Dames Fight Harder

by M. Ruth Myers

  “Then they picked up the dead guy and moved him farther away and we couldn’t hear what they said.”

  The trio hadn’t been able to see much, either. It was dark. Afraid to raise the tarp more than a crack, they’d crowded together, Tom lying on top of his brother, all of them trying to catch just a glimpse.

  Instead they’d heard a shot.

  “Then he — the one with the gun — looked around and started right toward us.”

  “We were scared he’d seen us, so we ran!”

  “And he did see us then, and he shot at us!”

  “And Fraidy Cat screamed.”

  “So did you!”

  “But we kept running.”

  Two shots. With a pause in between. Just as Willa Lee had described.

  Lulu asked more questions, but the answers didn’t amount to anything.

  “Think really hard,” I said when she paused for a minute. “Did you hear any names?”

  The boys on the hot seat jumped. They’d forgotten my presence. One by one their heads shook.

  “Anything else they said to each other? About why they’d come to that particular place?”

  Again their heads moved left to right. Tom’s halted suddenly.

  “Before they started arguing they were talking like they might be planning to kill someone else.”

  Lulu sucked in her breath. I held mine.

  “No, they weren’t.”

  “They could have been.” Ignoring his brother, Tom addressed himself to Lulu and me. “The one who was giving the orders, the one with the gun, he said something like, ‘If this doesn’t make that pipsqueak play ball, a visit to his buddy on Springfield Pike will.’”

  FORTY-FIVE

  When I slipped into bed beside Connelly, I realized he was awake, and probably had been from the moment I tiptoed in. Buoyed by my success with Lulu, I kissed him soundly.

  “You appear to be in a good mood,” he said shifting to accommodate me.

  “I am in a very good mood.”

  “Perhaps we should take advantage of it.”

  A few minutes later, as my fingers caressed his face, I froze.

  “Is that a puffy eye?”

  I pushed up on my arm to look. In the dark I couldn’t make out details, only the shape of his head.

  “We managed to nab one of the purse snatchers. The other one got away. My walking delight took exception to being arrested and I didn’t duck fast enough. Turns out he’d done time for assault, so he’s well off the street. Anyway, the swelling will be gone by morning, so you needn’t fret.” He pulled me back down. “A kiss would make it better, though.”

  Toward dawn we sat with our backs against the wall and the sheet draped over us and talked. He told me about apprehending the purse-snatchers. I told him about the boys hiding under the tarp the night Foster’s body was dumped.

  “Why the shots if Foster was already dead, then?” Connelly asked.

  “I’d guess they were both unplanned. They’d picked up the casing from wherever they actually killed Foster. They meant to leave it along with his body so it would look like it came from the slug in his head.”

  “Only it got lost on the way.”

  “Right. So they fired a shot, into the ground, probably, so the cops would find a casing.”

  “The angle and that would be wrong.”

  “They didn’t have any choice. But the shot spooked the kids. They’d seen Foster’s body. When the killer started walking in their direction, probably hunting the casing to make sure the cops would find it, they thought they’d been spotted and bolted.”

  “And the killer did spot them then, and fired the second shot.”

  “Which is when little Tom let out the scream Willa Lee heard, poor kid.”

  “The killer realized someone might already have been awakened by the shots and he and his pal better take off.”

  “Yes.” I leaned against him with a sigh. “This is nice, sitting and talking.”

  “You seemed to think what we were doing before we fell asleep was okay too.”

  I chuckled.

  “I know what you mean about the talking part, though. Seems like the only familiar faces I see any more are Finn and Rose. You once a week if I’m lucky. It’s even trickier connecting with Seamus what with us on different schedules and those always shifting.”

  We sat in silence. Enough dawn light was coming in now for me to make out a thumb-sized swelling beneath his left eye. He stroked my hair, both of us drowsy and lost in thought.

  “When we’re married, we can have the best of both,” he said. “The talking and the other too. And when the war ends, we’ll be able to find a proper house. Our schedules will settle. Seamus will be able to retire and can mind the kids when we need him.”

  I felt my breath catch. I cared for Connelly in a way I’d never cared for anyone else. Maybe I even loved him, though it was a question I was afraid to explore. But sharing his bed hadn’t been a commitment. He sensed my change in mood.

  “Not that we have to rush it if you don’t want,” he said hastily. “I know you’re skittish because of how it was with your parents. But now we’ve seen it can work, haven’t we? We can leave it like this for a bit. Take it slow.”

  I’d been a fool not to see that coming here, being with him like this, would encourage expectations on his part. Expectations which I couldn’t meet. Even continuing as we were now, I would lose some vital part of myself. At the back of my mind there would be the weight of knowing I held his happiness in my hands. It would change me. In some moment when I needed to make a split-second decision, I might hesitate, knowing how the loss of me would affect him.

  I reached for my slip.

  “We both need to get going,” I said. “It’s late.”

  ***

  “If a contractor used a lower grade wood on twenty-percent of what he was building but billed full price, would the difference be worth enough to set up a swindle?” I asked when Rachel came to the phone.

  “You dragged me out of bed to ask me that?”

  The intensity of her snarl stunned me. The clock on the wall of my office told me it was half past ten. I’d already been to Market House to see if Freeze was going to do anything based on Lulu’s report from the night before. Both he and Boike were out. I’d called Joel’s office, but he was in court, so I’d spent more time typing a summary of the new information from the boys and my visit to Foster’s worksite with Morris. It wasn’t exactly the shank of the morning now. I decided on lightness.

  “I thought you’d be up and around, Sleeping Beauty. I know you’re not an early bird, but you’re usually at work by ten or eleven.”

  “I don’t have any work to get to, do I?” she snapped.

  I cleared my throat and waited.

  “Yes, it would be worth plenty.” Her words stretched tight. “Is that what this is about? That weasel Lamont was cutting corners and killed Foster to keep him from squealing?”

  “I’m not sure it was Lamont who did the killing,” I said carefully.

  “Then who? Who? Why are you sticking up for him?”

  I’d never seen her like this. It alarmed me.

  “I’m not sticking up—”

  “So what if he didn’t pull the trigger? He knows who did. Hired them probably.”

  “Rachel—”

  “And made me look guilty!”

  I heard something hit the wall and shatter at her end.

  “Rachel, simmer down.”

  “When I’ve done absolutely nothing to him! Absolutely nothing! Oh, I suppose the fact I win a contract now and then is grievance enough in his eyes. It justifies getting me out of the picture along with Foster. I didn’t know my place. That’s what he thinks. That’s what they all think!”

  She was a powder keg, needing only a spark. I trod carefully.

  “Rachel, we’re getting near the end of this, I promise.”

  “You promise? What a joke! You’re never going to get the tidy little pac
kage of proof you need to make this go away. You’re just like Joel — another damn Goody Two Shoes!”

  I held the receiver away from my head in time to avoid a damaged eardrum as she slammed down the phone.

  ***

  For several minutes I stood with my forehead pressed to the window and my hands clenched, seeing nothing. Rachel was unpredictable. She could also be dangerous. I had to act. I returned to my desk and got out the phone book. Three lumberyards were listed on Springfield Pike. I wrote their locations and phone numbers and started out.

  The first one had been replaced by a manufacturing firm. The second had a tall wire fence around it, office and all. A gate at the front stood open, but there was no place inviting cars. Maybe the boss and whoever else worked there parked in back, but I’d already checked, and there was no alley. All comings and goings would have to be through the front entrance.

  Across the way sat two machine shops with a few houses and a little café with fresh blue paint edging its single window. Ten feet from the door to the café sat a phone booth. A panel truck with most of its paint worn off was nice enough to vacate the spot it had occupied along the asphalt shoulder and leave me a parking place. I had a slice of pie at the café to get me through, then walked to the pay phone. Dialing the lumberyard across the way, I tried the story I’d concocted.

  What sounded like genuine bewilderment, coupled with a suggestion I must have the wrong lumberyard, rewarded my efforts. I went back to my car and sat half an hour in case anyone came running out. When that didn’t happen, I drove to the last possibility on my list, thinking hard.

  The remaining lumberyard was farther out on Springfield, shortly before Gaddis angled off to the south. It was the largest of the three places, and like the one before it, had a sturdy wire fence surrounding a wood-sided office building, stacks of lumber and a good-sized corrugated shed visible at the rear. Here, however, there was a gravel area big enough for half a dozen cars in front. A Pontiac with about three years on it sat on the gravel. Continuing for a block, I spotted what I was after, a phone booth wedged up against the side of a warehouse.

  Doubling back, I parked and took a breath. Then I went to the phone booth, dropped a nickel in and dialed.

  “Trowbridge Lumber,” answered a faintly harried male voice.

  “Oh, hello. This is Mr. Lamont’s office,” I chirped. “I’m supposed to check on an invoice from you, but I’m new here and I don’t remember who I was supposed to talk to. Can you help me out?”

  “Hang on,” said the harried voice. He leaned away and spoke to someone else. “Lamont Construction, they usually deal directly with the boss, don’t they?” Indistinct murmuring followed. “Mr. Trowbridge handles all the orders from your place,” the man who’d answered reported. “Used to date Mr. Lamont’s sister, something like that.”

  “Gee, thanks. Thanks a million. Could I talk to him, please?”

  “Agnes. Put this through to the boss. Somebody from Lamont asking about an invoice.”

  I heard the click that signals you’ll be transferred with another click, or that someone had muffed it and lost the connection. Fifteen seconds or so elapsed. Another voice came on, this one cautious.

  “Who is this again?”

  “Nancy, at Mr. Lamont’s office. I’m new and the woman who’s showing me how to do things is out sick and—”

  “What is it you wanted to know?”

  “Oh, um, when you sent that last invoice. We can’t seem to find it.”

  He swore. “Tell your boss I’ll look it up and give him a call.”

  He didn’t give me a chance to say anything else. I hung up and scurried back to my car. I’d barely closed the door before a man came barreling out the front door of the lumberyard office. He was clearly worked up about something. And I’d seen him before. It took a second or two before it clicked. He’d been in a photograph. A picnic scene hanging on Lamont’s wall the first time I went there. He was the man who’d been wearing the stiff Katy that sat so comically atop his bushy hair.

  FORTY-SIX

  I reached over to turn the key in my DeSoto, then paused. Instead of getting into the car parked in front of the building, he headed for the telephone booth I’d just vacated, breaking into a trot to beat it across in front of a truck coming down the street. The truck horn blared.

  Leaning back, I watched him place his call. His arms began to wave in agitation, or possibly anger. The booth’s confining sides kept him from pacing. He did the next best thing, turning this way and that, limited even there by the black cord tethering the phone.

  His conversation lasted less than two minutes. Now, I thought, reaching toward the ignition again as he stomped back toward the lumberyard and the car parked in front. Again he surprised me. Without looking left or right, he went back inside.

  Now what? I’d eat my second-favorite hat if he’d been talking to anyone other than Lamont. If I was right, they both now knew my phone call had been a trick, and that someone was onto them.

  There’d been times through the years when I wished I had a partner. Now was one of them. When people have rolled in the mud and don’t want it to show, they start to do things — anything. They start to panic. Either Trowbridge would make a move now, or Lamont would. It was a coin toss which one it would be, and I couldn’t watch both of them. My choice was to stick with Trowbridge or risk losing both of them. I stuck.

  It was almost the lunch hour, a good time for two men to meet somewhere without attracting notice. If Lamont came here, I’d see him. If Trowbridge left, I’d follow. But Trowbridge stayed put and the only ones who came and went were customers, and an empty flatbed truck with the Trowbridge name on the cab. Two men in work clothes dangled their feet from the tail of the truck. It pulled around back, where I guessed they would break out their lunch pails. Forty-five minutes later, the truck, or one like it, came out stacked with boards and two-by-fours.

  The afternoon trickled away, punctuated by sounds of a power saw and lumber slapping together in back. Blending with street sounds came the occasional drone of large propellers. More planes were flying into Patterson Field now.

  My bladder had started to protest. My backside was numb. I’d noticed a beer joint up the street next to a tool and die place. It was farther away from my car than I liked, but the front window would give a decent view of the lumberyard entrance.

  “Say, could you let me know if any vehicles come in and out at the lumberyard while I run powder my nose?” I asked when I’d ordered a beer. I gestured with the clipboard I’d brought with me. “Helping with a local report for the War Production Board in Washington.”

  The old fellow manning the bar looked impressed.

  “One of those volunteer auxiliary girls, are you?”

  I nodded vigorously.

  “Good for you, honey. All of us need to do our bit, right? Sure, I’ll keep an eye out.”

  My luck ran out when I asked if they served any food there. The only thing he could offer was peanuts. At least they were fresh, so I sat by the window and shelled some peanuts and took small sips of beer. From time to time I wrote down ‘car’ or ‘truck’ on the nice printed sheet I’d bought at an office supply store.

  What was I missing? Why wasn’t anything happening?

  Both Gloria and the boys who’d hidden under the tarp had described one of the men they’d seen as big. That had to be Hawkins, didn’t it? Unless he suddenly turned up here, my certainty in the matter was useless. I’d wasted almost an entire day now and had nothing to show for it. I felt like beating my head on the table.

  It was getting near quitting time for most people. Trowbridge and Lamont would be leaving their respective places of business. I needed to keep track of both men. Mo Minsky drove. If I could get her to come here and watch, or to call Joel...

  “Want another beer, honey?” the white-haired bartender called.

  Half a dozen customers had arrived without my noticing. I jumped up.

  “No thanks.” I
went to the bar and leaned forward, inviting him to confidential conversation. “The woman who’s supposed to relieve me is late, and I’m in a bind. My kid sis is supposed to go into labor any time now, and I promised I’d come when she did. Will you keep an eye out for me again while I run to that phone booth and make a couple of calls?”

  “Oh, you don’t need to do that,” he protested as I slid him a two-spot.

  “It’s for all those peanuts I ate.” I winked.

  A minute later I was in the phone booth dialing Mo’s number.

  “Mo, it’s Maggie—”

  “Thank God! I’ve been calling your office.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Rachel’s disappeared.”

  “When? How?”

  In my mind I heard again the ready-to-burst-the-dam fury in Rachel’s voice that morning.

  “I dropped her off at her hair appointment. She was supposed to call a cab and come straight home. She called Mama to say she was on her way, and the desk girl at the beauty salon says she called a cab. But that was an hour and a half ago. She hasn’t shown up. Mama called to see if she’d come to see me, to - to get away and talk. I hoped maybe she’d come to see you...”

  I found it hard to speak for the speed of my thoughts.

  “Should we call the police?” Mo was asking.

  “You’ve checked with your other sisters-in-law?”

  “Yes. And her secretary in case she went to her office. No one’s heard from her.”

  “No, don’t call the police.” The awful certainty I knew where Rachel had gone and what she might do began to crush me. “Call Joel,” I said. “Don’t do anything before you talk to Joel.”

  I needed to get to Rachel before she made matters worse for herself.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Dryness filled my mouth as I maneuvered the DeSoto numbly and as quickly as possible toward Lamont’s office. My arguments this morning hadn’t persuaded Rachel someone other than Lamont might be responsible for Foster’s murder. She saw only that she’d been accused. Confined. Humiliated. Denied control of her own life, which was at the core of what she did and who she was. This morning I’d seen the cracks forming in her, but I hadn’t been able to act fast enough. If, as I suspected, she’d gone to Lamont’s, if she did something rash there, a chunk of the blame — maybe all of it — would be mine.