by Maia Chance
“We are just on our way out,” I said.
“Why so sneaky?”
“I do so hate good-byes,” Berta said.
“Sure you do.” Coral’s chest rose and fell swiftly, as though she were short of breath. Yet her attitude—feet tucked under, leaning one elbow on the chair arm, lips closed—was relaxed. She reminded me of a ballerina, the way they pretend to be ethereal even when they’re sweating buckets and panting like bulls. A cup of black coffee sat on the desktop, wafting steam. Mwinyi must have brought it to her. She looked at Cedric. “You know, in that sweater, your dog looks just like a fellow I used to go steady with.”
Aha. I’d finally realized why that alarm bell had jingled a few moments ago. “Coral,” I said, “I’ve just remembered something Glenn Monroe told us.” I hated to lose time since we were dodging Ralph and Theo, but this was important.
“Glenn?” Coral tossed her head. “I wouldn’t put a lot of stock into what he says. He’s been an actor since he was a kid, you know. His mommy never taught him the difference between truth and fiction. What did he tell you?”
“That he was on the telephone in Rudy’s study when the fatal shot was fired. That he saw you pass by this open door—”
“Little Glennie-wennie suggested I’m a killer?”
“Actually, no. He saw you pass by the door before the shot was fired—on your way to the drawing room, where you saw Mrs. Lundgren and me. It’s only that, well, if you passed by the study door, then you had come down the back stairs. Wouldn’t the shortest route from Rudy’s room to the drawing room have been the main stairs?”
“I was in such a tizzy after that awful argument, not thinking straight. I can barely remember any details about that afternoon, actually.”
Was it possible Coral already had been squiffy with alcohol by the time Rudy was shot?
“Sometimes I use the back stairs because I feel like Miss Murden is always—always watching me,” Coral said. “I don’t trust her. And Glenn is a little viper. I thought he was my friend, but really he’s trying to wreck my life. I never should have invited him up here. I thought it would be fun to have him around when all those dull hunters and their cheeky little girlfriends came. I thought we could laugh at everyone the way we used to. But ever since he landed that radio host gig, why, he isn’t the same Glenn he used to be. He’s calculating. Sneaky. I don’t even know him anymore.”
“You’ve known Glenn for a long time, then?” I asked.
“Yonks. We met in New York at the Unicorn Theater. I was working in the chorus line and he was doing a slapstick act—that was before I went off to Europe to seek my fortune. I was gone for years. When I came back in August, he was the very first person I rang up. Naturally he was delighted to come and enjoy the estate and all of Rudy’s motorcars and wine cellar and so forth. But when it gets down to the nitty-gritty, he’s no longer my friend, is he?”
“What was it you meant last night,” I said, “when you mentioned something about telling his producer why he’d dropped Jillie Harris?”
Coral glanced away. “I really shouldn’t say. It’s personal. Why don’t you ask him?” She stood. “If I were a detective, I’d be wondering what he’s still doing here in Connecticut.”
“We thought he was here to comfort you,” I said.
“Hah! All he does is make mean little remarks.”
“Wait,” Berta said. “Before you go, could I ask you another question?”
“Oh, all right—but make it snappy.”
“We understand that on his deathbed, Winslow Bradford was troubled about something to do with the Kenyan safari. You were on that safari, Coral. What do you suppose might have been troubling him?”
Coral gave a tinkling laugh. “Oh, that.”
“Was it to do with the diamonds in the rhinoceros trophy?” I asked.
“No. I never knew a thing about those until you old girls busted them out that night. Poor widdle Theo’s just about to blow a gasket, thinking he might miss out on a treasure like that. I guess Rudy was deeper than I thought.”
“You believe that Rudy hid the diamonds in the trophy?” I asked.
“Well, sure. Who else? Thinking back on things, I recall how funny Rudy was acting in Mombasa, when we were getting all our things onto the ship sailing for Turkey. He was so anxious about the crates of trophies. He even yelled at some native porters who were carrying them, and once we had cleared customs there at the port, I distinctly recall him heaving a sigh of relief.”
“Why would Mr. Montgomery smuggle diamonds if he was already so very wealthy?” Berta asked.
Coral swept a hand around the richly appointed study. “We don’t know where Rudy’s wealth came from, do we? Maybe all this was paid for with smuggled diamonds. After all, he traveled to Africa on safari once or twice a year for decades, as far as I could make out.”
“If those diamonds were smuggled,” I said, “then they may not rightfully belong to Theo, you know.”
Coral’s face went blank for a moment. Then she shrugged. “That’s his problem. Don’t think for a second he’s going to let you off the hook about getting them back, if that’s what you’re—”
“Back to Winslow Bradford,” Berta cut in. “Troubled on his deathbed.”
“Winslow? The thing about Winslow was, the poor old duffer was simply goofy about me. I thought it was rather sweet, sort of like when you sit on Santa’s knee at Wright’s Department Store and he gives you a squeeze, but Rudy was fit to be tied. Jealous, you know. One night, I allowed Winslow to feed me roast crocodile with his fingers, which sent Rudy into a rage, and no sooner had I placated him with a bit of a neck than Winslow went into a snit. He stormed into his tent and refused to come out, and played Wagner really loudly on his crank-up phonograph. All just a bit of fun, girls—I know you, Lola Woodby, don’t mind having a couple fellows tussling over you, now, do you? Toodles!” Coral swayed past us.
Berta and I proceeded to the conservatory.
“I suspect that Coral made a hobby out of making Rudy jealous,” Berta said to me, pulling open one of the glass conservatory doors.
“And Winslow felt guilty about his flirtation with Coral on safari but he didn’t mention it to his wife because, well, who would?”
We stepped out into the marrow-chilling morning. A formal garden of boxwood hedges and gravel paths gave way to a lawn. I hadn’t taken two steps when a tiny scrap of golden paper fluttered on the path in front of my shoes. I picked it up. “What’s this?” The scrap of paper was curled and torn. “It looks like a bit of the wrapper from a stick of greasepaint.”
Berta inspected the paper. “Greasepaint, perhaps, or one of those oil pastel sticks that artists use. I wonder what it is doing out here. It could not possibly have blown all the way from town.”
“Perhaps it was shed by one of those flapper mistresses the other day. Maybe one of them came out to the garden to patch up her Cupid’s bow during the party.” I could not think what the little curl of gold paper meant, but I tucked it into my coin purse for safekeeping all the same. You just never know.
14
The plan was to investigate the trees where I’d seen the man with the lantern, and then wend our way into town. It was a mile, which seemed awfully far in this weather, but we couldn’t bally well telephone a taxi from the house.
“We will have a proper breakfast at the Red Rooster and feed Cedric there,” Berta said, “after which we will pump the townspeople for clues.”
“Super.”
We set off across the side lawn toward the trees. Berta took mincing steps through the mud, and Cedric flat-out refused to walk at all. I stole many glances over my shoulder. No one was following us, but anyone could have been watching from the house’s shiny, blank windows.
“The man with the shovel was just over here,” I said as we reached the far edge of the massive wet lawn.
“What makes you think it was a man?”
“Well, nothing, actually. I mean, the person wo
re a fisherman’s raincoat and hat, but I suppose it could’ve been a woman. I couldn’t see exactly what they were doing, but that was almost certainly a shovel they were holding.”
“If they had a shovel, then they were digging. This is nowhere near Theo’s pit, however.”
We stepped beneath the shivering trees. Mushy brown leaves carpeted the ground. Three pheasants strutted past. “Look,” I said. “Fresh dirt.” Berta and I went to the base of a tree. “Someone dug a small hole and then filled it back in.” I glanced over my shoulder toward the house. We were still in plain view. Oh well. We could always make a break for it. I found a stick.
“Mrs. Woodby, what are you doing with that stick?”
“I want to see what that person buried.” I poked around in the hole with the stick, but did not feel or see anything. “Maybe it’s something small, like a piece of jewelry.”
“I have a different idea,” Berta said. “I suspect that the person was not hiding something in this hole, but searching for something.”
“For what?”
“Do you require more coffee, Mrs. Woodby?”
“Well, yes, actually—”
“Diamonds.”
“You think Rudy Montgomery buried diamonds on his estate?”
“Whyever not? It appears that he hid diamonds in a rhinoceros trophy hanging in his drawing room. Aha.” Berta pointed. “Another hole at the base of that tree—and that one, too.”
As we wandered deeper into the woods, we noted thirteen holes. Some were at the roots of trees, others at the base of an old, tumbledown stone wall.
“Do you see how all the holes were dug beside some sort of marker, such as a tree or a stone?” Berta said. “One always buries treasure beside a landmark.”
“I suppose you learned that nifty tidbit from Lurid Tales?”
“That is of no consequence.”
“Well, if there are buried diamonds on the estate,” I said, “then that could create motives for murder we weren’t even aware of.”
Hearing the crunch of twigs, we turned.
“Buried diamonds?” Glenn Monroe said, striding out of the mist with a walking stick, belted hunting jacket, and tall boots. “I just knew you pair were the life of the party—everyone else is still sawing logs and here you are, digging up booty.” He stopped a few paces away, grinning under his dripping hat brim. His teeth were spectacular. His eyes were a bit shifty.
“We haven’t dug up anything,” I said. “As you can see, we don’t have a shovel, Mr. Monroe. I don’t suppose you do?”
“Shovel? Me? The closest thing to a shovel you’ll see in my hand is a caviar spoon.”
“Why are you out so early on this dreadful morning?” Berta asked.
“Getting a spot of exercise before I head back to the city. Healthful country walks and all that. That was the entire point of this stay in the country—healthful relaxation. Too bad it all turned to murder and mayhem, because now my nerves are simply sautéed to a crisp and I’ve got the radio program this evening. I’ll tell you, there’s no rest in show business. Maybe I oughta become a dentist.”
“Speaking of show business,” I said, “what did Coral mean last night when she said she’d tell your producer why you dropped Jillie Harris?”
Glenn started patting his jacket pockets. “What has Cor been saying about me this time?”
“She said you were lying about seeing her pass by the study door before Rudy was shot,” Berta said.
“Called me a liar, did she?” Glenn found what he was looking for in his pocket—a bottle of Alkacine—and unscrewed the cap. “That’s a laugh. You know, Cor and I used to be as thick as thieves, but something’s happened to her. She’s gone hard. I’m beginning to wonder if…” He sipped Alkacine.
“What?” I asked.
“It’s nothing.” Glenn’s voice abruptly shifted to a chipper radio-broadcast drawl. “Say, I wasn’t joking last night when I said you two would be marvelous on the program.”
“Us?” Berta said, preening. “On a radio program? Goodness, Mr. Monroe, what a flight of fancy!”
Berta is absolutely dotty for radio programs. If it isn’t Yankees baseball broadcasts or Ed Wynn, it’s jazz orchestras or one of the new drama programs.
“I could do sort of an interview of you two,” Glenn said, “just a couple questions about this gumshoe business of yours—folks will go nuts about a couple of lady gumshoes—and you’d do your two-lady bit, kinda like you did last night with the quick back-and-forth—say, you could even tell that story about the gangsters and the Mickey Finns and the stolen diamonds—!”
“We cannot discuss active cases,” I said, my hairline perspiring under my hat. The only time I’d ever performed in public was at age six in a Sunday school nativity play in Scragg Springs, Indiana. I played the donkey, and it was not a success.
“Thank you for the offer, Mr. Monroe,” Berta said, “and as the head detective of the Discreet Retrieval Agency, I accept.”
I said, “‘Head detective’ isn’t really—”
Berta jabbed me with her elbow.
“Swell,” Glenn said. “Could you get to the WPAF studio this evening by five thirty? The show broadcasts at six. We’re at 195 Broadway, in the AT & T building. Fourth floor. Tell ’em Glenn Monroe’s expecting you.”
Glenn set off toward the house. As he went, he took another swig of Alkacine.
As soon as he was out of earshot, I said, “What about consulting with me before signing us up for publicly broadcasted humiliation? And who made you the head detective?”
“Mrs. Woodby, think of the publicity! It is free advertising for our agency. It would be foolish to squander such an opportunity. Any humiliation will be strictly up to you.”
I sank into myself. Pouting, I suppose you could say, although I felt I deserved a little sulk. At least we’d managed to evade Ralph.
We followed the path out of the trees and emerged on a grassy bluff overlooking the whitecapped ocean. Salty wind gusted up. It was the sort of weather that was exhilarating if one was in love, but absolute purgatory if one was heartbroken.
“I’d kill for a steaming cup of coffee,” I said with a shiver.
“I as well. Come on—there is the town.” A path curved down to silver-shingled fishermen’s cottages strung along a seawall, terminating at a pier and warehouse.
“Whoever was digging those holes could have easily come from town, then,” I said, wiping ocean spray from my forehead. All right, sweat. Nervous sweat about speaking into a microphone on a citywide radio program in approximately eight hours.
We set off down the path. The bottom widened to a sandy road leading behind the row of fishermen’s cottages. Smoke puffed from chimneys, and saggy motorcars and trucks were parked along the road. Fishing nets hung from porch rafters, and what I guessed were crab or lobster pots cluttered others. A smug cat sat in one of the windows watching Cedric.
Two anchored fishing boats bobbed near the pier. At the rear of the warehouse were stacks of crates, and two parked delivery trucks whose sides read CARVINGTON FISH CO. in crisp blue lettering. As we passed the warehouse, a burly white-haired man in a cable-knit sweater emerged from one of the cottages, nodded to us in greeting, and proceeded into the warehouse.
Berta said softly, “We are looking for someone who was wearing fisherman’s clothing in the woods, are we not?”
I nodded, and we went to the half-open warehouse doors.
“Hello?” Berta called, her voice echoing.
“Hello,” a gruff male voice called from the interior.
We went in. The warehouse was lit only from the open door. The man was stacking crates. He turned. He had a brown, weather-beaten complexion, small suspicious eyes, and although he had a Santa Claus belly, he appeared powerful and spry.
“Good morning,” I said. “My name is Mrs. Woodby and this is Mrs. Lundgren. We are private detectives who have been hired to look into Rudy Montgomery’s death.”
“Bad business,
” the man said, and shook first Berta’s hand and then mine. “Woman detectives? What’ll they think of next? Abe.” His hand was very large, and snaggy with calluses. “The police ruled it suicide, didn’t they?” He strode deeper into the warehouse, to a powerboat balanced on blocks, and grabbed a huge canvas tarp.
“Yes,” I said, “but there are some loose ends we’d like to tie up. For instance, there was a woman who called herself Isobel Bradford at the house on the day of Mr. Montgomery’s death, but who left shortly after.”
The man flung the tarp over the boat, covering only a third of it. Wet strands of seaweed clung to the bottom.
“We would like to ask this woman some questions,” I said, “but I’m afraid we can’t find her. Can you tell me if there is a taxi service in the village?”
“No taxi service, but young Nat who works at Flintock’s Groceries will motor folks about for a fee.” The man came back toward us, stopping a pace away. “Nat makes a lot of runs to the train stations in Mystic and New London.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Oh, and on our walk down here from Montgomery Hall, we noticed bunches of freshly dug holes in the forest. Do you know who might have made those?”
“Sure they weren’t dug by animals, now?”
Berta said in a testy voice, “It would be a terrifyingly large badger to have made those holes, and a very mathematical one as well, judging by their circular precision, Mr.—?”
“Murden.”
Berta and I exchanged surprised looks.
“I reckon you’ve met my sister Esther,” Abe said with a chuckle.
“We have,” I said.
“She get up your snout? Don’t be afraid to admit it. Even when Esther was a baby, she was all gloom and doom.”
Berta said, “And you, Mr. Murden, are a fisherman? I noticed the delivery trucks outside.”
“Yup. Cod. Lobsters now and then. Used to be oysters, but they all got farmed out along this coast, sad to say. The whole town depended on those oysters, and they just dwindled away to nothing.” Abe’s eyes flashed with anger.
“But aren’t the fishermen themselves responsible to make sure their stock isn’t depleted?” I asked. I felt impolite asking this, but I was curious to know what was at the bottom of Abe’s anger.
