Jim stepped out of the van and went over to the stage. It was another pretty May day in Kansas City.
There was a knock on the door. Lefty Stuart went to open it with a big smile on his face. “Did you forget your key, baby?” It was Murray Steinblatz and Heaven Lee, not Sam Scott, standing there looking expectantly at Lefty.
“I’m Murray . . .”
Lefty Stuart nodded as if he’d just remembered something. “The fella from the New York Times, yes, yes. We have an appointment. Sam should be back soon. She’s out taking her walk. Come in.”
Murray and Heaven came in, and Murray said shyly, “I am from the Times, but I live here in Kansas City. I write a column called ‘Letters from the Interior’ about what happens around here, in the Midwest.”
“Would you like some coffee?” Lefty asked politely, and he turned toward Heaven.
“Yes, please. I’m Heaven Lee, Mr. Stuart. I came along with Murray to ask a favor of you and Ms. Scott.”
Lefty poured coffee for both Murray and Heaven. “Call me Lefty. Aren’t you the young lady who was attacked last night, you and the restaurant owner from New York?”
“Yes, that was me.”
Lefty put his hand up on the lump on the side of Heaven’s head. His touch was very gentle. Heaven wanted to grab his hand and make it stay on her wound, it felt so good. “That’s an ugly bump, Heaven. You should be in bed.”
“I know, I know, but the Eighteenth and Vine neighborhood only gets dedicated once. I promise everyone I’ll stay in bed all next week and nurse my wounds,” Heaven said with a laugh.
Murray sat down and brought out a reporter’s notebook and a tape recorder and placed them on the table. “While we’re waiting for your wife . . . Wasn’t Kansas City where you two met?”
Lefty Stuart’s eyes lit up. He sipped his coffee. “That’s right. Sam and I did meet here in Kansas City. I had already retired from baseball and I was here to throw out the first ball at the opening day for the old Athletics. As it turned out, Sam and some of the boys in the band had come to the game that afternoon. Then that night, the Boots Turner band was playing at a club in one of the hotels downtown and I went to see them. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was the Muelbach.”
Murray had started writing as fast as he could. “You have a good memory, Mr. . . . I mean, Lefty;”
“Well, when your life changes with one look, you kinda remember where you were when it happened,” Lefty said simply.
The door opened and Sam Scott came in. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I started window-shopping. This Plaza is just beautiful.”
Murray got to his feet quickly. “Ms. Scott, I’m Murray Steinblatz. And my friend Heaven Lee came along. She has something she really needs your help with. She practically called me from the hospital and asked me to bring her along.”
Heaven started fishing around in her purse. “This won’t take long. Then you and Lefty and Murray can visit,” she said as she brought out the two photos of Boots Turner.
Sam looked at Heaven with concern. “That’s a very ugly head wound, child. This must be important. By the way, how’s that other woman, the one who showed up at the Ruby the other night?”
“That’s why I’m here, because of what Ella said the other night,” Heaven said.
“You were there?” Lefty asked, thinking about his own scene with Boots.
Heaven nodded. “I’m the volunteer in charge of the food for the weekend, so I was there and heard what Ella said to Boots.” She held out the photos toward Sam Scott “These are photos that Evelyn Edwards had in her office”—she glanced at Murray as if to say, Save the lecture for later—”I think the man in both pictures is Boots.”
Sam Scott took the two laminated photographs and studied them. “Yes, it’s Boots, it sure is.”
“Do you know any of the other people, either of the women or the kids?” Heaven asked hopefully. “Was Boots married?”
“Not to these women, honey.” Sam Scott handed the pictures back to Heaven. “Those shots are from the fifties or early sixties, by the look of the clothes. Boots hadn’t been married at all until after . . .” She looked over at Lefty.
“Until that day in Kansas City when he lost you,” Lefty said quietly.
Heaven looked down at the shots with disappointment. “I know this is a hard question, but do you think Ella Jackson could have been telling the truth, that the woman who died here last week could have been Boots’s daughter, one maybe he didn’t know about?”
Sam Scott shifted and looked away from Heaven’s eyes. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
Lefty put his arms around Sam Scott and hugged her. “Now, honey, I know you know Boots and I don’t, but I do know men, and I know what it’s like when you’re on the road. There are lots of temptations out there, lots of pretty women who want to sleep with a famous musician.”
Sam Scott broke into a grin and elbowed her husband in the ribs. “Or a famous baseball player, I might add.”
Heaven and Murray laughed along with Sam and Lefty. Heaven knew Sam Scott wasn’t telling everything she knew, but it was time for her to leave for the dedication. She slipped her arm through Murray’s. “You two are a real inspiration. Thank you for all the help. I’m just going to have Murray walk me to the door and then he’s all yours. Promise me you’ll finish that story about the day you met, Lefty.”
“It’s one of my favorites,” Lefty said.
Heaven walked to the door quickly and headed out into the hall. “My brain is mush,” she whispered. “What’s Boots’s room number again?”
“Heaven, you’re in no shape to be up. Please go home,” Murray said.
“Murray, we already went through this. What’s his number?”
“1724. At least wait for me and we’ll go together. What if he’s the one who attacked you and Ella last night?”
“We’re at the Ritz-Carlton, for God’s sake. What’s he gonna do, pop me with a gun because I ask him about his offspring? Now, go back in there and finish your interview.” Heaven closed the door and headed for the elevator.
Boots Turner opened the door and looked at Heaven quizzically, the same way he had looked at Ella the other night, like he was trying to place her.
“Boots, I’m Heaven Lee. I’m the volunteer in charge of food for the Eighteenth and Vine gala. We met last night at the guard station when you were asking how to find Ella Jackson.”
“I know who you are. I ’spect everyone does after that picture in the newspaper this morning.”
Heaven slipped in before Boots had a chance to ask her what she wanted. She didn’t go far, though, just stood a few steps from the door. Boots glanced out in the hall.
“If you’re looking for Murray Steinblatz, the reporter, he’s on his way. Murray’s a friend of mine.”
Boots took a large white hankie out of his pocket and mopped his brow. “Lord knows who I’m looking for. Maybe the cops, again. I’m surprised to see you here, miss. I thought you’d still be in the hospital, along with Ella.”
“Did the police come and ques . . . talk to you about last night?”
Boots sat down in one of the room’s fancy chairs and gestured toward the other one. Heaven perched on the edge.
“They did more than that. They took me down to the station. Since Miss Ella said her piece the other night, I guess I’m suspected of killing this Evelyn person, then trying to do the same to the both of you.”
Heaven didn’t want to beat around the bush. She had a pounding headache and still had to deal with the barbecue crew. “I know it’s about time to go to the dedication, so I’ll just—”
“I don’t think I can go,” Boots said as he mopped his brow again.
“What’s the matter?”
“My heart. It’s pounding like a conga player on cocaine. I had heart surgery last year, and this whole police thing has got me real upset.”
“Boots, you’ve got a couple of hours. You better just lie down and relax. But first will you take
a look at these two photos, please?” Heaven gave him the photos.
Boots grinned. “Nadine Edwards. Barbara Jackson. Lord, I haven’t thought of them in years. I was still skinny back then.”
“Maybe that’s the problem, you haven’t thought of them. Boots, I found those two photos in Evelyn Edwards’s office.” She didn’t give Boots a chance to ask her how. “Evelyn is the dead woman. I think she thought you were her father. If one of these women is Barbara Jackson, the child with her could be Ella Jackson. Are these two little girls your children?”
Boots had tears in his eyes. “No, they are not. I talked to Ella for a minute last night before the concert. I know she’s convinced that I’m her daddy that she never knew. And from what she tells me, Evelyn thought the same.”
“Did you have a relationship with the mothers?”
“I did. And with Nadine, I continued to keep in touch long after the physical was gone. I met both of these ladies when they already had these little girls. Sweet little things.”
“Would you be willing to take a DNA test to put this story to rest?”
Boots sighed. “Oh, I’ll be tested if it’s necessary. Heaven, I’m not sure how you fit into this problem, except, of course, that someone attacked you. But I’m gonna tell you this right now, just in case something happens to me today and my heart just gives up on this old, fat man. I wish I could be the father of these girls. I can’t have children. I had the mumps go down on me when I was a child.”
“So there’s no way?”
Boots shook his head. “No way.”
Heaven got up. “I’m so sorry you had to tell me something so personal. But if you haven’t told the police, I suggest you do after the concert. They probably haven’t seen these photos yet, unless Ella had copies, too. But you’re already in trouble with them, and your offer to be tested should help.” Heaven headed toward the door. “My friend Murray Steinblatz will be here soon. Will you tell him I’ve already gone to the dedication? He’s a good guy, Murray is, and if you don’t feel better, ask him to take you to the hospital to get checked out.” Heaven patted the the big man’s arm. She felt sorry for him. “We need you,” Heaven said.
* * *
“How did Boots seem to you? Is he going to be okay?” Heaven asked eagerly, cutting into a piece of sweet potato pie. She and Murray were sitting at a table in the middle of Eighteenth Street. The celebration was in full swing around them. The mayor had proclaimed. The city council had pontificated. Jim Dittmar and Louis had both played to much applause. Now the Boots Turner Big Band was wowing the crowd.
“He seems like a fine, old gentleman. You shook him up with those photographs.”
“Did he tell you?”
“Not for publication, but yeah, he said he couldn’t have kids.”
“And the police shook him up before I got to him. Even if he’s lying like a dog, if he’s the father of both Evelyn and Ella, I don’t think he’s in good-enough shape to knock us out. This is great sweet potato pie. I like the pecans on top,” Heaven said.
Murray took a bite of pie off Heaven’s fork. “I don’t think he’s the father of Evelyn and Ella. Nowadays, most men won’t try the old I can’t have children’ routine if it’s not true. The new testing is just too good. But I’m more interested in the shape you’re in.”
Heaven gave Murray a hug, stealing a rib that was on his plate in the process. She stripped the rib clean of meat, eating like she hadn’t in a week, and tossed it on her own plate, where several other bare rib bones were piled next to the pie. “Bad shape, Murray. If this were not a once-in-a-lifetime event I would be home in bed. I feel like shit. Now, what have you heard about my accident last night?”
“Bonnie and Mona kept me up-to-date,” Murray said, touching the knot on Heaven’s forehead. “That’s an ugly lump.”
Heaven brushed his hand away impatiently. “No, not what you heard through official channels. What’s the word on the street? You’ve been around here all day, interviewing people for your story. What do people think happened between me and Miss Ella?”
Murray shrugged. “I’ve got a great story for my column, of course. You and Miss Ella are the icing on the cake. We’ve got an event planner dead, a valuable jazz memento stolen, and a prominent New York restaurateur attacked. Oh, and a prominent Kansas City restaurateur attacked. You do the math. You can mix ‘em and you can match ‘em. There are hundreds of theories.”
“Murray, what do you think?”
“This is a tough one, H. It’s hard to imagine the three incidents aren’t- related somehow.”
Heaven nodded. “When you throw in how upset the food community was about Ella opening a restaurant in Kansas City, it really gets hard to settle on a motive. And how is Ella related to the saxophone?”
“Maybe she had something to do with stealing it—you know, she was the one who cased the joint or something. And then her partner. . . .”
“I thought of that,” Heaven said with a wry chuckle. “And if they, the sax stealers, were trying to shut her up, she could still be in danger, as soon as she’s able to open her big mouth, that is.”
“I was going to say it wouldn’t make sense to kill someone over their cut of what you could get for a plastic saxophone, but I should know better by now,” Murray said.
“Maybe it wasn’t over the money. Maybe someone didn’t want Ella telling anyone they were involved, maybe a security guard who got paid off to look the other way.”
“Or the guy who drives the rental truck who got paid to slip the sax out while we weren’t looking,” Murray said. “Honey, there are lots of variables. I don’t think we can solve the curse of Eighteenth and Vine during lunch. Anyhow, this crowd doesn’t seem to care about the curse. They’re having a ball.”
The smells and sounds and sights were pretty great. Black children and white yuppies mingled. Gorgeous black women in African dress, leather boys with tattoos and art school girls with nose rings all stood grooving to the big band sounds of Boots Turner. The aroma of smoky meats wafted from the barbecue stands. An ice cream truck sold Popsicles and Fudgsicles. Lemonade and ice tea stands stood at both ends of the street. The committee had decided not to sell beer or any other alcohol so the dedication could be a family event.
Several thousand people clustered around the stage, while another thousand sat at the tables or in lawn chairs they had brought from home. Hundreds of others were touring the jazz museum and the Ruby Theater. The music sounded like the sound track of a movie—and, of course, Bob Daultman’s video cameramen were everywhere, so it was the sound track of a potential movie. It wasn’t big, by Chicago or New York festival standards, but for lots of Kansas City people, it was the first time they’d ever seen Eighteenth and Vine, even though it was such a big part of Kansas City history.
Murray, famous for his lack of rhythm, was tapping his toe with something resembling a beat. “I do have to confess that today I had delusions of solving all three crimes . . . Evelyn, the stolen sax, and you and Ella getting attacked. I thought it would make a really great ending for my column.”
Heaven laughed and then winced from the pain that came with moving any skin on her face. “Murray, be my guest. I’m sure Bonnie Weber would love you forever. ‘Letters from the Interior’ is going pretty well, isn’t it? New Yorkers like hearing about the heartland.”
“So far, so good. I’ve even started to get fan mail.”
Heaven’s eyes narrowed. “During the break, can we go up to the stage?”
“So much for just enjoying the music. You flipped right back to investigator to the stars. What’s up?”
“Sal said that Louis can speak English. He and his dad told us he can’t speak English. Let’s test him. You say something to his father, and I’ll watch his reaction.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Murray, I don’t know. Say something about his piano playing. If you’re talking about something dear to his heart, and he understands, I should be able to
see a reaction.”
“Heaven, I hate to be a party pooper, but he could understand English and still not be able to speak English.”
Heaven glared at Murray. “This is just the first step. Boots should take a break in another ten minutes or so. I see Louis waiting at the side of the stage. Get ready,” she barked.
Jim Dittmar appeared out of the crowd and sat down at the table with Murray and Heaven. He carefully touched the ugly knot on Heaven’s head. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. I came out of the Ruby right as they were taking you and Ella away last night. Then I had to be here early this morning to meet with the tech guys.”
“Don’t apologize. Mona and the good detective baby-sat me. I’m grateful you whipped the entertainment into shape. You and Louis are quite a pair.”
“Thanks. He’s a good kid.” Jim traced the outline of Heaven’s hand with his own finger, touching her softly.
Murray blushed and got up. “I’m going to congratulate Louis,” he said. “Good job, Jim.”
“I’ll meet you up there in a minute,” Heaven said as they watched Murray trudge toward the stage.
“So where were we? Oh, yes, you’d just asked me if I’d stolen the sax, said your ex-husband had told you bad things happen when I play a house party.”
“Well?”
“I don’t mean to talk down to you, Heaven, but have you ever been to a big country house in England, besides Mick Jagger’s and the ones owned by your ex and his buddies?”
“What’s your point?”
“My point is that there are about thirty service personnel for every guest. Yes, I have been around when things have been stolen. But so have dozens of other people, and most of them don’t make a quarter of the money I make, so they would make much better suspects than I would. There are caterers, waiters, hairdressers, florists, amusing but broke guests who have much more access to the upper floors of these big houses than I ever would. For instance, the hostess will sometimes provide a hairdresser and makeup person for the weekend. That lucky lady or fag can go in and out of the bedrooms much easier than a piano player. Besides, they usually carry big cases that would be easy to hide a tiny diamond necklace in. And that’s just one of many scenarios I could paint for you, my dear. I’m kinda hurt your ex-husband would say such a thing, being a musician himself.”
The Cornbread Killer Page 18
