was already unfolded with the story ready.
Haley read aloud, “An unidentified man was shot and killed in the Bell in Hand Tavern . . .” then finished the piece in silence until she came to the byline. “Sam Hawke.”
“Do you know him?” Molly asked.
“Sam is short for Samantha. I just met her today. She seems driven.” Even desperate, Haley thought, but kept that opinion to herself.
“A woman newspaper man?” Molly said.
“Well, I imagine she prefers newspaper woman,” Haley said. “And it shouldn’t be so shocking. Women, though few, are stepping into professions dominated by men. Like mine, for example.”
“So right,” Molly said. “So right.” She chewed another piece of sausage, then asked, “Is it the Irish mob?”
Haley hesitated. “It could be.”
“Or the Italian Mafia?”
“Possibly. But the shot that killed him came from within the tavern, not the shooting from the automobile.”
“What does Detective Cluney say?”
“He believes it was the mob, probably Irish or Jewish since the victim was Italian. And he might be right. Conveniently, there’s not a witness to confirm a shooter had entered the tavern, though in my opinion, the evidence speaks for itself.”
Molly shifted from her seat and collected the dirty dishes. “Did the new medical examiner arrive today? I believe you mentioned a Dr. Guthrie.”
“Yes, he did. Surprisingly, we’ve met before. Years ago, back in England.”
“In England? Oh. Did he know our dear Mrs. Reed?”
Mrs. Georgia Reed, (nee Hartigan and the former Lady Gold, known to her friends and family as Ginger), Haley’s dear friend, had resided in Boston in one of the prestigious brownstones facing the Common. Molly had been Ginger’s maid until Ginger moved to London in 1923.
“Yes,” Haley began, “Dr. Guthrie worked on a case that she and I were involved with.”
“What’s he like, then?” Molly asked, ever curious.
“Quirky fellow. He’s tall with sharp angles—elbows, knees, even his chin. A mass of white wavy hair sprouts straight up off his head.” Haley’s hand flew to her head in demonstration. “Not much of a talker, either, except to complain, but very intelligent.”
“We should invite him over for dinner,” Molly said.
Haley groaned inwardly. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll ask him for a time that suits him.”
The doorbell rang, and Haley’s eyebrows lifted. “Are we expecting someone?”
Molly was already on her feet. “Not that I know of.”
Before long Haley heard the sound of Molly opening the front door and then her voice shrilling. “Mr. and Mrs. Higgins! What a surprise!”
Haley jumped to her feet.
“Ben!” she said. She approached her eldest brother and gave him a quick embrace. Then to her sister-in-law Lorene, “Welcome. Come on in.”
“Thanks, Sis.” Belatedly, Ben removed his hat revealing thinning brown hair and a receding hairline. Worry lines were etched around dark eyes and deeply grooved across his forehead. “We were in the neighborhood and thought we should stop in.”
“We hope we aren’t interrupting,” Lorene said. Ben’s wife was solidly built and the no-nonsense type that was well suited for life on the farm. “We should’ve called first.”
“It’s fine,” Haley said. “We’re happy to have you.”
“We’re just eating supper,” Molly said. “You must join us.”
“Yes, yes,” Haley added. She had been just about to extend the offer as well.
Ben had never been one to say no to a free meal. He glanced at his wife who nodded subtly in approval.
Once they settled around the table and Ben and Lorene had been dished out the remaining casserole, Haley asked, “So, what brings you into Boston?”
Ben shared a look with his wife, then answered, “Picking up a new pig trough. Old one’s rusting right through.”
The way Lorene shifted uncomfortably made Haley think there was more to it than that but didn’t feel it was her place to pry. Conversation was kept light, focusing on the plight of American farmers and the eternal question of when did they think the Depression would end.
