Homicide for the Holidays

by Speed City Indiana Sisters in Crime

  “Hey, come and look at these,” Danny called out to me. He’d opened a drawer and had laid out some of her undergarments. Under them, he’d found some cards like the kind you send with flowers. “Take a gander at these—especially the last one.”

  One was from a guy named Johnny. No last name.

  Two more wished her love from a guy named Arch. For some reason, I suspected he was the red-haired kid, Myrtle had told us about. I looked at the last card and felt like Columbus when he first got an eyeful of America.

  Love and kisses doll,

  Chester T.

  I didn’t need to check the phone directly to identify what the T stood for.

  Chester Thornton, aka “Gunsel” Thornton.

  Danny and I exchanged a look. Thornton came out of Chicago just prior to the war. He’d moved to Indianapolis and by 1942, had his finger in every bit of pie involving gambling, robbery, and when it was required, murder. However, the John Q. Public didn’t know that. Even if they did, they ignored such talk. Thornton had poured big money in support of the war effort. At bond rallies, he was usually present dropping big bills into the war chest, getting his mug in the newspapers. But most people didn’t know the man’s festering underbelly.

  He had an eye for beauty and was always seen in public with a gorgeous dame on his arm. As I looked down at the card, it was clear that on at least one occasion, Lucy Greenstreet had been on that arm.

  After leaving Lucy’s flat I drove over to the The Indianapolis News building. I went up to an office on the third floor where “Gossip Gigi” worked. Her name is Gladys Graham. She’s the society columnist for the paper. If something’s going on with society’s tops here in the city, Gladys knows about it.

  She was munching on a sandwich from a downtown deli when I arrived on her doorstep. “Well, well, if it ain’t the poor man’s Sherlock Holmes,” she greeted me. “What poor sucker did I screw around with to deserve you dropping by?”

  “Good to see you, too, Gladys. You’re lookin’ well.”

  “So, ‘I’m looking well,’ is it? What do you need, Gumshoe?”

  “Information. I need to know what you have on one Lucille Greenstreet and Chester Thornton.”

  “She the gal who got bumped off last night?”

  I nodded.

  “You back on the force again?”

  I shook my head. “Just decided to give Detective Sullivan a hand. That’s all. So, what do you have on her?”

  “The past few weeks, Chester’s been seen squiring her around town.”

  “Think she might have found out some things she shouldn’t oughta?”

  “Could have. Might not have. If you’re looking for someone with a motive for killing her, you should check Arlene.”

  I started to ask who Arlene was, and then remembered one of the dancers we’d spoken to last night. Arlene was the reindeer Donner in the production.

  “Why would she want to kill Lucy?”

  “I told you, your victim was cozying up with Thornton, right? Three guesses who was Chester’s girl before Lucy?”

  “Arlene?”

  “Hit the nail right on the head. Understand Arlene raised holy Ned when Thornton dropped her for Lucille. My source said she threatened to kill her.”

  “Thanks, Gladys. You’re all right.”

  “Tell that to my ex-husband.”

  I found a phone booth and arranged to meet Danny at a dive off Georgia Street. I wanted to fill him in on what I’d just learned. We found a booth, and I spilled my guts. Strangely enough, he wasn’t impressed.

  “You got it all wrong, Mahoney. The member of the dance troupe who wanted her dead wasn’t Arlene.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It was that broad with the farm girl expression for a face.”

  I thought back. “Judy?”

  “That’s the one.”

  I remembered her. She was the Dasher reindeer in the dance number. She’d told us, her folks worked a farm over in nearby Hancock County.

  “What motive would that sweet lookin’ broad have for wanting to kill Lucy?”

  “Remember the GI boyfriend who died in France? Judy’s his kid sister. I learned that not long before he got burned by a Kraut, he received a ‘Dear John’ letter from Lucy. He died a day later. Just left cover and ran straight at a machine gun nest not caring whether he lived or died. My snitch said Judy blamed our corpse for his death.”

  “You gonna haul her in?”

  “Not yet. Got another lead. A bartender at a joint where the dancers often visited after the show told me to speak to some palooka named Angelo Rossi. Seems he’s cozy with Beverly, the one who told us Myrtle’s real name.”

  I remembered her—the one with jet black hair. “Got an address?”

  He nodded.

  “Can I come along?”

  “Thought you’d never ask.”

  Beverly, last name Manelli, was the show’s Comet reindeer. An Italian. The same went for her boyfriend, Angelo Rossi. We tracked him to a single-story double on East Michigan Street.

  “You looking for who bumped off the Greenstreet dame?”

  “We are. A bartender we talked to said you might have information to help us.”

  He held out an open palm. “What’s in it for me?”

  Danny was all for smacking the guy around to get the information. I stopped him and laid a five spot in his open palm.

  He rolled his eyes at the five and kept his palm out. “I’m having memory problems. It’ll get better if you double that.”

  I stepped back and waved a hand in Rossi’s direction to let Danny go ahead with his original intentions. Rossi saw what he was about to get pummeled and cracked.

  “Okay, you don’t gotta make a punching bag outa me. I’ll talk.”

  He pointed out that there was an even better candidate for the murderer than either Arlene or Judy. Beverly had told him that Laverne, the sandy haired dancer who wore a choker with the name Rudolph had a grudge against our victim.

  “This Lucy dame was in a jam and needed some money. Laverne loaned her a twenty. A week later, Lucy paid her back. When Laverne went to buy some groceries, she learned the bill was queer—a counterfeit. Laverne came this close to getting busted. When she confronted Lucy, that dame swore on a Bible that she didn’t know it was fake. Laverne told my girl, that she was certain the dame was lying. Told her that one day, she’d get even. Guess that day was last night.”

  Danny wanted to make Rossi give me my fiver back, but I said that the information he’d given us was genuine. I told Rossi to keep the dough, and we left.

  You know how you sometimes get a feeling about something? I got that feeling about the roommate, Rosaline, alias Myrtle, alias Dancer. I remembered the flat she shared with Lucy had paper thin walls. I figured that if they didn’t get along, the person in the flat next door might know.

  After Danny and I split up, I drove back to the apartment building. I knocked on the door of the apartment next to theirs and waited. A woman answered the door.

  “Whatever you’re selling, I ain’t buying.” She tried to slam the door in my face.

  My foot was faster and kept the door open. I asked her if there had been any trouble between the two dames.

  “Trouble? When ain’t there been trouble between those two? They start yelling from the time they go through the doorway. Sometimes they go at until three in the morning. I work at a factory and need my sleep. Do they care? Not likely. I’ve complained to the landlord, but I figure he’s got the hots for the one still alive.”

  “Do you think Myrtle hated Lucy enough to kill her?” I asked.

  “So, that’s her name? Yeah, I think so.”

  I left the apartment building with another name to add to our list of probable murderers.

  When we’d split up, Danny had told me he was going to try and find out about the cute blonde who had put the make on him the night before. Her reindeer name was Prancer. I wondered if he planned to talk to her at h
er place, do some “sky-watching” and possibly get lucky. When I told him what I thought he was up to, he laughed in my face.

  “In no way am I going to get alone with that one. I hear she works part time at a restaurant on the Westside. I plan on talking with someone who waits tables with her.”

  My phone was ringing when I got to my office. It was Danny. He’d learned nothing that would make the blonde a suspect. He said he was calling it quits.

  I was about to do the same when an idea hit me. I drove down to the morgue hoping I’d find the coroner. I lucked out. He was just ready to leave for the day when I got there.

  “You have the stockings that were used to strangle the dancer, right?”

  “I was about to hand it over for storage in the evidence locker.”

  “These stockings—they come in different sizes, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  I had an idea. Thought I’d play the whole Prince Charming-Cinderella gambit. The thought of personally trying the nylons on each off the dancers sounded very appealing, if you catch my drift.

  But Doc shot me down.

  “Won’t work. The nylons are brand new. Don’t look like they’ve ever been worn. The killer just bought the first pair he or she saw,” he told me.

  Suddenly, I got a better idea.

  The following evening, I showed up at Maisie’s flat. I’d brought a box of chocolates, a bouquet, and a box of nylons. I already knew Maisie’s size. She met me at the door, but wasn’t ready to forgive me and let me in. “So, you think this will make me forgive you for being such a louse the other night?”

  “I’ll never do it again, I swear it.”

  She looked me up and down trying to decide if I was worth another chance.

  “That’s a new tie. I never saw that before.”

  “I bought it to celebrate.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “To celebrate what?”

  “Breaking the case. I caught the murderer.”

  She looked doubtful but let me in. Over a beer, I told her about all that had led up to my solving the murder.

  “So, the coroner told you the stockings were new…”

  “Yeah, and then it hit me. Although they didn’t look all that expensive, I decided to hit some of the better stores in Indianapolis. I made the rounds of Blocks, Penneys, and L. S. Ayres. I struck pay dirt at Ayres. The brand used for the murder was only sold there.”

  “So, the clerk who sold the stockings knew who bought them?”

  I shook my head. “No, she sells a decent amount now that the war’s over, and the restrictions have been lifted.”

  “Well, how did knowing where the stockings came from help?”

  “Before I answer you, I need you to answer a question I’ve got.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “You go downtown and buy something at a department store. You pay and the clerk hands you the receipt. What do you do with it?”

  “Stick it in my purse. Why?”

  “I talked things over with Danny, and he got a search warrant to go through the dancer’s things while they were out on stage performing—especially purses. In one, we found a receipt for the stockings balled up. We went through the doll’s apartment and found the other stocking stuffed in the trash bin behind her building. I told you those dancers were gorgeous, not smart. We confronted the dame and under pressure, she confessed.”

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Who killed the girl?”

  “I’ll tell you, if you agree to go dancing with me tonight.”

  “Okay, you got me on a string. Who done it?”

  I grinned. It seems Arlene was more than just a little peeved about losing Chester, her “million bucks” meal ticket, to Lucy. I thought about the reindeer name on the choker around Arlene’s own neck as she strangled her victim.

  I also thought about those lines you see in Christmas cards. As I’d driven over to Maisie’s I made up a jingle of my own to answer her.

  Comet’s a cutie,

  But she didn’t off Vixen.

  Dasher’s in the clear,

  And so is Miss Blixen.

  It’s Donner who done it,

  Not Dasher or Prancer,

  Let’s go hit the ballroom.

  You’re my favorite Dancer.

  I danced the night away with Maisie.

  Christmas Reindeer Roast

  2 tablespoons plus 1/2 tablespoon cooking oil

  3 to 4 pounds venison roast (beef may be substituted)

  1/4 cup onion, chopped

  1 tablespoon garlic, minced

  1 cup carrots, sliced

  3 cups low sodium beef broth

  1/4 cup red wine (Lumbrusco preferred)

  2 (10 3/4-ounce) cans of cream of mushroom soup

  1 teaspoon salt

  1 cup canned sliced mushrooms

  In a skillet add 1/2 tablespoon of the cooking oil and brown each side of the roast.

  Add remaining cooking oil to the bottom of a pressure cooker. Add onions, garlic and carrots. Cook the vegetables at medium heat for 3 to 4 minutes or until softened.

  Add beef broth, wine and soup, stirring repeatedly until the mixture is smooth.

  Add the roast. Season with salt. Then add mushrooms.

  Cover the pressure cooker and set burner on medium heat and cook for 50 minutes.

  Add a cup of water at that time and continue to cook for 30 more minutes or until tender.

  Serve with mashed potatoes, or white rice.

  Claus, Santa: MIA

  By C. L. Shore

  Mava was up before dawn the morning of December twenty-fourth. Thankfully, she’d wrapped her gifts earlier in the month. The L. S. Ayres’ employee discount made her Christmas shopping extremely easy and somewhat economical. She’d even had enough money left over to buy herself two sweater twinsets, one in cardinal red and one in evergreen. A small balsam fir occupied the corner of her tiny apartment, decorated with red velvet bows.

  Mava savored the feeling of safety during the holidays. Last year, she’d been in Europe, nursing wounded GIs. Many of them were her age, some even younger. Now, she was back on American soil, and so were some of her patients—those who survived.

  Janet, her coworker, grumbled about having to work the day before Christmas, but Mava welcomed the opportunity to put in her shift in Appliances and Housewares. She’d had enough of nursing for a while and found it a welcome change to work in a place where chaos didn’t reign, where wounded weren’t carried in at all hours of the day and night, and where there was a definite quitting time. And no blood involved. She made enough money to pay the rent on her St. Claire Street apartment just north of downtown Indianapolis. She could walk to work, go to church on Monument Circle on Sundays and take the Interurban to visit her folks and kid brother in Plainfield on her days off. Some of the others in her Army Nurse Corps squadron might call her life boring. The routine and dependability agreed with Mava, though. She could live a boring life for the time being.

  The atmosphere at Ayres transitioned from pleasant to festive when the Santa Cottage opened. The little house with gingerbread shutters occupied a space just around the corner from Housewares. Even though Mava couldn’t see the cottage itself from her cash register, she could see the line of children as they eagerly awaited their turn to sit on Santa’s lap. Sometimes they came to her department with their mothers after their experience, wide-eyed and clutching candy canes.

  Just the day before, the red-suited gentleman had wandered into Housewares. He’d approached Mava. “Have you been good all year, young lady?” he’d asked.

  “I’ve tried to be,” Mava replied. Santa’s voice sounded awfully young to her. “You could ask my supervisor, Mrs. Baker. I haven’t missed a day of work. Of course, I just hired on three months ago.”

  “Hmm.” Santa nodded. He stood in front of Mava and pulled on the fluffy white beard to reveal his features, including a pair of hazel eyes protected by auburn brows. His was a youthful face. Mava guessed this joll
y old elf couldn’t be out of his twenties.

  “Name’s Nick,” he said. “Really. I think my moniker helped me get the job.”

  Mava smiled. “I’m Mava, named after my grandmother. Don’t know if my name helped me get this job or not.”

  Nick returned her smile. “Nice to meet you, Mava. Maybe we can get together after the holiday. I might be working in the luggage department then. In civilian garb.” He waved a mittened hand and started toward the elevator.

  “I hope so.” Mava called after him. Maybe her comment sounded rather forward, but she didn’t care. The war had emphasized just how precious life was. She didn’t believe in wasting a minute of it.

  Janet’s blond hair was visible across two aisles of pots and pans. She’d witnessed the entire exchange and crossed over to the cash register on tiptoe.

  “I think Santa likes you,” she said in a stage whisper.

  Mava shrugged. “Maybe.” They both giggled.

  It seemed reasonable to expect exchanging a “Merry Christmas” with Santa himself on that December twenty-fourth. Endless rows of excited boys and girls would wind through the aisle of kitchen gadgets, each awaiting their turn on Santa’s lap.

  Children and parents crowded along the downtown sidewalk, waiting to burst through the department store doors at nine o’clock. Young and old alike directed their attention to the windows with their detailed display of skating and sledding scenes. Machines hidden from view kept the skaters circling the lake and the sleds hurtling down the hillside.

  Mava scurried through the employee’s entrance, hung her coat and purse in her locker, and took the elevator to the eighth floor. Instead of animated conversation and cheerful faces, she found several somber employees affixing a poster to the front of Santa’s Cottage. “Santa is busy making toys today,” it read. “Sorry he can’t be here.”

  Mava grabbed the elbow of one of the maintenance workers and gestured toward the sign. “What’s going on?” she demanded. “I saw Nick yesterday. I’m sure he was planning to be here.”

  “You haven’t seen the papers, have you, lady?” the man said. He grabbed a rolled-up piece of newsprint from under his tool box and folded it to reveal the front page.