In spite of having watched Butchie McLaughlin and his brothers fight all the time, I could hardly imagine one sibling killing another, but Robert seemed to believe my theory was possible. “She always . . . has been very jealous of Mother,” he said. “And I’m pretty sure . . . Aunt Johnene liked Mr. Bessemer first.” He paused to take a few breaths, and I gave him time. Then he added, “In spite of all the mean comments she . . . she makes about him.”
“I suspected that, too,” I said. “I could tell the whole thing about wanting to be a secretary and having her own money was just sour grapes.”
Robert nodded, and I thought I probably shouldn’t push him to keep talking. Before I returned to writing my story, though, I had to ask, “She doesn’t chew pepsin gum, does she?”
Aunt Johnene seemed like a person who might have a chronically sour stomach, to match her disposition.
But Robert shook his head. “I don’t think so . . .”
He was clearly curious about the question, but I decided not to explain everything I’d found in the alley. He really needed a rest. “You should take a nap now,” I suggested. “I’ll watch you while I finish my article.”
It must’ve been terrifying to be alone, struggling to breathe, because he didn’t seem at all offended by my offer to act as his nanny. He just nodded again, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back, and within a minute his chest was rising and falling in a shallow but steady way.
Poising my pencil over my notebook, I reviewed some of the things I’d written.
New evidence suggests that the woman wrongly accused of being Cook County’s “prettiest” killer is actually innocent!! A piece of gum found at the crime scene seems to make it look as if Miss Colette Giddings’s mean, almost-former husband could have been there when the fatal shot was fired at mobster Charles Bessemer!
I erased—then added back—the exclamation points about ten times, not sure how Maude managed to make her stories seem so exciting without quite so much punctuation.
What am I doing wrong?
Chapter 40
I GOT HOME JUST IN TIME TO SEE MY MOTHER LEAVE FOR HER JOB. Then I heated up my own can of soup, gulped it down, and climbed into bed. But I couldn’t sleep. My article and its shortcomings kept me awake, and before long, I was working on the story again, at the kitchen table.
At dawn, I woke up with my head on the composition book. I still wasn’t satisfied with what I’d written, but I dabbed my sleeve on a puddle of drool that had messed up the top page, bundled up, and made my way to the Tribune Tower. Walking straight to an elevator, I asked the operator to take me to the city room, got queasy again, and a few minutes later left three smudged, sometimes torn-by-eraser, and slightly damp pages on Maude’s desk.
She wasn’t there yet, and I considered taking a few more butterscotches—I was down to two—but the men who were tapping away at typewriters kept sneaking glances at me as if I’d come from Mars. I was pretty sure I should just leave with empty pockets before somebody dragged me out.
Riding back down, I tugged my cap lower over my ears, ran to the newsstand, picked up my stack of Tribunes, and headed for my corner.
Of course I didn’t go five steps before I read Maude’s byline on the front page, above a story titled PRETTY MURDERESS STILL MARRIED, with a smaller heading, GIDDINGS TO BE TRIED FOR KILLING MOBSTER.
For a second I was really mad. Then I realized that, just like a real reporter, I’d been “scooped.” Maude had never promised that she’d wait for me to write a story, and she had probably hurried from the prison to her desk and filed her own.
She treated me just like she would’ve treated that guy, Tom, from the Herald-Examiner.
Suddenly I was more proud than angry.
I also vowed that, given another chance, I wouldn’t get caught napping.
Tucking my papers under my arm, I resumed walking to my spot so I wouldn’t miss the crowds of people going to work. But as I looked both ways before crossing the final street, I couldn’t help noticing that a certain storefront about half a block away was open for business. A butcher shop, where Albert Rowland—heartless gum chewer who might have killed Charles Bessemer in a jealous rage—supposedly worked.
It couldn’t hurt to just take a peek at him, right?
Chapter 41
THE THING ABOUT A BUTCHER SHOP IS, PEOPLE DON’T USUALLY wander in to browse around. They go because they want to buy meat.
Unfortunately, I didn’t think of that until I was already inside Swift’s Meats, a bell on the door jangling as it closed behind me, which alerted the man behind the counter to my presence, so he turned around.
The first thing I noticed was the scowl on his face.
Then the big bloodstains on his white apron.
Then the name that was stitched on that apron so customers would know who was handing them their roasts and chops.
Albert!
Chapter 42
“WHADDYA WANT, KID?”
Robert’s dad set down a huge cleaver, wiped his hands on his apron, adding to the bloodstains, and came over to the big glass counter, which was filled with red meat in various shapes and sizes. Part of me was disgusted by the sight, and especially by the nearly overpowering smell of blood and raw flesh. But to be honest, part of me wished I could buy a steak.
Which, of course, I couldn’t do. I didn’t have any money at all. My unsold papers were waiting in a stack just outside the door.
So why was I there? What had I hoped to accomplish?
“Hurry it up, kid,” Mr. Rowland grumbled. By most standards, he was a very handsome man, with dark, slicked-back hair and a narrow, fashionable mustache. But he was also ugly in a way that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He wasn’t just stiff-necked, like Detective Culhane. No, Robert’s dad seemed mean. And it wasn’t only the stained clothes that made him unpleasant. It was the grim set of his mouth and the impatient way he glowered at me and . . . well, the fact that he’d walked out on his family. Knowing that probably made a big difference in how I viewed Albert Rowland.
He shoulda married Aunt Johnene!
“I got a half steer to butcher,” he advised me. “You want somethin’ or not?”
“I . . . I was just . . .”
I started to ask for some kind of meat—the word T-bone came to mind—thinking I would run away when he turned around to wrap it up.
Then I really looked into Mr. Rowland’s eyes, which were hard and cold, and I thought about Miss Giddings, who had obviously made a bad choice but was trying to get unstuck from it, and about Robert, too.
My friend, Robert, who maybe did let his polio get him down, but likely didn’t believe in himself because his own father had called him a weakling and been too ashamed to even raise him.
I thought of all those things—except about how Albert Rowland had possibly killed a man, because if I’d remembered that, I probably wouldn’t have blurted out, “I’m here because I had to see the terrible person who abandoned my best friend, Robert Giddings, just because he got a disease. And I want to tell you that I think you are just awful.”
As I said all that, I realized that Robert really was my best friend. It also hit me that I should’ve made sure I had the right Albert before scolding him. So as I marched to the door, leaving a very stunned and red-with-rage butcher thankfully trapped behind his counter, I quickly turned back. “You are Albert Rowland, right?”
He didn’t answer, but I could tell from his expression that I’d been correct.
“Oh, and by the way,” I added, one hand on the door, ready to push it open. “I think you might’ve killed Charles Bessemer and are letting a very nice lady sit in prison for your crime!”
I could hardly believe those words had tumbled out of my mouth, and I tore outside, my dramatic exit diminished by the cheerful tinkling of the shop bell.
Only when I was safe, a block away, having scooped up my papers and run as fast as I could, did I take a deep breath and wonder, What have I just done?
I WAS IN MY BEDROOM THE NEXT DAY TRYING TO FIND SOMETHING suitable to wear to a funeral, given that I mainly owned cast-off boys’ pants—who could sell newspapers in a dress?—when all of a sudden I heard a knock at the front door.
Tossing aside a pair of old knickers that didn’t even fit anymore, I grabbed Dad’s flannel bathrobe, my absolute favorite memento of him. I never let it get washed, although Mom said it was probably time.
As I fumbled to tie the robe around me, the visitor rapped on the door again, and I ran through the house before that could happen a third time. The last thing I needed was my mother waking up and asking me about my plans for the day. How would I explain that I needed to attend a mobster’s burial?
“We’ll have the rent Friday, Mrs. Leeds!” I promised before I even twisted the knob. “Just . . .”
But when I peeked outside, I saw that Mom and I weren’t in trouble for getting behind on the rent.
Well, we were probably in trouble, but it wasn’t Mrs. Leeds on our porch. Yet.
Nope. I was getting a surprise visit from somebody who for once wanted to help me.
Chapter 44
“YOU’RE SURE IT DOESN’T COST EXTRA TO TAKE ME?” I ASKED MAUDE, who didn’t seem excited at all to be riding in a Checker Cab, no doubt because she did it all the time. For me, the whole thing was a novelty, and I wasn’t even positive how you paid for it. I was more familiar with not paying for streetcar rides. “If I’m costing you money,” I added, “I could give you some.”
Maude had obviously heard me trying to put off paying the rent, but just like in the diner, she pretended I was well-off. “Of course you could pay your way,” she said. “But honestly, it doesn’t matter how many people take the ride.”
“Well, thanks for coming to get me,” I said, settling back in the seat. I wished the funeral was farther away, because the cab was pretty nice. “I was sure surprised to see you.”
“You’re certain that your mother is all right with this?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you have asked permission . . .”
“I’m not supposed to wake her up,” I explained. “And she knows I can take care of myself.”
“Okay.”
Maude spoke softly, and I saw concern in her eyes. The kind of pity I didn’t want from her, any more than I wanted charity. “I really can watch out for myself,” I promised. “I can!”
Maude smiled. “Yes, I know that.”
Craning my neck, I tried to see the road ahead. “How did you even know I wanted to go?”
“I could tell—by the way you pretended not to care when the funeral was—that you’d attend. And I would’ve done the same thing in your place. You don’t want to miss this if you’re covering—or solving—the murder.”
I twisted in my seat, getting excited. “Yes! That’s exactly what I thought! Everybody who knew Mr. Bessemer will be there.” Then I remembered the article I’d given Maude, and I simmered down a little. “I guess I’m not much of a reporter, though. You haven’t even mentioned my story—which was a big mess, I know.”
“Oh, goodness, Isabel!” Maude dug into her purse until she located three sheets of lined paper, one of which had a stain from being drooled on. “I forgot I had this!” She handed me the article. “I hope you don’t mind, but I made some suggestions.”
Accepting the folded papers, I opened them. There was ink everywhere. “Yeah, you sure did!”
Maude laughed. “You should’ve seen my first stories after my editor was finished with them. And I’d been to college!” She nudged me. “I think you did quite well, Izzie. Very promising!”
I watched to see if she was just saying stuff, like adults often did. “Honest?”
“Honest.”
I could tell she meant it.
“Do you really think Albert Rowland might be the killer?” she asked. “Just because he chews a certain type of gum?”
“Enough that I sort of accidentally accused him of the murder,” I confided, trying to make myself smaller. I was sure by then that I’d made a terrible mistake back in the butcher shop.
Maude laughed out loud. “You did what?”
“I stopped by Swift’s Meats—just to see him,” I explained. “And he was so mean, trying to force me to buy meat—”
“It is a butcher shop,” Maude noted, still grinning.
I ignored the teasing. “I ended up telling him that he was a terrible father and probably murdered Charles Bessemer too.”
Maude got more serious. “Goodness, Isabel . . . I don’t think that was a very good idea. What if you’ve angered him?”
I recalled Albert Rowland’s bright red face. “Oh, I’m sure I did that.” Sitting up straighter, I studied Maude. “But if Miss Giddings is the killer and Mr. Rowland is innocent—like you believe—then why would he care if some kid accuses him of murder?”
Maude opened her mouth to speak, then shut it. I’d obviously stumped her. Still, she wasn’t going to admit that maybe, just maybe, Miss Giddings was innocent. “I suppose you have a point,” she finally said. She shot me a warning look. “Don’t go around accusing anyone else, though, all right?” She gestured at the story I was still clutching. “Especially in print.”
“But you do it—”
“Based upon years of experience, Isabel.” She cut me off before I could remind her that she was always convicting killers in the Tribune. “Before you start printing accusations, wait until you’ve been a reporter for as long as I have.”
I liked that she was talking as if being a reporter was my destiny. As if there was no way it wouldn’t happen. Smiling, I tucked the story into my coat so I could study her notes later. Then I switched pockets because the right-hand lining had just torn, costing me my last two butterscotches.
“Are you sure I look okay?” I asked for probably the tenth time. I’d ended up wearing the same clothes I wore to sell newspapers: my hand-me-down pants, my dad’s old cap, and my shabby coat. “I don’t wanna stand out.” I pictured Flora Bessemer, who’d probably wear that beret. “Flora’s probably gonna have on velvet and jewels.”
Maude gave me a curious look. “How do you know about her?”
“I met her once,” I said. “She came to the alley when I was snooping around, and she practically decked me!”
“So you’re acquainted with both Albert Rowland and Flora?” Clearly impressed, Maude bent to look at me better. “Because I have been trying to speak with Flora about her father—and Miss Giddings—but her uncle is very determined to keep her away from the press.”
“Yeah, he was at the alley too. He’s scary.”
Maude stared straight ahead again, biting her nail, which was painted dark red. “Interesting . . .”
“You know, I also know Miss Giddings’s sister,” I told Maude. “Have you talked with her yet?”
“I’ve tried,” Maude admitted. “But with little success.”
“Well, Robert’s aunt is real jealous of Miss Giddings,” I informed her. “Aunt Johnene liked Mr. Bessemer first, but he went for the prettier sister. Now she’s trying to be a secretary—and get Miss Giddings’s house, cheap.”
Maude eyed me warily. “You didn’t accuse her, too . . .”
“No. Not yet.”
“Izzie!” Maude started to scold me, then realized I was joking. Or sort of joking. “I’ll give you credit,” she said. “You are taking this investigation seriously.”
“So will you tell Detective Culhane? About Aunt Johnene? And Albert Rowland? And explain the things I found in the alley?”
“I’ll consider it,” Maude said. She nudged me with her elbow. “Thanks for the information about Johnene Giddings.”
“Yeah, no problem.” I knew Maude well enough by then not to pressure her to talk with Detective Culhane. She’d think over what I’d told her and do what she wanted. And I was getting distracted, worrying about my clothes again. “You’re sure I look okay?”
Maude gave my arm a reassuring pat. “Trust m
e, Isabel—you will not stand out.” The taxicab slowed, and she searched in her purse again, this time for money. “No one will even notice you.”
I thought that was strange, because from what I understood, funerals were very private and formal. But when Maude had thanked the driver and helped me out the door and I got a good look into Mount Carmel Cemetery, I realized she was right.
Nobody was gonna care that I was there.
Heck, I just hoped we could get close to the service. For a man who’d been murdered, Charles Bessemer really seemed to have a lot of friends.
My stomach suddenly got tickly with excitement.
And maybe —just maybe—at least one enemy might be in that huge crowd too. A “mourner” who was only pretending to grieve, to cover up the fact that he or she had killed Mr. Bessemer.
Chapter 45
“PEOPLE IN CHICAGO LOVE A GOOD MOB FUNERAL,” Maude whispered while a minister went on and on about eternity. I was starting to get a pretty good sense of what forever felt like, standing graveside. Just as we got jostled—again—Maude added, “There’s always a crowd.”
That was an understatement. The cemetery was packed, and I was squished between Maude and the reporter named Tom, who’d wanted the telephone back at the police station.
Why was everybody so interested in men who sold booze and killed each other?
And why did mobsters want reporters to cover their funerals? Once Maude had pushed her way close to the grave, we’d been pulled even closer by two very large men in very dark suits who led us to a special area where a whole bunch of people had notebooks.
Isabel Feeney, Star Reporter Page 9
