Ask Me No Questions

by Shelley Noble

  He looked taken aback for a second. Phil was sure she did, too. The possibility of Bev actually being murdered had never entered her mind. Until now.

  “So she came and asked for money and you gave it to her.”

  Alack, the man was tenacious. Just how much could she safely tell him? “As I said.”

  “And you gave her money out of the goodness of your heart.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Or perhaps she was trying on a spot of blackmail?”

  “My life is an open book.”

  “I doubt it, but I was thinking of Mrs. Reynolds.”

  “Bev’s life is well known. I don’t think any scandal Mimi might dig up would turn heads.”

  “Not even if Mimi actually saw Mrs. Reynolds shoot her husband? Now that she herself is in the clear, she might see this as a means of squeezing Mrs. Reynolds for money.”

  “I assure you, I merely gave her enough money to get back to Idaho or Iowa or one of your states”—she waved her hand vaguely in the air—“out there somewhere.”

  “And she gave you nothing in return.”

  “Peace of mind, Inspector? Sorry—Det—”

  “Never mind. Did she tell you anything about why they—whoever they are—wanted to kill her?”

  Phil shook her head. Should she tell him about the book? If he was indeed honest, he could get to the bottom of this. But he’d demand to see it. And if he caved to that Becker character or to the mayor or even Mr. Tappington-Jones, Daniel Sloane wouldn’t have the power to tie his hands.

  “I don’t know that I can trust you with the truth.”

  It was his turn to stare. He did, then he got angry—angrier than before. He stood abruptly and walked to the window and back. Took a controlled breath, while Phil tried to decide whether to run or capitulate.

  “Let me rephrase that. I don’t think you’re dishonest, but I’m not sure you can hold out against the corruption that, in spite of the reforms your Mr. Roosevelt pushed, is still running rampant.”

  “I can, I have, I will.”

  “Lord, you are stubborn. Why do you do it?”

  “Like you said, I’m stubborn. I think you can understand that.” He gave her a half smile. He was very attractive when he smiled.

  “Ugh. Very well. She had a diary. She wanted to sell it.”

  He sat down. “And you bought it?”

  Phil shrugged. “It exchanged hands.”

  “You realize you have no right to it. You must turn it over.”

  Her intruder’s words echoed in her mind. If they come for the book, let them have it, they’re very dangerous.

  And would be even more so after they got the diary and didn’t find what they were looking for. Because she knew with certainty “they” didn’t really care about Bev’s raucous sex habits or Mrs. What’s-her-name’s lack of underwear or any of the other little peccadilloes Mimi described. Those might cause some short-lived gossip and humiliation, but would soon be forgotten. No, she wouldn’t hand it over quite yet.

  “Well, that could be a problem.”

  “More problem for you, if you don’t.”

  “I can’t. It was stolen.”

  Up and out of the chair again. Honestly, the man was like a volcano on the verge of erupting.

  “It’s the truth. I took it to my room. It was stolen while I was out. And you can’t go around asking questions and accusing the servants.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because of course they didn’t take it.”

  “Then who did?”

  She could kick herself. Why had she let his righteous indignation gull her into telling him about the diary in the first place? He could take it right to Becker for all she knew. If the names on the lists meant something nefarious, as she thought they did, they would pay plenty to get the list back. Or kill for them instead.

  And she wasn’t about to turn Mr. X in until she knew exactly what he was up to. “I don’t know. Just that he came in through my bedroom window and left the same way.”

  21

  Atkins insisted on searching the grounds beneath Phil’s window. She let him. No reason to tell him about the roof. Imagine what the neighbors would think to have policemen tramping over their heads while looking for clues.

  Besides, what if her nocturnal visitor wanted to return and ran into a gaggle of policemen waiting for him instead of her?

  So she watched from the window as he poked around the garden, then continued the—unbeknownst to him—futile search in the narrow patch of ground between two brownstones.

  “What’s he doing?” Bev asked when she joined Phil in the morning room.

  “A rather long story, which I’ll tell you as soon as he leaves.”

  Bev looked sidelong at Phil, then smiled. “Phil, are you up to your old tricks?”

  “I believe I might be, but I think the intrepid detective has given up for now.” But not for long if she knew John Atkins.

  “Did you find anything?” she asked innocently once he’d scraped his feet on the mat and reentered through the French doors.

  “No, I did not,” he said, giving her a penetrating look.

  “Oh,” she said and left it at that.

  She saw him out and came back to where Bev was stretched out along the wicker love seat. “I forget how nice this room is,” Bev said. “I never seem to get back here.”

  “Finished with your condolence calls for the day?”

  “I expect there will be more later this afternoon. By then I intend to be fortified with a nip of something in my tea. Now what gives? Why was he searching the garden?”

  Phil pushed Bev’s feet aside and sat down next to her. “I had a visitor last night after I returned from the ball.”

  Bev sat up. “You are up to your old tricks.” She sighed. “Lucky you.”

  “Not exactly. He unfortunately was not after me, but after Mimi’s book.”

  “Mimi’s book? What are you talking about?”

  “I wasn’t going to tell you. I knew it would just upset you. But yesterday morning Mimi came here. She needed money and wanted to sell me this book she had. She told me it would be very valuable. That’s where I got the lists.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I knew you would be upset at seeing her, and frankly I wanted to find out what she knew before you could kick her out.”

  “Is that why she was attacked in the park?”

  “I think it might be, though you should be careful if you do go out.”

  “Why?”

  “She was wearing all black with a heavy veil.”

  “The nerve of that hussy. Oh. Oh, no.”

  “Just a precaution.”

  “They want that list?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Then why didn’t you just hand it over to Atkins and let him deal with it?”

  “One small problem. The list was stolen.”

  “At the ball? Why on earth would you take it there? Oh, Phil. You weren’t going to try on a spot of blackmail yourself?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She’d be much more subtle than out-and-out blackmail. “From my room.”

  Bev’s eyes rounded, her lips pursed, and Phil couldn’t help but think of those dolls you won at the carnival. “You took a thief to your room?”

  Phil sighed. “Bev, sometimes I think you’ve drowned your brain in martinis. He broke in, stole the list. Kissed me, which I didn’t tell Detective Sergeant Atkins, and which I might add was the highlight of my trip so far, no offense. And left through the window.”

  “Good Lord. How exciting.”

  “It was, and now I know the list is to the key to this whole thing.”

  “And he took it?” Bev looked baffled.

  “He did.”

  “Then how are we ever going to know who killed Reggie?”

  “Because he didn’t get the copy I made.”

  Phil rang for Tuttle and asked him to send Lily to her. She arri
ved promptly, looking as starched and trained as any lady’s maid. Phil felt a little burst of pride. “Lily, get paper and a pen from the writing desk.”

  Lily brought several sheets of paper and a pen. Phil spread the sheets out side-by-side on the tea table. “Okay, let’s see what we have here.”

  “It’s pretty clear that the numbers at the top of each group are dates.”

  Bev bit her bottom lip. “A meeting? The social clubs meet once a week. Businesses, board meetings. Hell, the mah-jongg club.”

  “But don’t they usually meet at the same time on the same day? Lily, see if you can find a calendar.” Lily, who had just pulled up a chair, popped up.

  “There’s one in the top drawer of the writing table,” Bev told her.

  Lily rummaged in the overstuffed drawer and came back with a piece of cardboard with a picture of a cherubic girl in a frilly pink dress and bow holding a square of the current month.

  Phil raised an eyebrow at Bev.

  “Don’t look at me. It was an advertisement for something, I don’t remember what.”

  “Olson Plumbing,” Phil read, and turned the frilly girl calendar facedown to find a calendar for the whole year on the other side. She looked at an earlier date from a month back. And next to it, an A, a P, and a B.

  “Look at the dates. The last recorded one is tomorrow. The others are from earlier this year and presumably from last year.” She looked more closely. “With a gap between November and April. Bev, when is racing season here?”

  “From April through November.” Bev looked at the sheet. Sat straighter, looked at Phil.

  “You’re right. Racing dates.”

  “And the initials might be a cartel of betting, perhaps?”

  “The numbers after the initials might be how much they bet,” Bev said. “My goodness, some of them chanced fortunes.”

  “But are these race dates? And if so, what are these initials after the dates? They’re different from the names below.” Sometimes two letters, sometimes three or four. Phil had originally thought they might stand for the leader or the coordinator. “Here’s the date for tomorrow. And the initials BP—Belmont Park?”

  “Where were the races last month?”

  Bev frowned. “Let’s see, the season started at Aqueduct.”

  “Aqueduct. That’s it,” Phil said, and wrote it next to that list.

  She found another A from November and checked it off. “Is there a track with the initials SB?”

  “Sheepshead Bay.”

  “Did Devil’s Thunder run there?”

  “I don’t really remember.”

  “It was last September,” Phil said.

  “Oh, yes. He didn’t. It was a heat wave, miserable, and Reggie and Henry scratched him. The purse wasn’t that big. We went off to Newport to escape the weather. And he ran at Saratoga before that. Is there an S?”

  Phil sighed. “No. What about J?”

  “Jamaica.”

  “All these initials are racetracks.”

  “That makes sense.” Bev stood, walked to the window and back. “Everything about Reggie was the racetrack. I don’t know. Maybe he was trying to get people to back him or something.”

  “Did he make book?”

  Bev shrugged. “I don’t have the slightest. Why would he? Bobby would know. Freddy wouldn’t approve. He works in the mayor’s office and has to worry about his reputation.”

  “I met the mayor the other night. Is he an avid horseman?”

  “Yes, among other things.”

  Phil leaned on her elbows and contemplated the list. It was daunting, but she just needed to keep putting the pieces together until everything was in place and the puzzle was revealed.

  “Bev, I saw a stack of old racing forms in the library.”

  Bev jumped up. “I’ll get them.”

  She hurried out of the room and returned a moment later with her arms full.

  She dumped them on the love seat next to Phil and brushed her hands off. “They smell like old cigars. So where do we begin?”

  “With this month and work back.”

  The first date she looked for was fourth from the top and the race at Aqueduct.

  She laid it out on the table, and Lily and Bev crowded to both sides to look over her shoulders.

  “What are we looking for?” Bev asked.

  “What C might be,” Phil said, running her finger along the page. “See, A and C. The date, the weather good, first race, two-year-olds. Purse amount. No C’s. It must be a horse or a horse’s owner. There was a W. Curtis who owned a horse in the first race. The horse was named Roscoe. And he didn’t win.”

  She moved to the next race … and the next.

  “This is hopeless,” Bev said. “What time is it? I’m ringing for tea.”

  “Eureka!” exclaimed Phil. “Sixth race, Charger. Won by a head on eight-to-one odds.”

  “Charger? Let me see that.” Bev read the details. “I remember this. I wasn’t there, but when Reggie got home he was really angry. I thought maybe he and that—well, I suppose I should be nice since she’s in the hospital. I thought he and Mildred had a fight. But it was about a horse. Charger nosed out the favorite in the last few seconds.

  “Now I wish I had paid attention. Let me think.” Bev pulled the form toward her, ran her finger down the list of entered horses. Tapped the paper with her finger. “Lester. He was the favorite. Reggie said the jockey had pulled him short at the end.”

  “Good.”

  “That he pulled short?”

  “No, I think we may have found our connection.” Phil laid the form aside, riffled through a few more. The next date came up several forms later. Now that she knew what she was looking for, it took less time to find the next one. “JP. Not J. P. Morgan, as you might think, but Jamaica Racetrack. A horse named Pride edged out the favorite by a head.”

  Sheepshead Bay. Another also-ran eked out a victory.

  It took a good half hour to decipher all the initials, but at the end Phil had a pretty clear picture of what the lists were.

  “In all of these races, the favorite didn’t win.” Phil glanced at Bev.

  “The favorites don’t always win,” Bev said. “And if you’re thinking Reggie was planning to lose tomorrow’s race, forget it. He would never let any of his horses lose on purpose. Reggie wanted to win. It was everything to him.” Bev’s eyes misted over.

  “But with Reggie no longer here to oversee things…”

  “Henry would never let that happen. He’s the best trainer on the East Coast.”

  “What about Freddy or Bobby?”

  “Freddy mainly deals with the business end. And I think he’s more into cards and pool than horses. Bobby? You heard him. He really was Reggie’s right-hand man. At least when it came to racing, wenching, and gaming.”

  Not much to recommend him, Phil thought. “Was he a successful prizefighter?”

  Bev shrugged. “I have no idea. But he’s not that old, so maybe his career was cut short.”

  Or maybe he was caught throwing fights and was forced to retire, Phil thought.

  “Regardless, tomorrow’s date and track are penciled in on the list. And since Devil’s Thunder is favored to win, I think we should make plans to be at the racetrack early and make sure Rico isn’t planning on pulling him short.”

  “He wouldn’t!” Lily exclaimed. “Madam. My lady.”

  “Lily, sometimes people—”

  “Aren’t what they seem,” Lily finished for her. “But some are.” She hesitated. “Some are better.”

  “He may be under tremendous pressure. I believe these people can be very persuasive.”

  Bev cried out, “Oh, my God. Do you think they killed Reggie because he refused to let Devil’s Thunder lose?”

  “It’s very possible.” And Phil had a feeling that she wasn’t the only one who thought so. People were after that list. Phil just hoped the man who had ended up with it was going to use it for good.

  And she nee
ded to figure out what to do with her copy of the list and the book. Because none of them would be safe until she either turned it over to whoever came to ask for it, or prove to him the list was truly destroyed. How on earth would she accomplish that? And would they be safe even then?

  22

  For the first time in as long as she could remember, Philomena Amesbury, Countess of Dunbridge, was awake before her maid came to rouse her. She felt like something was going to happen today. That the events that had occurred since her arrival in America would all soon come to a head.

  And whether it spoke of tragedy or freedom, she was anxious to see it through. “Through” as in finished. She’d had enough of murder, jealousy, disloyalty, policemen; and if she might miss the strange incident of the mystery man in the night, well, it would be the price she would pay for getting on with her life.

  So Lily, bringing in a tray of coffee, found her sitting at her dressing table, brushing out her own hair.

  Phil expected Lily to comment on her early rising, but the girl merely set down the tray, poured out the coffee, and took the brush from her mistress’s hand.

  When her coiffure was finished and stuck with enough pins to keep it in place through the most vigorous drive to the track, Lily stepped back. “And what will madam be wearing to the track today?”

  Phil smiled in spite of her preoccupation. “I see that Preswick has been continuing your training.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “A quandary. One generally dresses for the track. However today … I think the light blue lawn. Elegant enough for the clubhouse and not too much skirt if I must run for my life.”

  Lily went into the dressing room to fetch the dress and Phil sipped her coffee, wondering if she should have a plan or if this could possibly turn out to be merely an ordinary day at the races.

  She stepped into the dress and turned for Lily to do the buttons. “You told Preswick that he is to accompany us today?”

  “Yes, my lady. He is waiting downstairs.”

  “Excellent.” Phil studied herself in the mirror. She was pleased by her appearance. Her dress was from the House of Worth; it fit perfectly and fell in soft folds to the floor. Phil reached down and grasped a handful of skirt. The fabric arced up easily and formed a graceful curve on her side. She dropped the skirt and the hem fell back into place. Really, the man was a genius.