Isabel Feeney, Star Reporter

by Beth Fantaskey

  Chapter 94

  UNCLE CARL COULDN’T RUN VERY WELL IN AN ALLEY, and he definitely wasn’t built for sprinting through crowded courtrooms. He thrashed like an enraged bull, trying to stumble out of the confining bench, trapped by folks who still didn’t understand what was going on, even though I continued to explain at the top of my lungs, over the judge’s calls for order.

  “He killed his own brother so he could be Flora’s legal guardian, because she’s going to be a rich movie star!” I hollered. “He got sick of driving her around for pennies, when he could have control of the whole pot!”

  Uncle Carl’s face was beet red, and he continued to flail forward until he reached the end of the row and broke free, at which point I expected him to head for the hills, trailed by the bailiff, who had finally sprung to life.

  Instead, though, Uncle Carl started stomping toward me. “That brat is lying!” he sputtered. “She’s a lying little monster!”

  “I am not!” I insisted as Maude finally dropped her notebook to put a protective arm around me. She and Detective Culhane, plus most everyone else in the courtroom, were standing up by then.

  I caught a glimpse of Flora, who was fidgeting with her ribbons and bows, which had been disturbed when her uncle shoved past her. For once, her face was ashen. Yet she wasn’t wide-eyed with complete surprise.

  Did a tiny part of her suspect Uncle Carl because of the gum? Is that why she wouldn’t let me mention it in front of him?

  I didn’t have time to wonder why a girl who’d vowed to avenge her father’s death might’ve tried to protect her murdering uncle. Maude was stepping slightly in front of me, shielding me and urging, “Izzie . . . maybe you should run . . .”

  Contrary to Flora’s prediction, I would not be “shut up,” though. I sidestepped Maude and resumed talking even faster, because the bailiff, who’d grabbed Uncle Carl’s arm, couldn’t hold him back forever.

  “He chews pepsin gum all the time—even at his brother’s funeral!” I cried, pointing again. “The kind of gum I found in the alley, stomped into a footprint in the snow. Only it smells awful on his breath because he also eats garlic constantly—at Napolitano’s. He reeks of pepsin gum and garlic! I smelled it last night when he tried to kill me in the same alley!”

  “You little . . .” Uncle Carl growled, lunging at me. He’d dragged the bailiff close enough that I could get a whiff of his terrible breath again. “I shoulda finished you . . .”

  I stopped yelling and looked right into Uncle Carl’s evil, slitted eyes. “You knew your brother ate at Napolitano’s every Thursday night. You knew he’d go through the alley. You sneaked through an empty building, waited there, and shot him.”

  Uncle Carl’s shoulders heaved and his nostrils flared, making him look even more like a bull, but he couldn’t quite charge. Not in a courtroom, with police and reporters and a judge watching the whole thing. But in his rage, he couldn’t stop himself from basically confessing, either. “You just couldn’t leave things alone,” he snarled, his fingers flexing, as if he were about to strangle me. “I really shoulda cracked your skull wide open—”

  Detective Culhane finally spoke up, calmly and firmly. “That’ll be enough.” Stepping down from the witness stand, he clapped one hand on Uncle Carl’s big shoulder, and although Judge Waverly was technically in charge, Detective Culhane, as usual, acted like the real boss. “Bailiff—get the cuffs on him before he hurts Miss Feeney. Again.”

  Then Detective Culhane looked down at me and said the most surprising thing I’d heard during that trial. Or maybe during the course of my entire life.

  “Good work, Isabel. Excellent detecting.”

  “Thanks,” I told him. But I didn’t want to be a police officer, and I turned to Maude—who was pale on my behalf but grinning at the prospect of a fantastic article—and asked, “Can I take a crack at writing this story?”

  Chapter 95

  NEWSGIRL’S

  OWN STORY OF

  COURTROOM

  CLASH

  “Extra! Extra! I

  Solved a Murder!”

  —————

  by Isabel Feeney

  In the end, it was gum—g-u-M—not a gun, that spelled the end of the line for killer Carl Bessemer . . .

  “Hey, kid, you gonna read that paper or sell it?”

  “Yeah, yeah, just hold on,” I said, folding the latest edition of the Trib and handing it to a man in an overcoat. He gave me a few cents, which I tucked into my remaining good pocket. I was in a pretty happy mood, and as he walked away, I added, “Have a nice day!”

  I hadn’t written the main story about the trial and how Miss Giddings had been exonerated, but Maude had helped me get a small article into the paper. A piece called a sidebar, where I’d shared my personal account of how I’d solved the crime. And Maude believed I’d done really well. She especially liked my first line, about gum and guns, which would let Detective Culhane know I hadn’t forgotten that he’d once assumed I couldn’t even spell.

  “That’s what I meant when I told you to write an Isabel story,” she’d said, beaming at me.

  I could hardly believe I was a published journalist, and I had to resist the urge to peek at my article one more time. Even so, I found myself staring at the stack of papers at my feet, proud that a whole city would read my words.

  “Isabel!”

  I looked up to see that none other than Colette Giddings was calling to me as she hopped out of a taxicab. The sight of her waving and smiling reminded me of the terrible night Charles Bessemer had been shot. Except that Miss Giddings was thinner and still not as pretty as she used to be.

  “Hey, Miss Giddings,” I said, smiling but a little confused. “What are you doing here?”

  “I wanted to say goodbye,” she said. “And thank you.”

  I frowned. “Goodbye?”

  “Yes,” she confirmed. “Robert and I are leaving today. The doctor said he needs a warmer, drier climate, as soon as possible.” Her cheeks flushed, and she looked toward the alley where so much trouble had started. “I need a change too,” she said. “We’re going to Arizona, where there’s a clinic that specializes in treating children who’ve had polio.”

  I wanted to know how they could afford that without Charles Bessemer’s money, but I couldn’t ask. I supposed mothers found a way.

  I was also curious about whether Aunt Johnene had ever admitted to having the gun Miss Giddings had given her, but I imagined that would always be a mystery too, since the pistol at the scene had turned out to be Uncle Carl’s. Apparently he’d tossed it down after shooting his brother, hoping to make Miss Giddings look guilty.

  “Tell Robert good luck,” I said, trying to smile. In spite of getting my story in the paper, my heart suddenly felt really heavy to think that two of the three friends I’d made were leaving. “Tell him I hope he gets better.”

  “You can talk to him yourself,” Miss Giddings said, pointing to the taxi. “He wants to say goodbye too.”

  I saw Robert’s pale face peek out the window. He waved, and I dropped the papers I was holding and went over to say farewell.

  Chapter 96

  “ARE YOU SURE YOU’RE WELL ENOUGH TO TRAVEL?” I ASKED, leaning my head in through the taxi’s window. “You looked pretty sick in the courtroom.”

  “Yeah, sick enough that my father helped me,” Robert noted, breathing fairly steadily now that his mother was free and he didn’t have a certain detective intimidating him all the time. It probably didn’t hurt that he was getting away from Aunt Johnene, too. “Can you believe he was actually scared for me?”

  “I kinda thought your dad might’ve been out to kill you,” I admitted, with a glance over my shoulder to make sure Miss Giddings was out of earshot. She was standing at a polite distance—and staring toward the alley again. I looked back at Robert. “Really, I was a little worried that he might’ve had it in for you.”

  Robert wasn’t surprised by that revelation. “It crossed my mind
too. But he really did just want to get me to a hospital.”

  I hoped that my telling Albert Rowland that he was a poor excuse for a father had something to do with his actions in the courtroom, but I probably couldn’t really take any credit. Still, I was glad I’d stood up for my friend back in that butcher shop.

  “The whole thing was a pretty big adventure for a kid with a bum leg and a girl who sells newspapers, huh?” I said. “From the night I met you right up to you getting carried out of the trial!”

  Robert offered me one of his rare smiles. “Yeah, I guess it was pretty exciting—now that it ended okay.”

  “What do you think’s gonna happen with you and your dad?” I asked.

  Robert shrugged. “I don’t know. He said he’ll write to me.”

  I didn’t think Albert Rowland would ever be a great father, but I hoped he would at least try to do better.

  “You could send me a letter,” I suggested.

  “As soon as I get settled,” Robert promised.

  All at once we didn’t seem to know what to say, although there were dozens of things I would’ve liked to talk over with him. There just wasn’t time. And I was kind of close to crying, too. I didn’t like goodbyes.

  “You . . . you’re coming back, right?” I ventured. “When you’re better?”

  Robert frowned and got quiet. “I’m not sure.”

  That meant no.

  “Oh, well . . .” There was no sense in dragging it out. “I guess I better let you go. I need to sell my papers.”

  I started to withdraw my head from the cab, but Robert stopped me. “Hey, Izzie?”

  I poked my nose back in. “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for helping my mother—and for being my friend.”

  I was really getting choked up. “You too,” I managed.

  Then I turned around and gave Miss Giddings, who’d come closer, a quick hug.

  A moment later they were both waving to me. And then they were gone.

  I kept waving long after the cab had turned a corner, so I shouldn’t have been surprised when someone asked, in a snooty voice, “What in the world are you doing, Isabel Feeney?”

  Chapter 97

  “FLORA BESSEMER, YOU ARE STILL MEAN,” I TOLD HER. Then I remembered that she’d lost her father and that her uncle would almost certainly go to prison, if not worse—which was largely my fault. “But are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she said, as if the question had been odd. “I wanted to find my father’s true killer, and I did.”

  Actually, I’d done that.

  “You must be upset, though. Maybe even with me?”

  Flora jutted her chin. “No. It’s all right. I wanted the truth.”

  The girl who’d wanted the truth was lying right then. Flora wasn’t fine, and things weren’t okay. Still, I admired how she could put on a brave face, even if she came across as too tough sometimes.

  “Why didn’t you ever say anything about your uncle chewing the gum?” I asked. “You knew that might be important, right?”

  “No,” Flora said. “I didn’t really think so.”

  “But you tried to shut me up every time I started to mention pepsin gum in front of him!”

  “I just knew Uncle Carl chewed it, and I didn’t want him to think you suspected him.” She glanced at my head, which was still bandaged under my cap. “He —obviously—would silence anyone who even came close to blaming him for a murder. And you made such a big deal out of knowing the police and a reporter!”

  I could hardly believe she was accusing me of bragging, but I didn’t bother arguing about it. I was more interested in the kind thing she’d done for me. “So you were looking out for me?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” She acted like it was no big deal. Then Flora’s eyes clouded with genuine sadness. “Right up until you confronted him, I couldn’t honestly believe Uncle Carl would be involved. Family protects family. It seemed impossible that he’d break that code.”

  What a strange clan those Bessemers were. I would never understand their complicated rules and relationships.

  “I guess the movie’s off, huh?” I noted. “I guess you’re stuck here for a while.”

  “No.” She frowned. “I told you, I’m leaving for Hollywood today.”

  I noticed then that she was wearing a car coat and a cute wool hat, a good outfit for traveling. “So . . . you’re really still going?”

  “Yes, of course!” She gestured to an automobile waiting by the curb. “My Uncle Edwin is taking me to the train station now. Once in California, I’ll be under the care of a ‘hired representative’ of the studio until more permanent arrangements can be made.”

  First of all, she had more uncles? Good luck with that!

  And second, why was I so disappointed?

  “Well, I hope you have lots of success,” I told her. “If I ever have two cents to spare, I’ll go see one of your films.”

  “Here.” Flora was undoing the clasp on a new little clutch. “Let me—”

  “No!” I protested.

  Would she never understand that I didn’t want her charity?

  But Flora wasn’t exactly giving me a handout. “I’m just trying to buy half a dozen papers, so I can take one and you can have lots of copies of your article, which I understand is very good.”

  She’d just offered me the first compliment of our friendship, and I decided to accept both the cash and the kind words graciously. Especially since I really wanted to keep a few clippings of my story. “Thanks,” I said, holding out my hand. “That’s real nice of you.”

  Flora piled coins onto my palm. More than were needed. She took one Tribune and folded it. “See you around, Isabel.”

  Flora and I weren’t going to have a tearful goodbye. We weren’t like that. But I would miss her. “See ya, Flora. Take care.”

  She sashayed off, and a new—not quite as large—uncle emerged from the sedan and opened the door for her.

  Really, Flora, good luck!

  Then I returned to my pile of Tribs, setting aside five for myself before picking up an armful. It was nearly nine a.m., and the last few folks running late for work might want to buy a paper. I checked the boldest headline to see which story I should try to sell, because my sidebar wasn’t exactly big news.

  And of course, the top story was no real surprise. Two bootleggers had been killed in a rough neighborhood known as Back of the Yards.

  I wondered, briefly, if Detective Culhane—and Hastings—were investigating. If so, I hoped Hastings would tell me all about it. He’d kind of taken a shine to my mother when he’d driven her home from the hospital. Mom tried to act as if she was hardly interested, but he was coming over for dinner the next time she had a night off.

  Hastings wasn’t exactly handsome or rich, but I could think of a lot worse men who could be courting my mom. In fact, the thought of her finding somebody as nice as the guy who’d once offered to carry Robert Giddings made me pretty happy.

  And I felt even better when two people I had been expecting rounded a corner, walking in my direction. They weren’t hand in hand—but they would be. Detective James Culhane wasn’t a coward, and—let’s face it—Maude Collier was special. As they approached me, he was looking down at her with something very close to a smile on his face.

  “Miss Feeney,” Detective Culhane greeted me. “How’s that hard head feeling today?”

  Yeah, he was starting to like me.

  “I’m doing fine,” I told him. I looked up at Maude. “I just gotta sell a few more papers, okay?”

  Then we would be off for an egg cream. I wasn’t going to turn down the offer this time. I’d earned a reward by saving Miss Giddings and putting Carl Bessemer behind bars.

  “Let me help you,” Maude said, bending to pick up some papers. She winked at me and joked, “I’m pretty good at selling Tribs, you know.”

  Yeah, she was. And I wasn’t doing so badly either. My name was right there next to hers, and I couldn’t help feeli
ng really proud when she raised up a copy, urging passersby, “Read all about the newsgirl who solved the murder! In her own words!”

  Historical Note

  THIS NOVEL WAS INSPIRED BY THE LIVES OF FIVE REAL women who covered crime for the Chicago Tribune during the 1920s. In particular, the character of Maude Collier is based on the Tribune’s star reporter, Genevieve Forbes Herrick, whose byline dominated the front pages throughout the decade.

  For women to cover anything but cooking, fashion, and other news considered “suitable” for ladies was rare at that time, and in a city that was infamous for its violence, Forbes Herrick broke new ground for subsequent generations of female journalists by reporting on crime shoulder to shoulder with men.

  Murderess’s Row was a real place—a wing of the Cook County Jail set aside to house the many women accused of killing men during what was called “the heyday of the murderess” in Chicago. Forbes Herrick frequently covered homicides similar to the one described in this book and was a regular visitor to the jail. She also lamented, in print, that women used the jail as if it were a beauty salon, and that the pretty killers always went free, no matter how much the evidence pointed toward guilt. (The story of Sabella Nitti, related in the novel, is true.)

  The work of the Tribune’s female crime reporters—Forbes Herrick, Maurine Watkins, Kathleen McLaughlin, Leola Allard, and Maureen McKernan—is largely forgotten today, but these women almost certainly inspired girls like the fictional Isabel Feeney to become journalists.

  About the Author

  BETH FANTASKEY lives in Pennsylvania with her husband and three daughters. She is also the author of Jessica’s Guide to Dating on the Dark Side, Jessica Rules the Dark Side, Jekel Loves Hyde, and Buzz Kill.

  Visit her website at www.bethfantaskey.com.