by Karen Golden
Abby nuzzled the metal gate of the carrier.
“Oh,” Katherine said, walking back. “I forgot to pay!”
Chapter Eight
Katherine finished making up the new bed while the cats chased each other throughout the bungalow. Although the vet had advised that Abby be kept quiet, Katherine wondered if the doctor ever lived with a cat. Abby hadn’t stopped running since she set paw in the house. Hopefully with the bed made, she could corral the hyper felines and confine them to their new bedroom. The long day wasn’t over yet. She still had the six-thirty appointment with Detective Martin.
“Okay, cats. Check out the new bed,” she called, patting the quilt.
Lilac and Abby trotted in, shoulder-to-shoulder. They jumped up and began pawing at the quilt to make a little nest. Katherine helped by putting down her terry cloth robe for the two to sleep on. Lilac began grooming Abby; their paws were intertwined. “Chirp,” Abby said thankfully.
“If only the other two would be so easy to catch,” Katherine muttered.
Scout sauntered in and leaped up to the windowsill; she immediately began chattering at a squirrel. Iris dove for the food bowl.
“Purrfect,” Katherine said, shutting the door.
The doorbell rang, so she hurried to answer. Jake was standing outside, holding a box full of groceries. He stood back for a moment, observing her new look. He nodded in approval. “I like it!” he said. “Can I come in?”
“Yes, of course. A man bringing me food is always welcome,” Katherine joked, letting him in.
“I figured you’d need a few things.”
“Thanks so much, but how did you know I didn’t make it to the grocery store?”
“Psychic,” he laughed, carrying the box to the kitchen counter. A bottle of cabernet was on top. “This was outside. There’s a note on it.”
Katherine grabbed the note and quickly read it. It was from Mark. “Please accept my deepest apologies. The wine is to celebrate Abby’s return.” Still vexed, Katherine threw the card in the garbage bin.
“Oh, did I miss something?” Jake asked nosily.
Katherine recovered her jovial mood and said, “No, everything is just peachy. What do we have in here?” she asked, rummaging through the box.
“Enough food for dinner,” he hinted.
“I’m starving.”
Jake began taking items out of the box. “To begin with,” he said, pulling out a package of cat treats, “we can sauté these in butter.”
“How sweet! You brought my kids treats!”
One of the cats thumped against the bedroom door and yowled loudly.
“Later, Iris,” Katherine called to the Siamese.
Jake said, “How do you know it was Iris?”
Katherine smirked. “I’m a cat whisperer.”
“Liar!” he said playfully.
“Guilty. My cats have minds of their own. I couldn’t imagine trying to get them to do anything other than what they want to do!”
Jake put the treats back in the box, then drew out a loaf of bread. “I’ll make us some tasty sandwiches instead.”
“How was your day?” Katherine asked, observing Jake making an assembly line of bread, lunchmeat and condiments.
“Lots of progress on the pink mansion. The windows have been ordered. We got the old appliances out of the kitchen.” He handed her a sandwich. “Oh, here’s a pop,” he said, pulling the tab and handing her a can of Diet Coke.
“That’s right, people in Indiana call soda a pop. Okay, thanks!” she said, then added, “I liked that old stove. It reminded me of the one I grew up with in Brooklyn. There wasn’t any way to salvage it?”
“It was pretty much smashed. When we took it out, we found a big hole behind it. We hadn’t noticed that before, so Cokey and I boarded it up. That ancient refrigerator was a son-of-a-bitch to move out. It took four guys!”
“Cokey is lucky to have you help him.”
“Gets my mind off of things, so I can just chill out.” He became very quiet.
Katherine wanted to ask him what things, but felt she didn’t know him well enough.
“But that’s neither here nor there,” he said, smiling, his brown eyes shining.
When they finished their sandwiches, Jake excused himself. He said he was exhausted and just wanted to go home and sleep. Before he left, Katherine gave him her cell number, and Jake gave her his. She cleaned up and was heading to check on the cats, when someone knocked on the door. Detective Martin had showed up early; she was carrying a laptop.
Katherine opened the door, “Hello. Please come in.”
The detective walked in and looked around at the empty room. “Must be a tough transition, living here with no furniture, when the pink mansion is full of it. Where do you want me to set up?”
“Come to the kitchen. It’s the only place with a table.”
Detective Martin followed Katherine. She slipped off her jacket and said, “I like your new do.”
“I got it cut today. My cats didn’t like it at first. I had to wash it before they’d have anything to do with me.”
“Got to love them! Well, have a sit-down,” Detective Martin said. She flipped open her laptop and positioned it on the center of the built-in table. “I’ve got some pictures to show you. We called in a physical anthropologist. The university in the city has a department and the professor was available. He did the final excavation of the skeleton.” She thumbed the touch pad. A graphic photo of an intact skeleton appeared; it was lying on its side.
Katherine leaned over the table to look. “Wow! When I first saw the skull, I didn’t think there was anything attached to it. Who is it?”
The detective shook her head. “Here’s a second photo showing the left forearm and hand grasping something.”
Katherine was stunned to see the skeletal hand clenching gold coins.
Detective Martin read her face. “Recognize something?”
“When Beatrice Baker came to my house, my cat stole her coin purse. The coins that fell out were gold-colored, and looked very much like these.”
“The librarian, Biddy?”
Katherine nodded.
“Interesting! I was just going to ask you if you’d ever found coins like these in your house.”
“No, I haven’t,” Katherine answered. A loud crash came from the bedroom. “Excuse me. I’ve got to check on my cats. I don’t know what they’ve gotten into.” Katherine rushed to the door. As she opened it, Scout flew out and ran into the kitchen. “Scout, come back here!” Katherine demanded. She quickly shut the door so the other cats wouldn’t get out. When she returned to the kitchen, Scout began swaying from side-to-side. She seemed to be in a trance.
“What’s wrong with that cat?” Detective Martin asked.
“Scout, it’s okay. Come here, sweetie,” Katherine said soothingly.
Scout’s eyes were mere slits. She began a throaty growl.
“Do you want me to help you put her up?” Detective Martin offered, but was clearly reluctant to leave her seat.
Scout arched her back and started bouncing up and down like a Halloween cat.
Katherine snapped her fingers, “Cadabra!” she said loudly.
Scout stopped, trotted over to Katherine, and jumped on her lap. She collapsed against her, then purred.
“Why did you say ‘Cadabra’? I thought her name is Scout,” the detective asked, bewildered.
Katherine shrugged. “I don’t know why, but I’m glad it worked. Cadabra was her stage name. Scout performed with a magician for two years. One of her tricks was to hop up and down like a Halloween cat when you said ‘Abracadabra.’ Scout was traumatized when her sister Abra was stolen. She started messing up, so Harry – that’s the magician’s name – gave her to his niece, who was my boss in Manhattan. Monica gave her to me.”
“Cool,” the detective said. “I’ve never met a famous cat before.”
“If it’s okay with you, I’ll just hold her for a while,” Katherine su
ggested.
“No problem. Let’s get back to where we were.” The detective tapped the touch pad. “Here’s a close-up of the coins. They were minted in 1929 – the last year they were made. It’s an Indian head two-and-a-half dollar gold coin. Did an Internet search. Do you know what they are worth today?” She paused, then said, “Three hundred dollars a coin!”
Katherine was shocked. “Why would Beatrice have them?”
Scout hissed. “Shhh, Scout,” Katherine said, then explained to the detective, “When Beatrice came over, she made it clear she wasn’t a friend to cats. I think animals sense these things.”
“I’ll check it out. Look at this picture. Underneath the coins is a remnant of a cloth bag. Preliminary examination revealed some interesting historical information.”
“Just looks like a tattered cloth to me,” Katherine said, squinting.
“It’s a bank money bag from a very famous Indiana robbery. South of here is a town called Greencastle. In 1933, John Dillinger and his gang robbed it. It was the most money he’d ever stolen –more than seventy thousand dollars. That was a huge amount of money back then.”
“Do you think these coins are from that bank robbery?”
Detective Martin shrugged, “We combed every inch of the tunnel. It was littered with hundreds of broken booze bottles, but no more coins. We used a special metal detector specifically designed to find coins, but we didn’t find any. These gold coins could have come from a bank in the early 1930s. Gold coins were removed from circulation in 1933 as a result of federal government action.”
Scout jumped from Katherine’s arms to the table and stared intensely at the computer screen.
“Does that skeleton belong to one of Dillinger’s gang?” Katherine asked.
“Not thinking so.” The detective flipped back to the first photo. “I’ll zero in on this,” she said, magnifying. “This skeleton belongs to a man of advanced age; see the degeneration of the bone. That’s from advanced arthritis.”
“Oh, my God,” Katherine said, getting up and wanting to flee the room.
“Want to sit back down?” detective Martin asked firmly, surprised by Katherine’s behavior.
Katherine sat back on the wooden seat and put her head in her hands. “My great uncle was legally declared dead in 1938. He went missing October 28,1933. I remember the month and day because that’s my mom’s birthday. His body was never found. I think this could be him.”
“Last name Colfax, but what was his first name?”
“William,” Katherine answered.
“Well, we know the man who died in the tunnel wasn’t a member of Dillinger’s gang. He’s too old. The victim was probably some old drunk who wandered over from the yellow brick house, got lost, and died in the tunnel. If it’s William Colfax, he probably died drinking his own alcohol.”
“Why is that?”
“Our lab checked the contents of a liquor bottle that still had some of the alcohol in it. It was booze, alright, but also contained a fair amount of arsenic. Preliminary tests on the victim’s bones revealed heavy traces of arsenic, as well.”
“Why would bootleggers put poison in their booze? Wouldn’t that defeat the purpose by killing off their customers?” Katherine asked, surprised.
“Toward the end of Prohibition, alcohol makers put anything and everything in their booze. Toxic poisoning ruled the day.”
“My friend Jake Cokenberger did his dissertation on this topic.”
“Yes, he actually published in one of the CSI journals I read. Smart man,” the detective commented.
“I want to show you something,” Katherine said, getting up. She opened a deep kitchen drawer and pulled out the old shoe box. “I found this under one of the beds at my great aunt’s house.” Moving the shoe box to the table, she removed the medicinal elixir labels and the prescription pad.
Scout tried to grab one of the labels.
“Okay, sweet Siamese, this is the part where I put you on the floor.” Scout protested loudly.
Detective Martin said enthusiastically, “Our cold case just seemed to warm up a few degrees.” She examined the labels and the pad. “This is how I see it. I suspect the yellow brick house next door was a speakeasy.”
“Why would you think that?” Katherine asked.
“Oh, that’s easy. Take a look at this.” The detective pulled up an Internet page on speakeasy doors.
Katherine leaned over and studied the screen. “I see wood doors with grilles set at eye level. I take it the grilles weren’t decorative, right?”
The detective nodded. “The owner could check out who wanted to come in without opening the door.”
“Like a fancy peephole,” Katherine added.
The detective exited the search, then pulled up two side-by-side photos. The one on the left showed a wood-paneled door with an iron grille insert. “This is a speakeasy door circa 1929. The photo on the right is one I took yesterday. It’s the tunnel door to the yellow brick house.”
“That’s uncanny! The doors are identical!” Katherine said, shocked.
Scout jumped back on the table and rubbed her jaw on the side of the laptop screen, which caused the computer to rock on the table. Katherine quickly grabbed the inquisitive Siamese and set her back down on the floor.
The detective continued, “Once we removed the rubble in the tunnel and saw the door, we knew the house was a speakeasy. The basement was probably the bar.”
“Were you able to open the speakeasy door? What was on the other side?”
“With difficulty, we managed to open the door. Inside was an empty basement, which was disappointing. I’m a history buff. I wanted to see the original furnishings in pristine condition. If you want to see the door, call Mark Dunn. He said he was having it replaced with a newer one.”
Fast worker, Katherine thought.
“Getting on with the rest of my story,” the detective began, “I think old man Colfax let the boozers in through the pink mansion’s back entrance. They walked through the tunnel to the house next door.” Picking up the prescription pad, she continued, “I think our endearing Erie Doctor Harvey wrote prescriptions so that boozers could drink alcohol legally. Doctors used to prescribe ‘booze’ as medicine. That was one of the loopholes. Toward the end of Prohibition, that business dried up because alcohol was getting more difficult to come by. These ‘medicinal elixir’ labels were glued to the booze bottles. In fact, there was a trace of a label very much like these on one of the bottles we found.”
“I suspected that’s what the labels were for. But, why wouldn’t the boozers just go in the brick house?” Katherine asked.
“They probably parked in the back of the pink mansion to not draw attention. It would just look like Colfax was entertaining guests.”
“You’re really good at your job,” Katherine complimented.
“That why they made me detective,” Detective Martin winked.
“But how can you know the money bag was part of Dillinger’s robbery?”
“I’m just speculating. The Greencastle bank name was The Central National Bank; it’s printed on the front of the money bag, along with the year ‘1933.’ I don’t have a pic of the close-up because the lab used a more powerful magnifier than my computer has.”
“What will become of the bag?”
“We’ll hold it for a while, then release it to a museum. Maybe the John Dillinger Museum in Hammond would want it.”
Scout jumped on the windowsill and craned her neck to gaze at the sky.
“Here’s some more speculating,” the detective said. “Because the pink mansion is close to U.S. 41 and William was a bootlegger, maybe he knew John Dillinger. Maybe Dillinger drove up here after the robbery and hid out before driving on to Chicago. He could have left old man Colfax the money bag as a souvenir.”
“I’m confused, why would my great uncle keep his gold coins in this particular bag?”
“Don’t know. It’s just something peculiar about the case. Durin
g the Great Depression, many Americans hoarded gold coins.”
“Here’s another question. How will we know if the skeleton belongs to my great uncle?” Katherine asked.
“Are you a blood relative?”
“No, why do you ask?”
“Because to confirm whether or not those bones belong to William Colfax, we need to do a DNA test,” the detective said.
“Unfortunately, I’m not. But my great uncle has a grandson who lives in the city.”
“You wouldn’t happen to have his name.”
“Robert Colfax,” Katherine said. “But granted he gives a sample, what is the turnaround time for a DNA test?”
“Typically, thirty-six to forty-five days.”
Detective Martin snapped her laptop shut and started to get up.
“But wait,” Katherine insisted. “The tunnel entrance from the pink mansion was bricked up. Do you think someone deliberately hid the body?”
“You said your great uncle went missing in 1933?”
“Yes, October 28th. My great aunt married him in 1932, and they were together for a year.”
“Dillinger robbed the Greencastle bank October 23, 1933. At 2:45 p.m. to be exact.”
“Five days before my great uncle’s disappearance. Maybe there is a connection,” Katherine said strongly.
“If there is, we have no way to prove it unless more evidence comes to the surface. Okay, moving on, here’s a lesson on local history,” the detective continued. “Erie had a prominent brick industry that went belly-up during the Depression. It was called the Boston Brick Company; you’ll see the name embossed on every brick street in town. According to my intel, the company stopped making bricks in 1929, so the brick wall was put up before the victim died.”
“There could have been a huge stock-pile somewhere, and my great aunt used them?”
“Now that’s a picture,” the detective laughed. “You’ve got to remember. I knew your great aunt and, as prissy as she was, I’m sure she never even went down to the basement. Let alone supervise someone bricking up a wall.” She smiled, then became serious, “So, before I leave, did you tell anyone about the gold coins falling out of Beatrice’s purse? Think really hard.”
