“So you haven’t gotten a chance to check the land records. That’s okay. I’ll work it in.”
“No, actually, I did. Someone else opened for me and I checked first thing this morning.”
“Any trouble?”
“Cakewalk. Like I said, Katie and I go way back. Half a dozen or so of the properties scattered along that road are owned by Calvert Unlimited. And they’ve all been purchased in the last year. Guess who the signatory was.”
Shoe shook his head.
“Him,” she said, pointing at Rudy. “I don’t want to know what happened this morning. But if he didn’t already tell you about Calvert, you can’t trust him, and I am going to ask—no, plead—I’m going to plead with you to go back to Washington. As soon as Mom is well enough, I’ll follow.”
“Don’t let that imagination run away with you,” Shoe said, stirring vigorously as he dumped sugar into the coffee. “He did. Everything’s under control. Rudy’s just clumsy. He tripped in the dark. End of story.”
He started away and Fannie began to protest. He shushed her and set the coffee back down. “You have anyone else helping you here?”
She shut up and nodded, but Shoe could tell that he’d used his one and only pass when he shushed her. He dug down into his pants pocket and pulled out a portrait of one of the presidents, or maybe it was some other statesman. Didn’t matter. Timing was everything. “Before I forget. Great shoes in the windows on Seventh Street. Go buy a pair you like and I’ll take you dancing over at the pavilion.” He tucked the bill into her lightly curled fist and walked away. For an instant, he considered keeping the spiked drink for himself, but he overcame the temptation when he saw Rudy grimacing in pain.
“Calvert Unlimited,” he said, setting down the drinks. It’s a land speculation company. Why didn’t you tell me you were working for Carlton Donaldson?”
“Because it’s a short-term thing, and it’s none of your business.”
“It is when I waste time running around trying to figure out who’s buying off the Koenig family with a nice house. You just can’t come clean, can you?”
Rudy’s eyes narrowed. “Me? Who, pray tell, are the Koenigs?”
Jiminy! Shoe couldn’t keep his ps and qs straight. “I, uh . . . didn’t I tell you that part?” Reluctantly, Shoe filled Rudy in on everything he knew about the Koenig family.
When he was through, Rudy gave him a put-out look. “You realize this means I don’t fully trust you anymore. Holding out on anything else?”
Shoe bit his lip and shook his head. No, that was his last bargaining chip. If knowledge was power, he now had little sway over his brother. “I swear. Things have been moving so fast . . . You still owe me anyway, Rudy. Where was Mena the night she was murdered?”
“Down at the water waiting on me to return to Nevis.”
Shoe’s jaw dropped. “The bad side of town . . .in the middle of the night? Are you loco?”
“Non compos mentis,” he said softly. His gaze drifted away and there was a look in his eyes suggesting something profound and leveling. “They should lock me up. Toss the key. Oh, how I failed her.”
Shoe looked at him thoughtfully. There it was again: a whole lot of grief bottled, corked, and no place to go. It wasn’t possible to carry that much grief around and not have it erupt somehow: hysterics, complete emotional shutdown, or the desire to follow Mena into the afterlife in a blaze of glory. “Don’t get lost in crazy thinking like that. You know she loved you.”
Rudy blew across the top of his drink and gingerly sucked at the liquid. A slight smile crossed his lips as the taste of liquor hit him. He took a second, longer drink before setting it down. “Don’t ever get married, Shoe. It’ll break your heart.”
Shoe raised an eyebrow. “Married? Are you telling me—”
“One month, tomorrow.” He turned suffering eyes on Shoe. “I can still celebrate, right?”
“Er, sure. Was this, um, one of those midnight promises, um, to have and to hold forever, or did you actually, you know, get around to official paperwork?”
Rudy’s eyes bristled with fire.
“Not that it all wasn’t lovely and real and permanent in your eyes,” Shoe quickly added. “Um, congratulations?”
“Official,” Rudy said. His eyes dimmed and he took another sip of liquor. “A license, City Hall, the works. Official and legal.”
“I wish you had told me this sooner, Rudy. It kinda changes things.”
Rudy looked at him as if he’d lost his marbles. “Everything.”
Shoe nodded. “I don’t think you understand the magnitude of what you just told me. Did Mena have any money in her own right?”
Rudy’s cup stopped midway to his lips. “Are you insinuating I married her for her money?”
“Nothing of the sort. I’ve no doubt you married her for love’s sake. But if Mena had a trust fund, you might be the legal beneficiary. You could be sitting on a fortune!”
“I don’t care. I’d never spend a penny of it.”
Shoe watched him down the rest of his coffee. “Maybe you don’t, but it creates a motive for murder. Who else knows?”
“The officiant. Two witnesses. We weren’t stupid.”
“And you think you pulled off a secret wedding?”
“We found our ways. Everybody’s got to sleep sometime,” Rudy added. “We slipped out at an odd hour of the night and disappeared until the Hall opened. Nobody was the wiser.”
“I’m sorry,” said a voice behind them.
Shoe whirled around to see Fannie and a customer in the middle of an awkward dance: she trying to balance a tray of food and he struggling to keep from plowing her over. Shoe had been vaguely aware of the gentleman arriving after he and Rudy had hobbled in, but had paid him no further mind. Now that he had a second look, he realized the man looked familiar. But it wasn’t the face he recognized. There was nothing outstanding about his mug; it would blend into any crowd. No, it was the shoes—maybe a small detail to someone else, but not to this journalist, who had wasted half a day writing a feature on the latest men’s footwear. They weren’t flashy two-toned oxfords or nubuck brown, but Converse tennis shoes in dark brown. Given the man’s nicely cut suit, they were a most unusual fashion choice.
“Sorry,” the man said again. He stepped around Fannie and quickly exited.
A sick feeling sank like a lead fishing weight in Shoe’s stomach as he watched the gentleman bound down the diner steps and sprint toward the train station.
Rudy, do you have a copy of that marriage license?”
“Lock box off Lexington in Baltimore. Why?”
“I don’t think your marriage will be a secret for long.”
“Him?” Rudy said, nodding out the window at the retreating figure. “Emerson’s man?”
“My guess. I had the feeling we weren’t the only ones working this mess. He heard everything we said. Dammit, I should have been more careful. Trouble’s going to come of that one. Mark my words.”
Shoe continued watching until the eavesdropper disappeared from view. “Oh well, can’t be helped now. And I think you’ve got it right about laying low for a while, Rudy. Fannie can arrange a ride for you back to the Bayside. Stay there and rest up. I’ll need you later. As soon as it gets dark, I’m going back to Ripley’s. One less loose end. We need a crack at his bookkeeping.”
Rudy cocked an eyebrow. “Nice try, but you can save it for Sweeney.” He set the ice pack aside. “You’re not running off without me. It’s too dangerous. Besides, I’m not sure you’ll be forthwith when you return. Our partnership seems one-sided.” He stood up and attempted to put weight on his leg. With a caterwaul, he quickly dropped back into his seat. “Just need to walk it off,” he mumbled.
“Yeah, nice try.” Shoe picked up the ice pack and settled it back on the knee. “Now you’re on the trolley! Don’t worry. It’ll be jake. I’ll tell you everything.” It wasn’t enough. Rudy’s face was full of doubt and mistrust. It was a new experience and it
hurt a little. “On Dad’s grave,” Shoe said, making a quick sign of the cross over his heart. That was as solemn as it got for him.
As he left, Shoe stopped at the counter for a quiet moment with Fannie. “Jack coming back by here today?”
“He promised later today. Why?”
“Oh, nothing in particular. Keeping an eye out for him, that’s all. He said he’d help me later today. I’ll be hanging around the Ferris wheel. Can you send him that way? It’s important.”
Fannie didn’t buy his nonchalance. She gave him a long, concerned look before agreeing. “Him too?” she asked, indicating Rudy.
Shoe shook his head. “Keep him happy for a while, then bundle him off to the hotel.” Then he scooted out the door before Rudy could muster up a second wind.
There was no way Ripley recognized who they were, but sooner or later, with enough questions and snooping, somebody would make them. Nevis was too small a town to hide . . . unless you sliced and diced a couple down on the wharf. Then it was a boundless piece of real estate warrened with hidey holes. No, if he and Rudy were living on borrowed time, they needed to get cracking before Ripley and crew had a chance to noodle things through.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
If Initials Were Birds
The top of the Ferris wheel made a perfect observation point for observing the comings and goings on the wharf, but at this time of evening, Shoe could only guess on which warehouse belonged to whom. A sense of relief washed over him when he picked up Jack’s approach. With dark circles under his eyes and rumpled hair, the boy looked as if he had just rolled out of bed. There was nobody else on the Ferris wheel. Shoe gave the operator a fiver with instructions to ride them until it ran out. That would be plenty of time to get what he needed from his young protege. They climbed into a bucket, and Shoe handed him a hot dog dripping with yellow mustard and sauerkraut.
“Esskay hotdog,” he said. “Coney Island’s Nathan’s can’t touch ’em.”
Jack didn’t stop to consider. He downed half the bribe in a single bite.
“Anything new?” Shoe asked, watching him chew.
Jack grunted. Nothing else, just the grunt. Shoe looked him over. The fast-talking, cover-all-your-bases street urchin had grown into a lanky youth of few words and plenty of attitude. Not that he hadn’t any attitude before. Back then, it was all about the hustle. Now it was solely none of your business. Only it was his business. Important business.
The only thing harder than getting Jack to speak more than two words was getting him to sit still long enough to talk at all. Shoe’s game plan was short, to-the-point questions. “Ripley’s,” he said, pointing down toward the wharf. “Got anything on that? Friends, enemies, illegal activities?”
“Uh huh.”
“Come on, Jack. Specifics. I need to visit tonight and check a few things out. Background would be nice.”
“Are you meeting just him?”
Shoe gave him a sour look.
“Shhh . . .” Jack mumbled. “Now who’s not helpful?” He shifted his feet until his knees bumped up against the front wall of the cart and his pant legs rode up even higher on his socks. “That’s an easy lock. Meet me at the clock tower at eight sharp.” He took another big bite of the wiener.
Shoe gave him a quick look. “You don’t steal, do you, Jack?”
Another growl suggested he was pushing it.
“Eight, then. It’ll be quick, Jack. And we won’t be lifting anything,” he swiftly added.
With the hotdog almost gone, Shoe had a couple more questions at best. He pointed toward the bay again. “Those warehouses . . . is there any rhyme or reason for the way they’re numbered? Doesn’t make sense to number them but have the numbers nonconsecutive.”
Jack turned his gaze on Shoe and studied him thoughtfully as chewed. “Fire took out the low numbers,” he said, apparently placated and energized by his meal. “When they rebuilt them, they gave them new numbers. Which one are you interested in?”
“Uh, none in particular. Just curious. Like, how about that tall one in the middle of the other two tall ones right there on the water? About twenty or so down from the old glassworks? Just for instance? Would that be 20?”
“Mackall’s? Twenty. Gonna rob that too?”
Shoe started to stand in mock indignation and then remembered where they were. He sat back down as the cart bounced and swayed precariously. “I’m not robbing anyone! What’s wrong with you?”
Jack smirked. “You’re breaking into businesses and I’m the one with the problem?” As they passed the ride operator, he motioned to get off. “Stop next time around,” he yelled at him.
They both crossed their arms across their chests and looked in opposite directions. When the ride slowed to a stop, Jack stormed off and disappeared in the flow of visitors drifting past.
At precisely eight o’clock, Shoe stepped out of the shadows and approached the clock tower. Except for the scrawny yellow tabby weaving in and out of his legs, the wharf was deserted—dark and silent except for the steady wash of the water against the shore and a rumbling of thunder in the distance. It was an illusion, of course. The deeply religious were keeping vigil all day and late into the night at the place on the pier where the Blessed Virgin was said to have appeared. Apparently they had run out of hymns and were currently in deep personal prayer.
Shoe heard Jack’s footfall on the sandy boardwalk long before he saw him. The kid was a lot of things: cocky, indifferent to rules, and befuddlingly misdirected at times. Unreliable he was not.
Jack passed him by as if they were strangers. Shoe let him go, then followed at a respectable distance. Right before he reached the hock shop, Jack flicked his hand toward the alleyway that ran between Ripley’s and the shop next door.
At least, Shoe thought he saw that. He turned into the alley and hoped to Hades that Jack would duck into the next alley and meet him on the backside of the building. The alley was relatively clean for the docks area, no doubt due to its proximity to the steamboat landing. By the time one reached the brothels, all bets were off for passing between buildings. Given the potential for being rolled or beaten up by opportunists or inebriated wanderers, you wouldn’t want to do that anyway. Shoe moved quickly to the alley’s end and peered around the edge of the building. Jack was already on his knees working hard at the back-door lock. A moment later he pushed the door open.
The shop was all one room. By the soft glow of lamplight filtering in through the broad front window, Shoe eased past cabinets and tables filled with the excesses of the financially secure and the broken dreams of the down-and-out. As he inched by, machines, jewelry, and musical instruments crowded him with silent pleas to be rescued and taken home.
“We’ve got about five minutes,” Jack whispered, following behind him. “Since the murder, cops been patrolling this section of beach. Anywhere the good folk might walk. Tell me what you want. I’ll help you find it.”
“Don’t touch anything. I got it,” Shoe said as he slid behind the checkout counter. He stared into the cubbyhole beneath it until his eyes adjusted to the light. “Here,” he said, pulling out the ledger. He put it on the floor and flipped to the back.
“Light?” Jack asked.
Shoe sat back on his haunches. “Didn’t want to risk it. You?”
“Nope. Your party. Try the street lamp at the window?”
Shoe didn’t like it. It was a bit like waving here I am to the local flatfoots. The front door would have offered better protection, but it was boarded up where Ripley had shot out the glass. He looked around the dim room, searching for inspiration. Ripley had a lantern on the shelf behind them. Shoe nixed that. It would be even riskier than a quick shot at the window.
“Okay, window,” he said at last, “but it’s going to be quick. I need the name of the person who hocked an emerald necklace. It should be one of the last entries.”
As Shoe got up, Jack stayed him with a hand. “Wait. I have a better idea. I’ll go outside and keep a
watch. If you hear this”—he whistled softly like a redbird— “you beat it. Okay?”
His finesse was worrisome. Before Shoe could respond, he was gone.
By the time the back door clicked, Shoe was at the window and Jack was already chirping like a bird. Shoe ran a trembling finger down the latest ledger entries. Yesterday. Yesterday. Yesterday. Shoe broke out into a cold sweat. He could hear Jack talking to someone outside.
Finally! “O.S.,” he read aloud. What did it stand for? He double-checked the entry again. Gold necklace and pendant, green “emerald” stones . . . O.S. “Mother . . .” he mumbled, and slammed the book shut. He made his way across the floor and shoved the book back into the cubby. Then, stooping low, he scooted toward the back door. The store filled with the bright light of a lantern as he pulled it quietly closed behind him.
He lingered at the door a moment. Could Jack handle the police? He was a shrewd operator, and when he wanted to be, an excellent talker—clever, and innocent enough for the coppers to give him the once-over and let him go. But at some point, everybody’s luck ran out. He strained to hear any conversation, but the waterfront had become troublingly silent.
Beyond the alleyway on the landward came the soft coo of a turtledove. The boy knew his birds. Maybe initials too. Shoe fled. By the time he emerged from the alleyway onto Bayside Avenue, Jack was waiting for him.
“Didn’t find it?” Jack asked, eying his empty hands. “Are we going down to 20 now? Mackall’s boat is out.”
“Like I told you—” Shoe was wasting his breath. Jack apparently thought stealing was a justifiable means to an end. “Got what I wanted without doing that. The initials O.S. mean anything to you?”
“Nope.”
“Come on, Jack. You know everybody in town. Give it another go. Someone brazen enough to hock the jewelry of a dead woman within days of the murder and right under the noses of the police. Something? Anything?”
Jack was quiet for a while, hopefully going through a slow, methodical, street-by-street inventory of everyone he knew in Nevis. “Nothing. Out-of-towner? Maybe somebody who didn’t even know where it came from.”
The Dame on the Dock Page 17
