Don't Dare a Dame

by M. Ruth Myers

  By the time I’d finished, I didn’t see any black Dodge in my rearview mirror. What I did see was Pearlie’s car stopped in traffic a few spaces back. His hand was out the window only as far as his wrist. One finger motioned languidly for people to pass. I heard a horn toot. I got out of my car and strolled back.

  There wasn’t room to kick up my heels between the car at the curb and Pearlie’s car. There was, however, room for me to tap on the window.

  The guy inside was medium build, with lank brown hair and nervous eyes. I didn’t remember seeing him before, but lots of people had been at that meeting at Cy Warren’s place. His eyes were bobbling this way and that, and the size of billiard balls with the realization he’d not only been spotted but trapped. His hands appeared to be stuck to the wheel.

  I tapped again and gave him my most pleasant look.

  His gaze slid toward the passenger door, trying to decide if he should run for it. Instead he swallowed and turned the handle to lower his window two inches. Somewhere behind Pearlie a car honked. I leaned in agreeably to talk through the window.

  “Hey, it’s flattering, having someone following me all morning, but I’m kind of shy. Tell Cy if he wants to know where I’m going, he can call my office. Give him this, so he doesn’t need to look up the number.”

  I tossed one of my cards through the gap in the window. The man on the other side grabbed for it as if it were a glowing cigarette about to land on his privates.

  I sauntered back to my car. Pearlie drove past me. I started the DeSoto and drove off.

  Nobody followed.

  Twenty-five

  Picking up Pearlie had cost me a chance to talk to Neal when he came out for lunch. By the time he got off work for the day, I’d need to be elsewhere if I wanted to talk to his stepbrother Franklin Maguire, which I did. At half-past five I was parked near the house where Franklin rented a room with (his landlady bragged) its own tub and toilet.

  Franklin was easy to recognize from the photograph Isobel had lent me. As I’d guessed, his hair was light brown. He walked briskly, a man who was either efficient by nature or on some schedule. He took no note of my car as he turned up the walk to the gray house with its freshly painted latticework.

  My plan was to give him about twenty minutes before I went calling. He’d have time to wash up, maybe relax a little. It would make him more receptive to my questions.

  Franklin had other ideas. He’d only been inside ten minutes before he came out again, wearing the same fawn-colored cap and tweed jacket he’d worn when he went in. This time, though, he carried a book and notebook. He set off with the same purposeful stride.

  Recalling his landlady’s mention that he took classes, I jumped out and hurried across the street to intercept him.

  “Mr. Maguire?”

  “Yes?” he said politely. The lack of hostility put him several notches above George and Neal in my estimation.

  “I’m Maggie Sullivan. I left you an envelope.”

  “I’m afraid you forgot to put in whatever papers you intended. My landlady said it had something to do with my father’s death.”

  “Yes.”

  His manner had grown more cautious.

  “Could we do this tomorrow? I’ve a class to attend.” He gestured with the book he was carrying.

  “I have a car.” I nodded toward my DeSoto. “If I give you a lift can we talk?”

  A slight frown had appeared between his eyebrows.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Some problems your sisters are having.” I handed him one of my cards.

  His head snapped up.

  “Corrie and Isobel? What kind of problems? Don’t tell me that idiot George is hounding them,” he said sharply.

  I liked it that he hadn’t corrected me that they were his stepsisters.

  “I don’t think so.” I indicated my car again.

  This time he walked quickly around to the passenger’s side and we got under way.

  “Before I tell you about it, one question,” I said. “Where were you last Thursday night?”

  “A week ago?” His bark of laughter lacked humor. “That’s easy. In a ditch somewhere between here and Waynesville. All night. With my boss.” His eyes slid toward me and I thought I saw the ghost of a grin. “I expect the police have already checked with the farmer who found us. They asked the same thing.

  “Herbert — Mr. Moore, my employer — was taking his truck down to pick up a secondhand display case that a place that had gone bust was selling cheap. He asked would I go along to help lift it. We had trouble finding the place, and getting it into the truck took longer than we expected. Then we got turned around on the roads and had to backtrack. Just when we thought we were finally on track, a deer came bounding out in front of us. Herbert hit the brakes, and I guess the display case shifted. Next thing we knew, we were in the ditch. Fortunately, we didn’t roll or anything, but we were stuck there till morning when a farmer came along and saw us and pulled us out with his tractor.”

  I laughed. “I’ve heard some doozy alibis, but that takes the cake.”

  “Yes, doesn’t it.” Franklin was relaxing now. “That’s why I headed out early tonight. I missed last week’s class because of the trip. Another fellow in it said I could copy his notes, so we’re meeting up for a sandwich.” His expression turned serious. “Now, what’s this about the girls having problems?”

  I told him about being hired to look into what became of their father, omitting the fact that they thought his own father might have had something to do with it. When I mentioned an eavesdropper, he hitched in his breath. When I got to the part about the dog being killed, he swore under his breath and turned his face to the window.

  “Poor Corrie,” he said. “Poor, sweet— That dog was more than her helper, you know. He was her dearest friend, next to Isobel. Who in God’s name would do such a thing?”

  “Would Neal?”

  He turned to me, startled.

  “Neal? I don’t think so. He’s hotheaded, but — No, I’m sure he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t have the stomach for it. Besides, he’s kind of soft on animals.”

  “What about your brother?”

  “George?” He chuckled faintly. “He’s even less likely. They both swagger and talk tough, but they’re mostly hot air.”

  “And your father? Could he kill the dog, knowing how indispensable an animal like that is to a blind person?”

  He was quiet a moment.

  “Yes,” he said at last. “I believe he could. And the dog didn’t like him. But why—?”

  I shook my head. I’d learned all I needed to know and I saw no need to shame him further.

  “I wanted to talk to your father because he and John Vanhorn were cousins of some sort, and may have had friends in common. I’m trying to find out who those friends were.”

  Franklin glanced at his watch. We were only five minutes or so from his destination.

  “You think someone my father knew killed Corrie’s dog?”

  “It’s possible.”

  He looked at me thoughtfully.

  “It’s not just the dog, is it? What else has happened to them?”

  “Let’s save that for later. What I need to know, before you get out, is if you know the names of any of your father’s friends. Ones who maybe came to the house when you kids were little.”

  He rubbed his thumb against his lower lip.

  “There was a fat one who always slapped me on the back and called me ‘laddie’. I hated him. I don’t recall his name.” He closed his eyes as if to see the past more clearly, then shook his head. “He had men over sometimes. To play poker mostly. Jokey sorts who laughed a lot. I don’t remember hearing names, though. Can’t even picture anyone except that one I didn’t like.”

  I gave him a minute or two to dredge something more up, but he shook his head.

  “What about someone named Cy?” I asked.

  “Cy?”

  “Or maybe Cyrus.”

&nb
sp; He rubbed his thumb on his lip again. “Possibly. Or maybe it’s only because you mentioned it. I just don’t know.”

  The business school where he took his class was just ahead.

  “You never told me about the rest of the troubles the girls were having,” he reminded.

  “Can I tell you this weekend?”

  Filling him in on Corrine’s abduction wouldn’t take long, but I had more questions, and time to think some before I asked them would be handy.

  He didn’t look pleased, but his head dipped in acceptance. “Sure. I guess. I’ll be around.”

  I pulled to the curb and let him out. Another fellow about the same age who was waiting in front of the school started forward to meet him.

  “Look, is there anything I can do to help them?” asked Franklin, leaning down and preparing to close the car door. “Besides talking to you, I mean.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Your sisters seem to enjoy it a lot when you visit.”

  ***

  My meeting with Franklin Maguire hadn’t yielded much more than my visit to Chief Wurstner the previous evening. It now seemed likely that Alf was the one who had killed the dog, but that didn’t tell me why someone wanted to halt further digging into John Vanhorn’s disappearance.

  Genevieve and I went for supper together. Then I washed out a blouse and some stockings. I had a fast bath and was entertaining sour thoughts as I wound my hair into pin curls when someone knocked rapidly on my door.

  “Phone call,” said Esther. “He wouldn’t say who it was.”

  It was just shy of Mrs. Z’s cutoff time for using the phone in the hall downstairs. I tugged my bathrobe tight around my waist and hurried down.

  “This is Maggie Sullivan,” I said warily. Only a handful of people knew my number at Mrs. Z’s: Billy and Seamus, Connelly, Wheeler’s Garage, Jenkins.

  “I’ve been thinking about the man assigned to Percy Street at the time of the flood,” said Chief Wurstner’s voice without introduction. “I believe I mentioned to you that we were friends.”

  “Yes.”

  I was gripping the handset tightly, hoping this call meant he’d found something useful.

  “I’ve remembered something he told me. At the time it seemed unimportant, just a child’s chatter. Something to smile over when we needed it. After what you told me last night, I wonder if.... Anyway. There was a little girl. Six or seven, I think he said.”

  “And she saw something?” I couldn’t restrain my impatience.

  “Her family had come back afterwards to salvage whatever they could of their things. The officer — my friend — saw them and asked how they were. Made small talk. There was so little else you could do. He asked the little girl had she been scared when the water got high. She told him no, just sad when the men put the store dolly out by the barrel, because the dolly was going to be lonesome out there in the rain by himself.”

  A chill crept into me. A chill from the freezing waters of twenty-six years ago.

  “A store dolly?” I repeated.

  “He said her mother laughed and explained it was what she called clothing dummies.”

  “Mannequins.”

  “Yes.”

  I drew a long breath.

  “Who would bother putting a mannequin out in the middle of pandemonium?” I asked.

  “Exactly.”

  Twenty-six

  Friday morning I found myself pulled in three directions. Most tantalizing was the possibility of locating a little girl who might or might not have seen something on the day John Vanhorn disappeared. I also wanted to know the extent of the holdings of Swallowtail Properties.

  The trail of the little girl would be stone cold by now. Without specific addresses, uncovering more on Swallowtail would require time, and most likely contacts I didn’t have. That left number three, the easiest of the lot, talking to Neal again. The way he’d dissolved into panic when I asked whether he believed Alf had committed suicide had seemed excessive. At the time, I’d accepted it as grief and his inability to absorb the reality of his loss yet, let alone imagine it resulting from something sinister.

  Now, after the attack on his sister and the car that had followed me yesterday, I wasn’t so sure. Giving him a shake or two might jar loose information he’d kept to himself. If I started with Neal, I should still have most of the day left for heavier digging.

  The sky was a brilliant autumn blue. Just beyond where my car was parked, the produce market gave off a cider-y scent of ripe apples and buzzed with voices. Grocers and restaurant cooks as well as housewives shopped at its stalls. Two women with overflowing shopping bags passed me, chattering about the jelly they were going to make and the wonderful grapes available today. It gave me an idea for upping the odds on an outing I planned later.

  Temporarily ignoring the market’s temptations, I drove to the factory where Neal worked. As I’d dressed that morning, I’d contemplated skipping breakfast in order to catch him on his way in. I’d decided against it. Making him worry he’d clock in late wasn’t likely to improve his receptiveness to me and my questions.

  As I’d guessed when I’d come here before, the inside of the factory was cleaner and less of a barn than most. Its small front office was well lighted. A brick wall at the back muffled thumps from machinery.

  “Could I speak to Neal Vanhorn’s supervisor?” I asked the woman who came to the counter to help me. I gave her a card. “Neal’s family hired me to tidy up some loose ends on their late mother’s estate. His sisters thought if I could speak to Neal for a a few minutes he might recall a couple of names that we need.”

  The woman pressed her lips together and looked toward a door in the back

  “Um, just a moment, please. Let me check.”

  Hugging her sweater around her, she went to speak to a woman at another desk. They both looked in my direction, then conferred in low tones. The woman at the desk picked up a telephone. I waited. Several minutes passed before a man with heavy brows knotted together and a sour expression strode through the door. He made a beeline toward me.

  “You looking to talk to Neal Vanhorn?”

  “Just for five minutes. If they get some sort of break I can come back then.”

  I tried a smile on him. The effort was wasted.

  “You can’t talk to him then or any other time,” the man glowered, folding his arms. “Didn’t come back from lunch on Tuesday. Hasn’t called to say he’s sick. Not a peep. Plenty of others want work. I replaced him yesterday.”

  An alarm began to go off in my brain.

  “Did anyone try to reach him? Call where he lives?”

  The man regarded me with disdain.

  “Like I said, there’s plenty of men want a job if he don’t.”

  He turned and left.

  ***

  I sat in my car recovering my wits. What I’d just learned worried me. Maybe Neal had found a better job somewhere else. It was easy enough to imagine him walking out on his current employer without notice or explanation if he got a better offer. Except....

  Except a neighbor out walking her dog had noticed two strange cars near Alf’s place the night of his murder. Neal’s insistence that he knew nothing about Alf’s death had been almost hysterical. I didn’t think he’d been involved, but what if he’d been there? What if he’d seen something?

  Starting the DeSoto, I drove slowly away. With Neal unavailable, I might as well have a go at the two birds left in the cage: Swallowtail and the little girl from twenty-six years ago.

  First I stopped at the office to call Corrine. She assured me she was doing fine on her own.

  “Have you heard anything from Neal this week?” I asked.

  I heard a dog wuff softly. Corrine murmured reassurance.

  “Neal? No, why?”

  “I just wondered if he’d gotten over being sore.”

  “He’ll come around,” she said cheerfully. “He just likes his sulks.”

  The dog wuffed again and she chuckled at something.
I couldn’t recall ever hearing her chuckle before.

  “Okay, thanks,” I said.

  I swivelled back and forth in my chair for a while. The evening before, when Genevieve and I got back from supper, I’d called Neal’s number. I was pretty sure it was George who had answered. He told me Neal was out and he didn’t know when he’d be back. The last couple words had been fainter, like he’d been in a hurry and started to hang up while he was still speaking.

  Talking to one of Neal’s pals at the factory — maybe the one who’d offered to buy me a sandwich — began to feel vital. So did talking to George again, unless Neal was there the next time I called.

  Still thinking about it, I adjusted the holster under my jacket so it rubbed a bit less and headed down to the produce market.

  ***

  “A little girl?” The owner of the grocery store on Percy puffed out his cheeks as he thought. “There were a couple of girls, sisters I think, who used to come in with their mother. But I wasn’t old enough that I paid much attention to girls back then.” He gave a sheepish grin. “I guess the reason I remember them is that my dad always kidded me that the younger one was flirting with me. She’d stand and look at me and twist her skirt back and forth the way girls do.”

  “Was she around after the flood?”

  He considered a minute.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Do you happen to remember their name?”

  “No. Sorry. There was another girl who lived around here who was in my class at school. But she would have been older than the girl you asked about, and in any case, her family was all in Columbus during the flood. Her grandpa was dying. What a nightmare. Losing a relative and then coming home to find everything ruined. They moved, but I don’t know where.”

  I groaned silently.

  “As to hearing anything about a clothing dummy....” The grocery store owner shook his head. Today he’d offered me a seat on an overturned orange crate and was in a chattier mood.