by Maia Chance
“Not if we’ve got damned rules and regulations tying our hands.” Abe scratched his neck, which looked a little rashy from his sweater. “That’s all in the past, though. Carvington oysters are ancient history as far as I’m concerned. Now it’s cod, morning, noon, and night. We’re doing all right. Anything else I can help you with?”
“What was your sister’s—Miss Murden’s—relationship with Mr. Montgomery like?” I asked.
Abe’s eyes squinched. “What’re you getting at? Trying to pin that man’s death on Esther, eh?”
“No, no,” Berta said in a placating tone. “We only worry that he did not leave her with sufficiently excellent references in order for her to find a new domestic position.”
“She told me the new master, Theo Wainwright, might keep her on.”
“Oh, good for her,” Berta said. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Murden.” She gave him one of our cards, and we left.
15
Berta, Cedric, and I walked on through the drizzle to Church Street.
“Look, here’s the grocer’s,” I said. “Let’s look for Nat.”
Flintock’s Groceries was cool inside, fragrant with vinegary and yeasty scents. The bald man sitting at the counter peered over the top of his newspaper at us. “Help you?” he said.
“We would like to speak with Nat, please,” Berta said.
“What about?”
“His taxi service. We may require his services in getting to the train station.”
Actually, this was true, so we’d be bopping two birds with one stone.
“Nat!” the man shouted.
We heard footsteps in the back, and a chubby young man in denim overalls emerged. “Yes, Mr. Flintock?” Then he noticed us. “Oh. Hello.”
Berta recited our spiel about being detectives looking into Rudy Montgomery’s death. Nat’s guileless blue eyes widened, but Mr. Flintock rattled his newspaper with scorn.
“Did you happen to take anyone from Montgomery Hall to the train station on Thursday afternoon?” I asked Nat. “Perhaps a somewhat stout woman of middle years, with gray hair?”
“Nope.”
Rats.
“I took her to Carter’s Menswear in Mystic.”
Berta released a small whinny. I leaned forward. “Really?”
“Yep. Around, oh, around four o’clock on Thursday, when all the police cars and ambulances were parked out front. She was as cool as could be, though, not worried one bit by all that business. She rattled off the address for Carter’s—though I already knew where it was, since that’s where I buy my overalls—and I left her there, with her suitcase. Seemed like a funny place for a hoity-toity-looking lady like her to go shopping for her mister, but she paid me double.”
“Good boy,” Mr. Flintock put in. “Always make outsiders pay double.”
“We heard you might be able to drive us to the train station,” I said to Nat.
“Sure thing. What time?”
“Actually,” Berta interrupted, “we do not yet know what time, so if we require a ride, we shall return after we have eaten.”
“Okay,” Nat said.
* * *
“Why the subterfuge?” I asked Berta as we walked across the street to the Red Rooster. “We must get to New York, which means we must have a ride to the train station. Why not have Nat motor us? Is it because he’ll charge us double?”
Berta opened her mouth, but before she could speak, my answer rolled up beside us in a junky Chalmers motorcar whose engine projected a molar-vibrating thugga-thugga-thugga-thugga.
“Morning, ladies,” Ralph said, leaning an elbow out the window. “I’ve got your suitcases here, and as per my agreement with Mrs. Lundgren, I’m giving you two a ride to the city. But first, how about some breakfast?”
I looked agape at Berta. Then, struck utterly speechless with fury at her and at Ralph, I stiffly carried Cedric inside.
On the baked-goods display case at the front of the restaurant sat a pile of doughnuts under a glass dome. I put Cedric down, grabbed a doughnut, and marched over to an empty table. Cedric trailed after me, causing a stir in his Fair Isle sweater.
A few minutes later, Berta and Ralph slid into the chairs across the table from me. The doughnut was long gone. I kept my face buried in my greasy paper menu, which, I regret to say, shook.
Someone—Ralph—lowered the menu with a gentle hand. “Look, kid, I’m sorry it’s gotta be this way. But you and Mrs. Lundgren have your job and I have mine, so why not collaborate?” Under the table, Cedric whined and bounced for Ralph.
I slapped the menu on the table. “I’ve had just about all I can take of you two!” I stabbed a finger at Berta. Her pale blue eyes were round, her lips pursed. “You, lying to me—we’re supposed to be partners! How can I trust you if you set up clandestine arrangements with—with people I can’t bear to be around? Not to mention all that ‘head detective’ hogwash!” I pointed at Ralph. “And you—why won’t you just leave me alone? Don’t give me that line about needing easy money, because this job looks to me like an enormous waste of your time.”
Ralph held my gaze. Presently, I found it necessary to drop my pointing finger onto my lap. Only then did he say, “All right, I’ll be honest. Theo Wainwright called me up about this job, and sure, it’s easy money, but more than that, I’m worried about you. How come you keep taking on these murder investigations, anyway? You’re supposed to be finding lost necklaces and puppies. I mean, isn’t it a retrieval agency you’re running?”
“Why should we leave all the good cases for other detectives?” I said.
“Listen, I’m here to help. And I’m sorry we don’t see eye to eye about all the other, uh—” Ralph scratched his eyebrow. “—the other stuff.”
“What about spying on us?” I demanded. “Is that still on your agenda?”
“Sure.”
I clapped a hand to my forehead.
“Your client Theo is one of our murder suspects,” Berta said to Ralph. “I very much hope you will not disclose any delicate information to him.”
Ralph sighed. “Okay, okay. I’m not one to jigger up my own investigations, but I see what you’re saying. I’ll think twice about what I tell him.”
“Before we motor to the city,” Berta said to Ralph, “we must make a stop at Carter’s Menswear in Mystic. We have a hot lead on a lady con artist.”
Incredibly, this was as good as it was going to get: Berta not apologizing for being sneaky and bossy, and Ralph still planning on baby-minding us.
I unclenched my teeth and waved for the waitress.
I waited until I had drunk two cups of coffee and the waitress was sliding pancakes and sausages in front of me to ask her, “Excuse me, but do you know why someone would secretly dig holes on the Montgomery estate?”
She tipped her blond head. “Well, sure! Probably because of the treasure.”
My fork clattered on my plate. Berta choked on coffee. Ralph leaned back in his chair.
“Treasure?” I said. “What is it? Who buried it—and when?”
“Well, no one knows when it was buried. Nobody really knows what it is, either, except that it’s some kind of money. Here in Carvington, everyone has always known about the treasure. Why, Miss Murden just made mention of it the other day at the women’s chorale rehearsal.”
Coffee threatened to shoot out of my nose. Miss Murden singing in a women’s chorale? I supposed she did resemble a church bell in those long black dresses.
“What did Miss Murden say about the treasure?” Berta asked.
“Oh, that some of the guests up there this week were snooping around, looking for it. Course, she’s not hurting for money.”
“On her housekeeper’s salary?” I thought of Miss Murden’s costly shoes.
“I guess not, because only a few weeks back, she started driving a brand-spanking-new Cole Touring Car around. Those things cost a mint! I think she was blackmailing Mr. Montgomery is what I think, just like in that radio play they aired l
ast week about the Spanish prince who met the American heiress in the Scottish castle.”
“Did anyone here in town ever suspect that Theo Wainwright was Mr. Montgomery’s heir?” I asked. This waitress was a gold mine of gossip.
“Oh no.” She fidgeted with her apron ties. “Never an inkling. His mother—she died of pneumonia a few years back—she always led us to believe Theo’s dad died in the Great War. Kept to herself, mostly, anyway, and Theo went away to school in Massachusetts starting when he was only five or six. No wonder he turned out so rude.”
“About the treasure,” I said, “no one knows anything about what sort of money it is?”
“No. That’s what makes it so thrilling! Some say it’s Indian treasure from before the colonists arrived, and some say it’s something the colonists buried, maybe to hide from the Indians or maybe to hide from the Redcoats during the revolution. Or maybe it’s something left by Captain Hook—they say he stopped here, you know—and others say it’s treasure from the South Seas brought over by Captain Montgomery on his whaling ship—”
“Judith!” an aproned man behind the lunch counter barked. “Customers!”
“Sorry,” Judith whispered, and scurried away.
“Now we’ve got one more elusive thing to investigate,” I said to Berta, glugging maple syrup on my pancakes. For lack of any alternative, I was ignoring Ralph. “I don’t feel like we’re making much headway in this case. It seems like everyone is lying, and the stolen diamonds are about the world’s worst monkey wrench.” I shot Ralph a dirty look. “Or, one of the world’s worst monkey wrenches.”
* * *
Carter’s Menswear stood on Mystic’s Main Street, which was a stretch of tight-packed storefronts—Rexall Drugs, a variety store, laundries, bakeries, a grocer’s—with a clattering trolley and muddy motorcars traveling its length. Carter’s grimy front windows displayed overalls, boots, and stacks of plaid wool shirts, and a large sign read EVERYTHING UNION MADE.
Here went nothing. Our one slim thread of a lead for tracking down the lady con artist and Isobel Bradford impostor.
Ralph waited in his motorcar with Cedric while Berta and I went inside.
Stacks of folded clothing towered on tables and shelves, and the air smelled bitterly of indigo dye and mothballs. We approached the counter, where a thickset shop lady in chintz, wire glasses, and a crimped bob was studying us grimly.
“May I help you?” she asked in a flat voice.
“Yes, actually,” I said. “We’re attempting to track down an acquaintance of ours who was last seen being dropped off here at your shop on Thursday afternoon. Were you working then?”
“Yes. This is my store. Well, mine and my husband’s, but he takes care of the books in back since I’m the one who’s good with folks.” She stared at us unblinkingly.
“Right,” I said. I described the Isobel Bradford impostor, and before I had even finished, the shop lady was nodding.
“I remember her. Dressed to the nines in a fur coat and pearls.”
My heart sped. “Did she purchase anything?”
“A fisherman’s rain slicker and hat and a pair of men’s woolen trousers. Said something about a costume party in New York City.”
Holy moley. “Thanks ever so much,” I said.
Berta and I went back outside and climbed into Ralph’s Chalmers, Berta in front and me in back. Ralph was slouched low in the driver’s seat and writing in a notebook.
“I’d bet a million bucks it was that lady con artist last night digging those holes!” I said to Berta. “She left Montgomery Hall, went straight to this menswear shop to purchase a disguise, and, well, she must be hiding out somewhere nearby in order to dig for treasure in the woods at night.”
“Sounds far-fetched,” Ralph said, putting his notebook away.
“First of all,” I said to him, “I know precisely what you’re recording in that little notebook of yours.”
He gave his fedora brim a tug.
“And second of all,” I continued, “this is our investigation, and we will judge whether or not something sounds far-fetched.” I turned to Berta. “I want to go straight back to Carvington and track down our Isobel Bradford impostor. Now that we know she’s probably digging for that treasure, well, she may have a splendid motive for murdering Rudy.”
“I do agree that this con artist sounds terribly suspicious,” Berta said, “but it is important that we go to the city today. It will be a boon to our agency to advertise on The Filmore Vacuette Hour.”
“On the what?” Ralph said.
“Mind your own beeswax,” I said.
We also had plans to visit Lem Fitzpatrick at the Moody Elephant that evening, although I wasn’t about to mention it in front of Ralph. I sighed, gathered Cedric onto my lap, and settled in for the long drive.
If you ever have endured three hours in a motorcar driven with masculine competence by the fellow who has broken your heart—forced to watch his large rugged hands on the steering wheel, the stubbly contour of his jaw, forced to endure his half smile each time he catches you looking—then you know what I went through. In the end, I managed to soothe myself by making a mental tally of Ralph versus Eustace, Lord Sudley. According to my arithmetic, Eustace was a sparkling diamond to Ralph Oliver’s five-and-dime glass.
Once we reached Manhattan, the first stop was to rescue the Duesy from the elevator parking garage near Grand Central Terminal. After that, Berta and I would have just enough time to motor to our apartment and wash, change, and look over our mail before heading to—gulp—the radio station.
“I guess this is good-bye,” I said to Ralph as I unpeeled myself from his backseat with Cedric in my arms.
“Sure,” he said with a wink. “See you round.”
I grabbed my suitcase and slammed the door. He had every intention of following us. Of course he did.
Berta and I had to wait in a sort of open-air garage area while the attendant set the machinery in motion to bring the Duesy down from its perch. Ralph sat in his motorcar across the street, reading a newspaper. It was enough to make one scream.
When Berta, Cedric, and I had piled into the Duesy and were rumbling out of the garage, Ralph set aside his newspaper and angled his motorcar into the traffic. Lucky for me, a slow-moving bus blocked his path and his view of us. Instead of driving down the street so he could follow us all the way home, I nipped into the first alleyway.
“Heavens to Betsy! What are you doing?” Berta cried, embracing the dashboard.
“Come on, Berta. We can’t have him slinking after us. Who knows what he’ll tell Theo? Besides, lady to lady, don’t you care that he’s broken my heart?”
“He told me that he loves you.”
I dinged a garbage can, knocking it over. “Love? Hah! If he loved me, he wouldn’t refuse to try.”
“Try what?”
“I don’t know. Try to forget the pain of his past. Try to change his way of thinking. Try to adapt. Shouldn’t he do that for me?” I reached the end of the alley and veered left, narrowly missing a Model T. Its horn beeped.
“You must adapt as well. And you must be patient with Mr. Oliver. He is a man who has seen terrible things. When I heard of the horrors of the Great War, I began to understand the haunted looks in the eyes of all these poor young men.”
“What am I supposed to do? Twiddle my thumbs till I’m old and gray just because he’s a chicken? Do you know what he told me? That there isn’t a chance in hell that he’d even think of getting married!”
“Oh dear. Things are worse than I feared.”
There was nothing left to say. I gassed it toward home.
Amid the snowdrift of mail waiting for us on our foyer floor was a telegram from Paris. From Mother.
CHECKING ON PROGRESS OF CATERER SELECTION. LILLIAN FEARS YOU ARE BUNGLING JOB. APPRISE AT ONCE. WE ARE AT RITZ PARIS.
Somehow I’d forgotten all about selecting a caterer for my sister’s wedding. I’d choose Delguzzo’s. I mean, they were
all more or less alike, weren’t they? All that remained, then, was to stop by and pay the deposit with a blank check my father had signed for me, weeks ago, for the purpose.
16
WPAF was housed in the towering granite American Telephone and Telegraph building at 195 Broadway. Berta and I rode the elevator to the fourth floor, and stepped into a carpeted corridor in which men and women dashed about.
“Berta,” I said, “that radio program in which Jillie Harris, Glenn Monroe’s former lady friend, stars—”
“The High-Jinx Club.”
“That’s the one—is it produced in this station?”
“Yes. But why?”
“You’ll see.”
We located the reception room, as Glenn had instructed, and no sooner had we entered than a woman with a clipboard approached us.
“You must be from the Discreet Retrieval Agency,” she said.
Berta and I nodded.
“You’re almost too late, you know.” She eyed Cedric, who was panting in my large handbag. “What about the pooch?”
“Oh, he might wish to say a few words,” I said. “You don’t suppose you could give me Jillie Harris’s telephone number, do you?”
Suspicion clouded the secretary’s face.
I added quickly, “Jillie and I are great friends, and she was at a party at my family’s Park Avenue place, you see, and she said she’d give me the name of her hairdresser, but she forgot.”
The secretary thawed. With certain people, the words Park Avenue work like sunbeams on cream cheese. She ruffled through her clipboard and then read aloud, “KL5-1711.”
“Thanks!” I beamed, committing the telephone number to memory.
The secretary stashed our coats and hats, and led us into what she called the main studio. Chairs were arranged on the nearer side of the room, occupied by a few people. The other half of the room was taken up by a grand piano, a felt-covered table holding several unidentifiable items, and a cluster of people looking over papers—scripts, I guessed—and murmuring amongst themselves. At the center of it all stood a microphone on a brass stand. A cord snaked away from the microphone to a large wooden box on wheels. I hadn’t the foggiest how radio transmission worked, so this wheeled box may as well have been Ali Baba’s cave.
