Isabel Feeney, Star Reporter

by Beth Fantaskey

  “Yes, it is,” Detective Culhane agreed.

  Had I actually convinced them, a little, to at least consider Miss Giddings as possibly innocent?

  It seemed that way. And I suddenly realized that Detective Culhane’s attendance at the funeral was probably a good sign, too. He must’ve gone because he was still investigating, right?

  “You really should tell him about Albert Rowland and Aunt Johnene,” I urged Maude. “About the things I told you—”

  “What things?” Detective Culhane interrupted.

  Maude gave me another quick smile. Then she told Detective Culhane, “Isabel has done some investigating, and she considers both Robert’s aunt and Albert Rowland potential suspects. She’s gone so far as to visit Mr. Rowland’s butcher shop and accuse him of the murder—”

  Detective Culhane stomped on the brake, although we weren’t at a place a car should normally stop, and ignoring a honking horn behind us, he turned to Maude. “She did what?”

  “I’ll tell you everything later, James,” she promised. “There’s no harm done.” Maude waggled her fingers, urging him to keep driving. “Go on, now.”

  He accelerated again, then addressed me in a low, measured tone. “Did we not agree that you would keep your nose out of this case, Miss Feeney?”

  “Not exactly . . . It was more like you telling me . . . But I didn’t agree . . .”

  Maude was shaking her head, just slightly, silently urging me to shut up. I took the advice and let her defend me. “Isabel has quite a few compelling theories, James. I’m not sure I agree with her conclusions, or her methods, but she did unearth possible motives for both Johnene Giddings and Albert Rowland.”

  Detective Culhane wasn’t convinced. “I can’t believe I’m even listening to secondhand gossip from a murdered man’s kid, let alone the investigative ‘findings’ of another child,” he grumbled.

  “Hey!” I was supposed to keep quiet, but that comment really irritated me. “Why do you always think kids are stupid?”

  I seemed to have caught him off-guard. He gave me an uncertain glance over his shoulder. “I never said that.”

  “Yeah, you just did!” I protested. “And you didn’t even think I could spell gun, remember?”

  For the first time since I’d met him, Detective Culhane kind of blushed. Probably because I was making him look like a kid-hating meanie in front of Maude. “I . . . I didn’t mean any insult,” he stammered. He looked at Maude. “I really didn’t . . .”

  She was laughing. “You can be harsh with children, James.”

  “And with poor Hastings,” I added while I had the chance. “He’s scared to death of you!”

  I’d obviously pushed things too far, because he got very quiet again. He didn’t even talk to Maude. But I saw her move, and though my view of her hand was blocked by the seat, I was pretty sure she nudged him, wordlessly telling him not to be so serious.

  He glanced at her, as if he got the message, and something about those little gestures made me really sorry for both of them. They belonged together. So why not . . .

  It struck me that they were probably right about adults’ relationships being difficult for kids—even smart ones—to fully understand.

  “This is your house, correct, Isabel?” Detective Culhane asked, breaking what was becoming a long silence.

  I hadn’t even realized we’d reached my street. I’d been too busy watching him and Maude to look out the window. But when I did, sure enough, I was home. “Thanks for the ride,” I said, opening the door and getting out. Then I poked my head back in. “Sorry I got mad at you, Detective Culhane.”

  He twisted to look at me, and to my complete shock said, “I’m sorry too, Isabel. I didn’t mean to imply that you—or children in general—are stupid.”

  “I will go to school again, someday, and be somebody,” I informed him. “I will!”

  I had no idea why I said that. It was a terrible mistake.

  “You don’t ever go to school?” he asked.

  The last thing I needed was more attention from truant officers. Fortunately, they were busy chasing lots of kids and had so far only left notes at our house, saying they’d like to talk with my mom.

  “Aw, I go sometimes,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back.

  Detective Culhane didn’t seem like he was going to make trouble for me, though. He almost looked sad.

  “Just do your best to attend, okay?” he suggested.

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  We stared at each other for a long moment. As I moved to shut the door, I heard Maude calling after me, “Don’t forget to read my notes on your story!”

  I had forgotten my article, but when she reminded me, I hurried inside, hopped onto my bed, pulled the folded papers out of my pocket, and started to read with a half-excited, half-sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “Dear, dear Isabel . . .”

  Chapter 51

  MAUDE’S HANDWRITING WAS TERRIBLE, probably because she was used to taking notes on her little pad, writing too quickly to be neat, but I could tell that she’d taken time to read my mess of a story carefully.

  Each paragraph was marked up, enough that I got pretty discouraged by the third sentence. Apparently I did use way too many exclamation points, and even I had to admit that I’d gotten sloppy with my spelling toward the end.

  But just when I thought my dreams of being a reporter were crushed, I read the note she’d scrawled on the back of one of the sheets. A little message I’d seen when I’d unfolded the papers, but had saved for last.

  Dear, dear Isabel . . .

  Nobody’d ever called me a double “dear” before, and I almost wanted to stop right there, before I got to the inevitable bad parts. But of course, I had to read the whole thing.

  I realize that I’ve turned a very critical eye on your story. However, that’s only because I believe strongly in your potential. You have all the attributes of a good reporter—curiosity, determination to seek the truth, and courage—as well as the uncanny ability to show up at the right—or wrong?—place at the right—or wrong!—time.

  I guess it was okay for her to use exclamation points.

  Most important, you have a good heart. Perhaps that’s something journalism needs in this modern, jaded age, and especially in this violent city, where murder has become so commonplace that we often joke about it.

  I took a second to think about that. Was I living in a “jaded” age? I had no idea, because it was all I’d ever known. I knew that I lived in a violent city, though. But had there really been a time when people in Chicago . . .

  All at once I thought about the Great War, which had claimed millions of lives and pretty much ruined mine, and I corrected myself.

  Had there been a time when people all over the world didn’t kill each other without hardly a second thought?

  I wasn’t sure, so I kept reading.

  One word of advice: When you write your next story—and I do hope you write many more—ignore what you see in the Tribune every day, including my own work.

  Next time, write an ISABEL story.

  THAT—more than correct spelling or punctuation—will be the key to your success as a journalist.

  I set down the note, confused and discouraged, in spite of her kind words.

  Wasn’t I supposed to write like every other reporter?

  Wasn’t that the whole idea?

  And why wouldn’t Maude want me to copy her, like I had tried to do, since she was the best journalist in town?

  Turning over the paper, I looked at my marked-up writing again, even more baffled and worried about my chances of ever being a real reporter.

  Because what the heck would an “ISABEL” story even be?

  Chapter 52

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE SHE’S REALLY COMING HERE,” ROBERT COMPLAINED, using his blanket to wipe his fingers clean of Vicks VapoRub. I’d brought the blue jar from my mother’s medicine cabinet and given him a big glob to smear on his ch
est. Mom swore the pungent goo made breathing easier, and maybe she was right. Robert already seemed a little better—except for his mood, which had been terrible ever since I’d told him that Flora Bessemer was stopping by. “I thought I was free of her—”

  All at once, Robert’s eyes got wide, and he stopped himself.

  At first I didn’t understand why. Then I realized that he’d just admitted that, though Charles Bessemer’s murder had messed up his life in one way, putting his mother in jail, something good had come of it too. And knowing Flora the way I did now, I could imagine how badly somebody would want her to go away.

  I’d been about to offer Robert part of a sandwich I’d brought from home—because I shared—then I stopped and studied the boy I considered a friend but still didn’t know that well.

  But Robert would never . . . could never . . . no matter how desperate he’d gotten . . .

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, furrowing his brow. “Why are you staring at me funny?”

  “No reason,” I said, tearing apart the sandwich. Wonder Bread with peanut butter. It wasn’t much to split, but I hadn’t felt like I could make extras, since I hadn’t been selling a lot of papers lately and had swiped my mother’s medicine, too. Maybe VapoRub was expensive. I handed Robert his share. “Eat up.”

  Robert took a bite—then nearly choked when the door opened wide, without anybody even knocking, and in walked little Miss Flora Bessemer, making a grand entrance, as if she were the star of this production, too.

  Needless to say, her bodyguard wasn’t far behind.

  Chapter 53

  “HOW’D YOU GET TO BE IN CHARGE OF SOMEBODY SO BIG AND SCARY?” I asked Flora after she’d dismissed Uncle Carl to wait in the car. “Adults never listen to me.”

  “You don’t have a movie contract,” she sniffed.

  “What’s that have to do with it?” Robert piped up. He’d been pretty quiet since their awkward reunion. Flora had greeted him with a complaint about the stink of the VapoRub, and Robert’s condolences hadn’t rung too sincere either. They really would’ve made terrible siblings. “It’s just a stupid movie,” he added. “It doesn’t make you anybody’s boss.”

  “It’s worth a lot of money,” Flora pointed out, making herself at home on one of the high-backed chairs. I took my place on the rocker. “And as my new legal guardian, Uncle Carl could be rich, if I get more roles—which will probably happen.” When we didn’t ask why she was so confident, Flora took it upon herself to brag. “My screen test went very well.” She smiled smugly. “Uncle Carl knows he should keep me happy.”

  “Or what?” I asked. “If he’s your guardian . . .”

  The smile got even more smug. “I could petition the court for another guardian if he was ever cruel to me.”

  “Flora!” I cried. “You’re practically blackmailing your own uncle into being your slave!”

  She rolled her eyes. “He wants the money. He doesn’t have to do anything.”

  Robert and I shared a look, both of us clearly thinking, That’s a very interesting way to look at family!

  Then, although we were there to solve a crime, I couldn’t help asking, “What happened to your mom, Flora? Did she die or something?”

  Flora got that icy look in her eyes. The expression that I was starting to learn sometimes masked hurt. “I don’t know where she is. And I don’t care. She left me when I wasn’t even a year old and never wrote a letter or anything. Not even on my birthday.”

  Robert and I looked at each other again, and frowned. He also obviously understood that she really did care.

  “Sorry,” he and I said in unison. I knew that he, especially, could sympathize with Flora.

  “I guess we all have something in common,” I told them both. “Something awful.”

  For the first time, Flora looked at me as if I might be remotely interesting. “How so?”

  “My dad got killed in the war. I’ve only got a mom.”

  The hard glint in Flora’s eyes softened. “Sorry.”

  I believed she meant it.

  “Yeah, well, we aren’t here to cry about the past, are we?” I reminded them, picking up my composition book, which I’d set on the coffee table. “We’re here to help Robert’s mom.” Because I knew that wasn’t Flora’s main goal, I added, “And to . . . er, ‘avenge’ your dad, right?”

  She pursed her lips and nodded.

  “So,” I said, licking the tip of my pencil and getting ready to write, “let’s start with that list of suspects you mentioned at the funeral, huh, Flora?”

  Chapter 54

  IT WAS A GOOD THING I LICKED THAT PENCIL TO GET THE LEAD STARTED, because Flora had a huge list of people who’d hated her dad. And most of them had names like Johnny Two Guns and Mike the Nose.

  “Why ‘the Nose’?” I asked when she took a breath.

  “It got shot off,” she informed me, like that happened to people every day.

  Robert was shaking his head, as if he couldn’t believe he’d almost become part of the Bessemer family. And for the first time, my faith in Miss Giddings was a little rattled. I still didn’t believe she’d kill anybody, but I had to ask, “Robert . . . could your mom really not have known she was seeing a mobster?” I gave Flora a guilty glance. “Sorry.”

  She shrugged. “That’s what he was.”

  I turned back to Robert. “Really? She knew nothing?”

  He hesitated, like he was uncertain, and Flora answered for him. “Oh, it’s possible.” She puffed up with what I thought was misplaced pride. “My father wasn’t one of those gangsters like Al Capone or Dean O’Banion, who have to be all showy. Lots of people, even folks close to him, thought he was strictly a legitimate auto salesman. Daddy always said it’s the flashy guys who end up dead.”

  “And yet . . .” Robert started to question that logic, but I shook my head, and he stopped himself.

  Meanwhile, I was still confused about Miss Giddings. “But Flora . . . didn’t your dad carry a gun, at least?”

  Flora just laughed. “Who doesn’t carry a gun in Chicago?”

  She had a point.

  “So what do we do next?” Robert asked. “We have a bunch of names, but what can we do with them?”

  I had an idea. “We should go to the police station tomorrow and show Detective Culhane the list—”

  But Flora was shaking her head. “No. That’s not how we do things in my world.”

  So she was a gangster, too?

  “We don’t get the police involved,” she added. “Never.”

  “Well, what do you suggest?” I asked. “We can’t exactly go snooping around all these people—like Johnny Two Guns—trying to figure out who chews Beeman’s pepsin gum!”

  Flora frowned, her brows knitted. “What did you just say?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” I glanced at Robert, who also looked baffled. “When I was in the alley, I found some chewed-up gum—Beeman’s—stomped into some footprints that went nowhere. It was like somebody stepped out the back door of one of the buildings, spit out the gum—maybe shot your dad—and went back inside.”

  Robert pulled himself up straighter, and although he was in no shape to do much investigating, he did make a good suggestion. “We need to find out what’s in the building that person came out of. Whether it’s a store or an apartment. Who owns the place. That type of thing.”

  “Why?” Flora asked.

  “Because”—Robert jerked his thumb in the direction of my composition book—“we might find out that Mike the Nose or some other guy on that list of your dad’s enemies has a connection . . . or a key!”

  Chapter 55

  I STOOD WAITING NEAR THE ALLEY WHERE CHARLES BESSEMER had gotten shot, sifting the change in my pocket through my fingers. I’d worked hard to sell every one of my papers as quickly as possible, because I supposedly had a meeting.

  Hunching my back against the cold wind, I peered down the dark, fairly empty street, wishing my ride would show up, and absently counted
the coins.

  Five cents. Ten cents. Mom’s going to be happy . . .

  “Hey, kid.”

  The voice I heard behind me was sort of familiar, but not in a good way. Or maybe it was the speaker’s menacing tone that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  Turning slowly, I faced the person who’d greeted me, and I greeted him back in a squeaky voice. “What do you want?”

  Chapter 56

  ALBERT ROWLAND DIDN’T HAVE HIS CLEAVER WITH HIM, and there was no bloodstained apron sticking out from under his short blue-plaid mackinaw coat. Yet he was still a menacing figure. His dark eyes glittered in the moonlight as he took a step closer to me.

  I stepped back.

  “You’re the kid who came into the shop, right?” he asked. “Accused me of murder?”

  Actually, I’d accused him of being a lousy father first, but I didn’t point that out. My gaze darted to his hands, which were tucked into his pockets.

  Could he have a gun in there? A knife?

  My heart was racing, but there was no avoiding the truth. “Yeah. That was me.”

  In the split second I glanced down the street, hoping to see headlights, he stepped even closer. “Why’d you say that?”

  “I . . . I don’t know,” I said, shrugging. “I say all kinds of stupid stuff. Ask my mom!” That answer clearly didn’t satisfy him, so I added, perhaps unwisely, “You’re just so mean, leaving Robert, and you won’t divorce Miss Giddings, and then Mr. Bessemer got shot . . . But I don’t honestly believe you did it.” That was a fib. I was really starting to think he might be guilty. I needed to save myself, though, and I lied even more. “Besides, I’m just a kid! Who even cares what I say?”

  A reporter, that’s who. But he didn’t know that.

  “Look, kid . . .” His hand darted out so quickly that I didn’t have time to pull away. All at once, I was trapped. He twisted my wrist just enough to make it hurt. “You keep your mouth shut. I didn’t kill anybody. And I don’t need trouble with the law—or a bunch of mobsters! Understand?”