Isabel Feeney, Star Reporter

by Beth Fantaskey

  “Oh, fine,” he agreed, handing me the flashlight. “Tell me everything that happened, so I at least can go home to bed—where you two should be.”

  He’d addressed both of us, but he was frowning at Maude. And there was an edge to his voice, as if the suggestion wasn’t an idle one.

  I held the beam low, in a way that let me see Detective Culhane and the reporter he was so obviously sweet on, without blinding them.

  Did he worry about Maude running around the city at all hours, chasing murderers?

  Was it something they’d talked about?

  Maybe even something that came between them?

  It seemed possible. Maude was shaking her head, just slightly, as if to say, We’ve been over this.

  I wished I could see the expression in Detective Culhane’s blue eyes better, so I’d know if there was frustration, or challenge, or both, there. Because all at once I felt as if I’d solved a different mystery.

  He’s afraid he’ll lose Maude, just like he lost his wife, because she has a dangerous job that most women aren’t even allowed to do. That’s why they aren’t together. At least, part of the reason . . .

  “Izzie,” Maude prompted, breaking what was becoming an awkward, charged silence. She took out her notebook. “Tell us what happened.”

  I eyed that pad warily. “Are you gonna write a story about this? Because my mother doesn’t read the newspaper, but somebody will . . .”

  Detective Culhane had been studying cobwebs again, but he turned on his heel and narrowed his eyes at me. “Your mother still doesn’t know that you’ve involved yourself in a murder?”

  “No,” I informed him. “And she doesn’t need to know. She’s got her own problems.”

  He looked me up and down. “Yes. I imagine she does. One of which is about ten years old, and meddling—”

  “Hey!”

  “You two—enough!” Maude interrupted right before I stamped my foot. She pursed her lips and shot Detective Culhane another warning look, then spoke more softly to me. “Isabel . . . tell your story.”

  “Fine,” I agreed, taking a few steps deeper into the building and shining the flashlight onto the floorboards. But the line of footprints was gone. Instead, the whole floor was disturbed, as if somebody had walked all over it. Or swept around the dust on purpose, by dragging a foot back and forth. “No,” I groaned, looking up at Maude, who was most likely to believe me. “It wasn’t like this before! I swear!”

  Detective Culhane rubbed his eyes and sighed, but Maude seemed curious.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  I moved right to the spot where I’d knelt down, then I aimed the light at the floor. “This was lit by the moon when I was here before, and there were footprints, like somebody had shuffled through. But it was just a path. Now the whole floor’s a mess!”

  Detective Culhane stepped close to me and held out his hand for the flashlight. “I think we’re done here—”

  “James, not yet,” Maude interrupted, placing a hand on his arm. I doubted many people got away with that. She pulled her hand away. “Izzie was threatened, too. By Albert Rowland. He implied that she would come to harm if she ever mentioned his name in connection with the murder again.”

  I thought Maude was putting things mildly. Robert’s dad had threatened to kill me.

  Regardless, Detective Culhane didn’t seem surprised or worried. “I’ve looked into Rowland. He’s a bully, but harmless.”

  “But—” I held out my wrist, which was bruised.

  Detective Culhane spoke right over me. “He’s got an alibi for the night of the shooting.”

  For a second I forgot that Mr. Rowland’s having an alibi was bad for Miss Giddings. I was just pleased to think that Detective Culhane might’ve investigated Robert’s father based on my suspicions. “You really talked to him?”

  “That is my job, Miss Feeney,” Detective Culhane reminded me. “Of course I spoke with him—and several people who swore they spent time with him at a supper club the evening Bessemer was killed. Rowland’s story holds up. He was nowhere near the alley.”

  It seemed to me that a “bully” like Mr. Rowland might have liars for friends, but Detective Culhane had probably thought of that, too. I was pretty sure his inquiries had been thorough. Still, I had to ask, “So, if he’s innocent, why threaten me? Huh?”

  “Some people don’t like being accused of killing a mobster,” Detective Culhane pointed out. “The mob doesn’t hold trials. They just sentence. Usually with gunfire.”

  Okay, I could see how Mr. Rowland might not want me shooting off my mouth about him being involved in a murder. “Oops.”

  “Oops, indeed.” Detective Culhane looked at Maude and lowered his voice, as if that would keep me, who was two feet away, from overhearing when he said, “Maude, she’s a kid—not a detective. I don’t know why you’ve taken such a shine to her—”

  Forgetting my recent mistake, I puffed up with pride. Had a shine really been taken?

  “—but this is a game, in her eyes,” he added, with a quick glance at me. “I’m sure Isabel has good intentions, but a homicide investigation is not a diversion for children. It’s a serious matter. And nothing happened here.”

  I wanted to tell him again that I knew murder wasn’t a game, but for once, I forced myself to hold my tongue as Maude worked her quiet, commanding magic.

  “Give her five more minutes,” she said. “That’s all.”

  Detective Culhane opened his mouth, as if he was going to keep arguing. Then he ran his hand through his hair, sighed, and took a step back. “Fine. Five more minutes.”

  For a second, I just stood there, until Maude made a rolling motion with her hand, urging me to hurry up and start talking.

  “Oh, right,” I said, recalling why we were in a gloomy building late at night. I pointed to the floor. “I was kneeling right here, examining what looked like footprints in the dust, when all of a sudden I heard somebody move, far back in the house. And before I could even get up—’cause I kind of froze with terror—there was a huge, dark shadow . . .”

  I was starting to get caught up in my story, and I paused for dramatic effect, then pointed the flashlight beam directly at the pitch-black archway from which the massive form had emerged.

  And just as I cried “There!” something came running out of nowhere and darted past us all.

  Needless to say, I screamed bloody murder, and Maude jumped too. Right before she doubled over laughing.

  As for Detective Culhane . . . he held out his hand again, palm up.

  Shoulders slumping, I handed over the flashlight. “It wasn’t a cat the first time,” I grumbled. “It wasn’t.” I turned pleading eyes on Maude. “You believe me, don’t you? And please stop laughing!”

  She swiped a finger under her eyes and managed to control herself. “Sorry,” she said to both me and Detective Culhane. I thought she was mainly apologizing to him for dragging him out of bed for nothing. “It was pretty funny, though, you have to admit!”

  Detective Culhane wasn’t going to admit any such thing. “Come along. Let’s go.”

  Without waiting to see if we followed, he strode toward the door, but I grabbed Maude’s sleeve. “Maude?” I spoke quietly when she stopped and looked down. “You believe me, don’t you?”

  She stared at me for a long time. “I’m not sure, Izzie,” she said finally. “Fear can change your perceptions. A suggestion can become a threat. A little cat can become a big shadow.”

  It wasn’t the answer I wanted, but I was starting to appreciate that she was always honest with me. “Will you at least not write a story about this?” I requested. “Please?”

  Maude hesitated, and I knew she was doing me a huge favor when she agreed. “Okay. Although it would’ve made good copy.”

  Yeah. It would’ve. “Thanks,” I said. “I owe you one.”

  Then I let go of her arm, and we both went through the door that Detective Culhane was holding open for us. Outsid
e, I looked around for the big police sedan, hoping for a ride home. It wasn’t parked on the street, though, and Detective Culhane gestured toward a more modest automobile. “Come with me.” He gave Maude another pointed look. “It’s very late, and on some of the corners you’d pass to go home, there are far worse things than cats prowling around.”

  “I’m going back to work, James,” she informed him firmly. “I have quite a bit to do.”

  “Of course you do,” he said, opening the door for her. “Of course.”

  Oh, I had definitely figured out their whole relationship. Who said this stuff was too complicated for kids?

  Then Detective Culhane opened the rear door for me, and I hopped inside. His auto was exactly as I would’ve guessed. Not fancy, but clean and comfortable.

  We dropped off Maude first because we had to pass the Tribune Tower on the way to my street, where Detective Culhane stopped the car in front of my house. And although I needed to go inside and try to get a few hours of sleep before heading back out to sell papers, and I knew I was making a mistake, I couldn’t keep myself from saying something that had been annoying me, just bubbling up like a blister during the whole, silent ride.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I told the imposing, stern police officer who was already irritated with me, “You’re nothing but a big scaredy-cat, you know that?”

  Chapter 64

  “EXCUSE ME?” DETECTIVE CULHANE SAID, BENDING AND CUPPING HIS EAR, as if he hadn’t heard me right. “Did you just call me a coward?”

  All at once, I remembered how he’d fought in Europe, and I knew enough about him to be sure that he hadn’t curled up in his trench, crying—like, let’s face it, I would’ve done. I didn’t like Detective Culhane most of the time, but if a German grenade ever came rolling at me, ready to explode, I’d want him by my side. Anybody could just tell he’d throw himself right on it, without a second thought.

  “Not a coward,” I said, regretting my strong words. “But you are scared of something.”

  He turned around as far as he could, to see me better, and arched his eyebrows. “Cats? Because I don’t recall screaming and doing a jerky version of the Charleston when a kitty ran through the room this evening.”

  Okay, maybe I was starting to like him a little. He could be funny, in a sarcastic way, which I thought was a sign of intelligence. And I appreciated smart people.

  “If you’d been caught up in the story, like I’d been, and not gawking at cobwebs, you would’ve jumped too,” I advised him. “But I’m not talking about cats.”

  He was tired and probably didn’t care what I thought about him, but he was curious—another quality I admired. “What, then, Isabel Feeney?” he inquired. “What do you think I fear?”

  When Detective Culhane stopped being so gruff, a person could appreciate how handsome he was, and I could see why Maude had fallen for him. And because I wanted her to be happy, I risked telling him, “I . . . I think you’re scared to be in love with Maude because she has a dangerous job, and you might lose her, like you lost your wife.”

  His mouth set in a grim line—but he didn’t dispute loving Maude. Instead, he asked, “Who told you I was married?”

  I realized I’d said too much, and that I might get one of my few friends in trouble, but I had to confess. “Maude,” I told him. “But only because I was prying into her life! Asking questions about you!”

  Detective Culhane faced forward again, rolled his head back so that he was staring up at the roof, then sighed. But he didn’t kick me out of the car, like I’d expected. “Oh, Isabel,” he grumbled. “Of all the things you really shouldn’t interfere with . . .” He turned and met my eyes again in the darkness, and he didn’t seem angry. Just sad. “It appears that no matter what I say, you are going to gnaw on this murder investigation like a little dog that won’t be dislodged from a pant leg. But my relationship with Maude is really none of your business.”

  “But . . . but she’s sweet on you, too,” I said, talking fast. I thought about how good Maude was with me. “And she’d be a great mother!” I added. “Remember how she got us in line when we were starting to fight?” I dropped my voice, trying to imitate Maude’s calm but firm admonition: “ ‘You two—enough!’”

  Detective Culhane sat still for a long moment. Then he rubbed his face with his hands and sighed again, staring straight ahead. And although he spoke my name, he hardly seemed to know I was there. “Isabel . . . you’ve no idea what you’re saying . . .”

  All at once I got a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Did I just stumble onto something else that keeps them separated? Kids?

  Because the few women who have careers . . . They always quit when they have children.

  And Maude loves her work . . .

  “Maude Collier has fought hard to become the best reporter in Chicago,” he said softly, confirming my suspicions without directly mentioning children or motherhood. “Her success is well deserved.”

  Okay. Maybe adults’ relationships were a little too complicated for kids. Sure, I might’ve figured out the things that stood between a widower and a driven woman who loved each other. Things as personal as fear and as big as the rules everybody followed, which said that mothers—at least those who had husbands to support them—couldn’t keep working. But I had no idea how people overcame those obstacles.

  “Sorry,” I said, starting to get out of the car. “I’m really sorry. For meddling. And everything.”

  “Isabel.”

  Detective Culhane’s quiet voice stopped me, and I turned back, one foot on the street. “Yeah?”

  “You’re surprisingly perceptive for a young person,” he admitted. “I can see, sometimes, why Maude wants to encourage your dream of being a reporter.” I couldn’t believe he was complimenting me. And had he spoken with Maude about me? Because I couldn’t recall ever telling him that I wanted to be a journalist. Regardless, there was an inevitable but. “However,” he continued, “while it appears that you are determined to clear your friend Giddings—although her fate is really in the hands of her attorney and a jury at this point—you won’t stick your nose into my personal life, ever again. You won’t inquire into it. You won’t discuss it. You won’t even think about it.”

  It wasn’t a threat. It was just a fact.

  I nodded. “Understood.”

  But I’d always be thinking about him and Maude now. Still, I promised, “I won’t inquire, discuss, or think.”

  “Good.”

  Then I slammed the door and ran up onto my porch, where I found something I must’ve overlooked before.

  An actual letter, for me, in a sealed envelope, halfway tucked under the mat I was supposed to use to clean my shoes. It hadn’t come from the post office—there was no stamp or even address on the front— but there was my name, in flowery handwriting.

  Hurrying inside, I opened the envelope with eager, clumsy fingers, unfolded a perfumed sheet of paper, and read:

  Meet me at the prison tomorrow at three P.M. (That means “in the afternoon.”) I want to speak with Miss Giddings.

  And why don’t you have a TELEPHONE?

  When I read that insult, I knew who’d written to me even before I checked the very formal signature.

  Sincerely, Miss Flora Bessemer

  Chapter 65

  “WHY DO YOU NEED ME TO SPEAK TO MISS GIDDINGS?” I asked Flora when I met her at the appointed place and time. I’d given a newsboy named Jimmie two cents to cover my corner for a while, so I added, “And let’s make this quick, okay? I gotta be back selling papers when the office jobs let out.”

  Flora eyed my fingerless gloves—her hands tucked all cozy in a white fur muff—and made a fake frown. “I don’t know how you do that job! Working all hours in the cold!”

  “Well, I don’t know how you make yourself look so sweet in a bread advertisement,” I shot back. “Because you can’t be nice to save your life. Why would you think I don’t know how to tell time? And it’s not
my fault we can’t afford a telephone! My mother isn’t a gangster.”

  I’d unloaded a lot of stuff on Flora, from outright calling her nasty to reminding her that she lived in a family of lawbreakers, but she seemed to respect bluntness. She didn’t even fight back, and she ignored most of what I’d said. “I need you because you know how to get into the prison,” she explained. “You said you’ve spoken with Miss Giddings.” She glanced at the imposing structure behind us and made a shudder. What an actress! “I assume you come and go here all the time,” she added. “Probably bringing things to people from your neighborhood.”

  Had we not just established that her family was made up of criminals? “You’re the one who lives with bootleggers and people who get their noses shot off!” I reminded her. “The only time I came here, I was with Maude Collier!”

  “Bessemers don’t go to prison,” Flora said, her nose in the air. “Father liked to say that we operate above the law.”

  “Above” the law? More like “outside.”

  And speaking of folks who probably belonged in jail . . .

  “Hey, where’s your big uncle?” I asked. “Why didn’t he bring you here?”

  Flora looked away and shrugged. “Uncle Carl doesn’t frequent prisons, even socially. I’m not sure where he is.”

  She knew where he was, but she didn’t want to admit that he was on some kind of mob-related errand, maybe for Al Capone. Why else would she refuse to look me in the eye?

  Then she met my gaze again, jutted out her chin, and challenged me. “So? Can you get us in or not? Because before she goes on trial for killing my father, I have a few questions for the woman who was almost my stepmother.”

  I thought about how I’d barely been able to get inside the Cook County Jail the first time, when I’d had Maude with me, and I started to tell Flora that even if “Morse” was on duty and remembered me, us getting five feet past the main entrance was unlikely.

  All at once, though, I had a great idea, and I crossed my arms and cocked my head at Flora. “Just how bad do you want to get in there?” I asked her. “’Cause I think I can do it—if you’ll do me a favor too!”