Miss Kopp Investigates

by Amy Stewart

  She took the card. ARTHUR MARTIN, it read. VOCAL EXPRESSIONIST.

  19

  HAVING FAILED TO obtain her photographs, Fleurette decided not to report back to Mr. Ward just yet but to first pay a visit to Alice.

  She knew she wasn’t exactly authorized to go around speaking to Mr. Ward’s clients. But hadn’t he praised her before for salvaging a job, when poor weepy Mr. Finley was too heartbroken to have his picture taken?

  She saw no reason why she shouldn’t try again, with Alice, to salvage a ruined job. Perhaps the girl in question had moved on to another show. Or maybe—and this would be a disappointment, in terms of the fee, but a relief to Alice—he wasn’t having an affair at all, and the whole sorrowful business had been a misunderstanding.

  It was unlikely—Alice had seemed awfully convinced of her husband’s infidelity—but how else to explain it?

  Mr. Martin’s address was on his card. It appeared to be not an office, but a home address. It wouldn’t be at all unusual for a voice teacher to work out of his living room. She wasn’t sure how she’d speak to Alice alone, but she took a chance and strolled by the following afternoon.

  She could hear a student singing scales to a metronome from half a block away. The sound didn’t come from the house, though, but from a cottage in the back not much bigger than a garden shed. With Mr. Martin so obviously occupied, Fleurette knocked at the front door.

  Alice answered almost immediately. She was dressed to go out. When she saw Fleurette, she took a step back in surprise. Fleurette took the opportunity to step inside, a trick she’d learned from Constance. In an investigation, don’t wait to be invited in. (Was this an investigation? Fleurette felt it might be.)

  She found herself in a sitting-room that was unexceptional in every way, except that it was outfitted with an upright piano and the walls were hung with autographed programs and playbills. Here lived a person devoted to the theater.

  “Mrs. Martin, I’m sorry to bother you at home,” she began.

  Mrs. Martin was still standing at the door, her pocketbook under her arm. “My husband’s here,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  “As long as we can hear them singing, we know where they are,” Fleurette said. “I came to tell you what happened. I went to the theater last night as you asked. There was no girl. Well, there were plenty of girls, but they were his students. You know that, don’t you? He goes to the theater to visit his students.”

  Mrs. Martin glared at her. For such a mousy woman, she could be quite fearsome. “Of course he goes to the theater. He’s surrounded by young girls all the time. Your job was to get a picture of him with one of them.”

  “One of them?” said Fleurette. “Don’t you mean to say that you wanted a picture of him with the girl he’s threatened to run off with? The one you intend to name as co-respondent in the divorce case? If she exists at all—”

  “Of course she exists,” Mrs. Martin said.

  “Then she’s no longer at that theater. Or she wasn’t there last night. He was only backstage for ten minutes, and I watched him. His conduct was above reproach. He was obviously there on a professional basis. If you can tell me where else I might find him and his girl together, I’ll go again. But I can’t take a picture of a girl who isn’t there.”

  The singing stopped just then. Mrs. Martin looked at the clock. “They’re about finished. You should go.”

  “Why don’t we both go,” Fleurette said. “You look like you were on your way out anyway.”

  They heard footsteps at the back door. Mrs. Martin sighed and stepped outside. Fleurette followed.

  Mrs. Martin walked at a furious pace. They dashed down the street and around the corner. “I thought you lawyers could get a picture of anything. I pay your fee, and I get a picture of my husband with a girl.”

  “Oh, you mean . . .” But Fleurette didn’t know how to put it.

  “Yes, exactly,” Mrs. Martin said. “Doesn’t Ward & McGinnis do that sort of thing? When I saw you in his office, I assumed you’d be the girl. Isn’t that how it works?”

  What Fleurette wanted to say was Yes, but you didn’t ask for that. But if she let it be known that such a service was available, Alice would simply demand it and that would be the end of it. Poor Mr. Martin, who appeared to have done nothing wrong, would find himself on the receiving end of a divorce suit. But why?

  Fleurette had the feeling that Alice wasn’t telling her everything. She wasn’t about to proceed until she knew what Alice was holding back.

  “Mrs. Martin, I do want to help. Mr. Ward is your lawyer. He wants to gather all the facts and do the very best he can for you. Can you tell me how you found out that your husband was having an affair? Have you seen the girl? Do you know anything at all about her?”

  Alice was even more agitated now. “I’ve told you what I want from you. If you can’t do it, then I’ll take my money back and give it to another lawyer who can.”

  Fleurette wasn’t about to tell her that the money had already been spent. “No one can take a picture of a woman who doesn’t exist, Mrs. Martin. Are you sure there isn’t something you’re not telling us? You do know that we want to help.”

  Mrs. Martin didn’t answer. She wheeled around and walked away. This time, Fleurette let her go.

  20

  THE NEXT MORNING, Fleurette picked at a late breakfast while Constance read another of the innumerable department store protocol manuals she brought home from work.

  “I don’t know why you bother with those books,” Fleurette said. “They’re only paying you to follow the ladies around and make sure they don’t slip anything into their pocketbooks. You don’t need a manual to tell you how to do that.”

  Constance hardly bothered to look up as she answered. “Mr. Schoonmaker has been dangling the possibility of a promotion, if I’ll learn something of the business. He has an idea to put someone in charge of inventory generally. I wouldn’t just be looking out for thieves. I’d be managing everything—how it’s received, how it’s stored, how we keep track of what goes in and what goes out. He wants to put the business on a more modern footing.”

  Fleurette pushed her plate away and squinted at Constance. “That has to be the dullest thing you’ve ever said. Truly, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a more deathly boring string of words come out of your mouth. You don’t really intend to become an inventory manager for a department store, do you?”

  “I intend to take a promotion if it’s offered and to bring in more money if I can,” Constance said. “Isn’t that what we’re all doing?”

  “Yes, but . . .” Fleurette thought better than to argue. She’d found a very lively line of work, even if it did come with its hazards. She wouldn’t mind fending off the occasional Mr. Thorne if it meant that she never, ever had to think about inventory management at a department store.

  “Your talents are wasted, that’s all I’m saying,” said Fleurette.

  “My talents can wait,” said Constance.

  Could they? Fleurette thought again of Francis, struck down at his desk. What had he put off until later? What ambitions had he deferred? Fleurette realized she didn’t even know. It had never occurred to her to ask.

  Norma and Bessie banged through the kitchen door just then, having been up especially early to catch the bank manager on his way in.

  “That Mr. Tichborne doesn’t own the bank,” Norma groused, as she hung up her hat and took Bessie’s right off her head. “I intend to find out who does and complain to him. To treat a grieving widow like she’s some sort of—of—disinterested party is unforgivable. I’ll have him dismissed.”

  “It isn’t how he treated me, but what he had to say,” Bessie put in. She spoke slowly, as if the shock of it still hadn’t registered.

  “To insist that he’ll only speak to our lawyer is in itself illegal,” Norma said. “It must be. But if he wants a lawyer, he’ll get one. Don’t we know an attorney?”

  “I thought one came to the fune
ral,” said Bessie.

  “That was John Ward,” said Norma. “I don’t know that he’ll do us much good.”

  Fleurette dropped her spoon and ducked down to retrieve it. Norma seemed not to notice. “We’ll have someone write a letter,” she continued. “Do you know I believe Mr. Tichborne was terrified to have a pregnant woman sitting across from him?”

  “You didn’t have to tell him,” said Bessie, smoothing down the front of her dress. She was at that in-between stage where no man would dare to guess whether she was pregnant or merely stout.

  “I wanted him to know what we’re up against,” said Norma, “and I wanted more than three months.”

  Constance pushed her store manual aside and said, “Three months for what? Do you mind telling the rest of us what the banker said?”

  Bessie sighed. “Sit down, Norma. You can’t pace around all day.”

  “Oh, I intend to pace around,” Norma said, “until I work out what Francis did with all that money.”

  “Then he did take out a mortgage,” said Fleurette.

  “About six months ago,” said Norma. “He borrowed fifteen hundred dollars against his own house.”

  “Fifteen hundred? That has to be a year’s salary,” said Constance.

  “Almost,” said Bessie.

  “But—why?”

  Norma said, “That’s what they won’t tell us. They want us to believe that it’s not our business what he did with the money. It’s only our business to pay it back.”

  “Wouldn’t the bank have records?” asked Fleurette. “Unless he walked out with a bag of cash, there must be something that shows where the money went. He didn’t keep it, did he?”

  “He didn’t keep it in the bank, if that’s what you mean,” said Bessie. “We had almost nothing in our account when he died.”

  “Then he must’ve paid it to someone,” said Constance. “I can’t believe the bank manager doesn’t know.”

  “Oh, he knows,” said Norma. “He just doesn’t want to tell us. He doesn’t think he has to. Francis was the bank’s customer, and now Francis is dead. Bessie has the account now, but as far as Mr. Tichborne is concerned, that’s an entirely different matter.”

  “But the mortgage is still owed,” said Constance. “So it’s not a different matter.”

  “I explained it to Mr. Tichborne in precisely those terms,” said Norma, “but he’s a banker. He wants his money.”

  “He agreed to delay for three months,” said Bessie, “but then we’re expected to start making those payments.”

  “And if we don’t?” said Fleurette.

  Bessie opened her mouth to answer, and then looked through the kitchen window at her own house next door.

  Norma answered for her. “The bank can take the house.”

  “But that’s impossible!” said Fleurette. “You’ve lived there since you were married. It’s bought and paid for.”

  Bessie turned back to look at her. “I’m afraid it isn’t. Not anymore.”

  She was near tears already. Fleurette didn’t dare ask another question.

  But there was no stopping Norma. “We can file suit, and we should. Francis must’ve put that money somewhere. It could be on deposit at another bank. He could’ve bought a piece of property. Fifteen hundred dollars did not just vanish overnight. We’ll find out where it’s gone, we’ll take it back, and we’ll settle the mortgage. I can’t believe Francis intended to leave you with a mess like this.”

  “Francis didn’t intend to leave me at all,” said Bessie quietly. Fleurette reached over and rubbed her shoulders.

  Norma dropped her elbows on the table and put her chin in her hands. “He wouldn’t have squandered the house, that’s all I know.” She looked up at the calendar tacked on the wall. “Six months ago. That would’ve been August. I was in France, obviously. I had no idea what he was up to. But you were here. Can’t you think of anything he said, any sort of opportunity he might’ve mentioned? A friend going into business, a house for sale, anything at all? He didn’t go out and buy war bonds with it, did he?”

  Bessie shook her head. “I found all the war bonds in his desk.”

  “I’m going to have another look at that desk,” said Norma.

  “He never said a word about money to me,” said Constance. “I suppose we could ask his friends and his associates at work. He was always volunteering with some committee or another during the war. Those were mostly businessmen. One of them might remember something.”

  “Oh, let’s don’t start asking his friends. I don’t want to spread this all over town,” Bessie said.

  “No, that’s right,” said Norma. “If word gets around, we’ll be questioned every time we walk down the street. This is between us and the bank.”

  “Well, my shift starts at noon,” said Constance, pushing away from the table. “I ought to get ready. But if you change your mind, just say the word and I’ll go speak to a few people. Discreetly.”

  “Not yet,” said Bessie. “I’d rather find another way. Is there any coffee left?”

  Norma was already reaching for the morning papers. “Fleurette will make another pot.”

  Bessie made a show of pushing herself up, but Fleurette put a hand on her shoulder. “Stay where you are.”

  Constance disappeared down the hall while Fleurette busied herself with the coffee. Norma paged through the newspaper, reading aloud as she always did.

  “It says here that divorce petitions have nearly doubled since the end of the war,” Norma announced. Fleurette kept her eyes on the coffee.

  Despite the lack of interest from anyone in the room, Norma went on. “They’re suggesting that divorces aren’t really any higher if you consider the fact that they were lower last year, when the men were in France. They’re just catching up now.”

  “Oh, that’s awful,” said Bessie. “Fleurette, dear, I wouldn’t mind one of those molasses cookies.”

  “Bring the whole tin,” said Norma, without looking up from her newspaper. “These don’t seem like divorces that were put off because of the war. They seem like fresh affairs. Here’s an Amanda Ballard, filing suit against her husband, G. W. Ballard, who was seen at a hotel that shall not be named because it is such a regular advertiser, in the company of the co-respondent, a Miss Gloria Blossom. Now, according to this, Mr. Ballard is no returning war hero. He’s fifty-two—”

  Fleurette nearly choked. She didn’t dare look around to see if Constance was within earshot. Norma wouldn’t recognize the name Gloria Blossom, but Constance would: it was the only pseudonym Fleurette had used when she worked on Constance’s case during the war.

  For a full agonizing minute Fleurette waited. But Constance didn’t reappear.

  She listened for footsteps, the sound of drawers opening and closing, a faucet running, anything that might tell her whether Constance was upstairs or downstairs.

  Had she really missed it? She must have. She would’ve come running in if she’d heard that name. It was so obviously phony, and Fleurette had used it for weeks last fall. There was no forgetting it.

  But who was G. W. Ballard? Fleurette couldn’t recall the case. It occurred to her that the clients might’ve also been acting under an assumed name. Perhaps the men might also have wanted their identities kept private. It made sense: Mr. Ward had every reason to make sure that his clients and his professional co-respondent knew next to nothing about each other.

  The trouble was that she’d only used the name Gloria Blossom once, with Mr. Thorne, because she’d forgotten to pick a pseu-donym in advance and had to scramble for one at the last minute. It was careless of her: the entire reason for choosing a false name was the very real possibility that she’d be mentioned in the papers as co-respondent.

  And Mr. Thorne’s case had not, as far as Fleurette knew, made it to court.

  Hadn’t Mr. Ward introduced her to Alice Martin as Miss Blossom? He’d come up with that on his own. There seemed to be no reason to use a phony name if Fleurette was only
to do the photography, but she hadn’t objected. She would’ve chosen a name other than Miss Blossom if she’d had the opportunity, but the moment had slipped by so quickly that she didn’t bother.

  But the Martin case hadn’t resulted in any divorce charges being filed, either.

  Whoever G. W. Ballard might be, Fleurette was fairly sure she’d never met him.

  Norma had by this time moved past the divorce cases to the next item of interest. Fleurette heard Constance coming down the stairs, or was she going up?

  “Well, the county road supervisor doesn’t know what he’s doing,” said Norma, folding the paper back and preparing to read aloud.

  Then she paused and looked up at Fleurette, who was staring at the wall. “Whatever happened to those cookies?”

  21

  “BUT WHY WOULD you use a name your sister would recognize?” Mr. Ward asked, quite reasonably, after Fleurette explained the situation. She’d rushed right over after breakfast, too nervous to stay in the house another minute with that incriminating newspaper sitting around.

  “I never meant to,” Fleurette protested. “It was that awful night with Mr. Thorne. I’d been so busy doing myself up—because you asked me to—that I forgot to choose a name. Gloria Blossom just slipped out.”

  “Well, it stuck in my mind as well. G. W. Ballard’s case is an old one only just now making its way to court. The paperwork came through a week ago. I suppose I might’ve put that Blossom name down without realizing where I’d heard it. You’re right, you never met him. Be grateful for that. He was an old sourpuss. I sent a girl over for pictures and he lectured her on morality. Can you imagine that? A man looking for a divorce and he’s quoting scripture to my girl?”

  “Well, don’t use it again,” Fleurette said.

  “It’s already forgotten,” said Mr. Ward. “Do you have film for me?”

  “I don’t,” said Fleurette. “Arthur Martin goes to the theater at night, but he isn’t having an affair. He’s a vocal instructor. Did you know that?”