Swing Town Mysteries Dorie Lennox Box Set

by Lise McClendon

“Gwendolyn? Can you hear me?”

  Screeches came in reply. She opened the closet door again.

  Bending down, she pushed aside a pile of clothes on the floor. There, squeezed into a corner, huddled Gwendolyn Harris, her eyes shut tight, hands over both ears. She opened her mouth and sucked in a breath. Dorie put a hand over her mouth. Gwendolyn screamed anyway, harder.

  “Gwendolyn, stop. It’s me, Dorie.” She had to shout. The neighbor pounded on his floor. “Gwendolyn! Please!”

  The woman’s eyes flew open and she pulled Dorie’s hand away from her mouth. “Oh, Miss Lennox, the bombs are coming! Can you hear them? They come so often now, rat-a-tat-tat. I can hear the percussion, the echoes. My ears ring and I have to hide in here to get away and the walls come so close. They were moving in on me, suffocating me. I can’t breathe unless I suck in the air. And every time I sucked in air, the bombs come again!”

  Gwendolyn put her hands around the back of Dorie’s neck, pulling her into the coat pile. “Gwen, wait. There’re no bombs. Please, Gwen, let go.”

  Suddenly, the hands left Dorie’s neck and she fell back onto the floor outside the closet. Gwendolyn was on her hands and knees, peering wild-eyed at the bedroom ceiling, at the door, at the window. “Can’t— breathe— have to— can’t breathe!”

  She sprang to her feet, then leapt like a gazelle out the door and into the night.

  Chapter SEVEN

  ENGLISH PANCAKE, ENGLISH IN THE loony bin, English striptease— these were the scenarios that tripped though Dorie’s head as she picked herself up off the floor. Amos’s face, his happy laugh, his arm around the girl at the diner— how would she face him if the woman hurt herself?

  She ran out into the dark. In the middle of the dry front lawn, Gwendolyn knelt as if to pray. She raised her thin face to the sky, then stretched her arms upward. Her rabbity chest jumped in quick breaths. On her face, a goofy smile stretched the pale skin and she whispered, “Thank you. Thank you, clear and free Yank sky.”

  A window opened in the upstairs apartment. A burly fellow in an undershirt stuck his head out. A stogie stuck out the corner of his mouth.

  “Is she finished? Can we get some ever-lovin’ rest?”

  Dorie just folded her arms. Gwendolyn’s eyes were shut now, her nostrils drinking in the cool night air. Her color was better, pinked by the exercise, but she kept her arms raised so long that they must have ached. The man shut the window after a few more curses. A car sailed by, the driver giving the supplicant a double take.

  “Gwendolyn?”

  The woman swayed on her knees but didn’t reply. Her dress, what was left of it, was rent with jagged tears. A white slip peeked through. Her shoes were gone. Toes poked through holes in her stockings. Her bare arms pointed to the sky, reaching for something out there— a star, a cloud, a certain peace.

  Dorie pushed one of Gwendolyn’s arms down to her side. Gwendolyn didn’t resist, and she let her other arm be lowered. But her eyes stayed shut, a look on her face that bordered on batty. Dorie frowned at her. Get up and go to bed, she thought.

  “Gwen? Gwennie?”

  A smile spread across the woman’s face. Her eyes stayed shut. “Mama?”

  “Come on, Gwennie.” She pulled the woman to her feet, hoping the spell would last a few minutes. “It’s all over. Let’s go inside.”

  Gwendolyn’s eyes flew open. “Inside? You’re not Mama!”

  “It’s Dorie, Gwen.”

  She relaxed a little. “Yes. Dorie.” A ragged breath shook her and she shivered violently. “I can’t go inside.” She hung her head. “I just can’t.”

  Dorie looked down the street. Everyone was sleeping. The light had gone out in the upstairs apartment. Amos’s door stood open, spilling yellow light onto the sidewalk.

  “Try to relax.” She patted the woman’s shoulder. Gwendolyn noticed her torn dress, running her hands over it and moaning. Her head rolled on her neck like it might snap off.

  “My dress, my dress. Dear Lord, what am I to wear? My dress!”

  Dorie took her hands. “Gwen, look at me. I have a dress you can wear. You can have it. It’ll be just your size.” She bent to peer into the woman’s downcast eyes. “All right?”

  Gwendolyn looked up and nodded.

  “What if we go over to my room and you try it on right now.”

  Gwendolyn allowed herself to be put into the Packard. Dorie ran back to close the apartment door before driving carefully, windows down, back to Charlotte Street. She parked the Packard under a streetlight on the corner and pushed the woman along the sidewalk. As they turned to go up the steps, Gwendolyn balked.

  “It’s jake, Gwennie. Really.” Dorie put her hand on the woman’s back. A movement in the still darkness of the street made her turn. In a parked sedan, a man with a fedora shadowing his face sat watching them. Gwendolyn grabbed her arm.

  “Who is Jake? Is that Jake in that car?”

  “Jake means ‘okay.’ It means you’ll be safe here.”

  “You’ll stay? Please, Dorie,” she whispered, her fingers a vise like grip. “Don’t leave me.”

  “Shush now.”

  Dorie led her up the steps. She sounded like the mother here, though the woman was fifteen years older. Strange, like with Tillie, comforting a frightened child. As she unlocked the front door and held it open for the Englishwoman, she looked back at the sedan. The man had disappeared. Hiding? Or gone to see Joe about a bookie?

  “Wait here.” She patted Gwendolyn’s arm. “I won’t be long. Stay under the light.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just wait here.”

  Dorie tiptoed back down the steps, nodding back to the woman. Gwendolyn stood gripping the edge of the screen door. Dorie held up one finger, then turned back to the street.

  At the corner, a single streetlight burned by the awning of Steiner’s grocery. The people who lived on the street, the ones without real homes, had found somewhere warm tonight. Joe’s Garage was dark, but upstairs, where he lived, a light burned in a window. The automobile where the man had been sitting was parked in a dark area between Joe’s place and the corner, in front of a run-down duplex. She crossed the street, avoiding the porch light on the place. She felt her pocket automatically. Empty.

  A movement in the street, near the car, made her jump back into the shadows of bushes by the duplex. Someone getting into the car. A figure outlined against the far streetlight, a hat pulled low, narrow shoulders. The car door was open but he— she?— wasn’t getting in. No, the head of the man in the car appeared. Words exchanged. The door closed and the figure backed away as the car engine roared and sent the automobile screeching out into the street. When she looked back, the person— the rouster— was almost gone, disappearing behind the other cars. A glint of gunmetal? In a dark-skinned hand? Was it someone from the neighborhood? Whoever it was, he was gone.

  Upstairs, in her third-floor room, Dorie opened both windows wide so Gwendolyn could breathe the night air. The guest put her head out the back window, inhaling the fragrant Kansas City stink of smoke and factories and beef offal. Heights were no problem, it seemed. One phobia at a time.

  Dorie found an old dress, a blue shirtwaist, well-worn from dancing and other business. It didn’t fit Gwendolyn; the poor woman was mostly bones. But it made her happy to see the torn one thrown out the back window into the weedy yard, where nobody would disturb it for a coon’s age.

  Gwendolyn lay down on the bed. She frowned then said seriously, “I never liked that dress. My auntie picked it out for me. Said it was a good traveling dress. Wouldn’t show the dirt.”

  “It’s gone now.”

  “Good riddance.” Gwendolyn closed her eyes, curled like a spoon. “Thank you, Dorie. For the dress.” Her voice floated, sweet and poignant, Dorie was not as good and kind as the tender voice suggested.

  “Who was that on the street?” Gwendolyn asked, sleep in her voice.

  “Nobody.” Dorie pulled the blanket up over her t
hin frame and tucked it under her chin. “Get some rest now.”

  ~~

  Tall and white-haired, in his rumpled evening clothes, Mr. Wilkinson stood with hands on his hips and glared at the mess in his study. He’d been examining the piles of papers and books, records and baseball souvenirs, for more than an hour.

  “I don’t understand it,” he said, rubbing his chin.

  The Monarchs’ manager, Quincy Gilmore, stood next to him. “Nothing’s missing?”

  “Not a damn thing. Not even my World Series baseballs.”

  Amos Haddam walked in from the kitchen, followed by a uniformed policeman. They waited for a moment to get Wilkinson’s attention. “We found this in the garbage can outside.”

  The cop held up a baseball shirt, white wool with black stripes. Across the back it read PAIGE. The men stared at it, where the mud had been rubbed into it and the buttons torn off.

  Amos frowned. “I don’t like this.”

  “None of us do,” Gilmore said.

  “It’s just an extra uniform I keep for when Satchel comes back. He always comes back.” Wilkinson had a confused, stricken look on his face.

  “It’s a message, Mr. Wilkinson,” Gilmore said. He’d rousted Amos out of bed hours before, but he still had the look of a man who often met four o’clock in the morning looking fine.

  “To keep my doors locked?” Wilkinson’s dry laugh was painful.

  “Your window was broken, sir,” the policeman reminded him.

  “Put that away now, kid,” Amos said. “We get the picture.”

  The young patrolman cut Haddam a glance but did as he was told. Amos walked into the study and began straightening piles of papers on the desk. Gilmore led Wilkinson into the kitchen by the elbow. Time to clean up and get out. Amos worked awhile in the study, putting some order back to the room, drawers back in their tracks, footstools and chairs and lamps upright. He turned off the light and shut the door, stepping back into the hallway. Gilmore had the Monarchs owner seated, drinking a whiskey at the kitchen table. Amos nodded to the manager and let himself out the front door.

  The night air was bracing. The dry leaves from the oak tree crunched under his shoes as he walked toward the car, hands deep in his pockets. He felt dry himself, like he might blow away. He’d seen plenty of hate as a revenuer. In the hills, in the Smokies, around the South, watching his own back. He’d seen this feeling, heard it around Kansas City. It wasn’t new. But it sat in his mouth, sour and bitter, like a bad meal that revisited your guts, reminding you over and over of cruelty and ignorance.

  A car door slammed on the street and someone called his name.

  He stopped short, pulled his head up. The newsman was there, standing in the street. He was grinning. It was much too late for grinning.

  “Still here, I see.”

  Harvey Talbot stuck out his hand and made Amos shake. “Missed the deadline. But I called in a little item. Burglary and malicious mischief at Monarchs owner’s. Like that.”

  “That covers it.” Amos turned and kept walking.

  “Does it?” Talbot jumped in front of him. “I mean, isn’t there something else going on here? Is this some kind of anti-Negro message, do you think?”

  “Couldn’t tell you.”

  “But you saw it, the mess in there. I heard nothing was missing, just scattered and all. Is that right?”

  “You need to talk to the coppers, boy.”

  “But why are you here? That’s what I don’t understand.” Talbot kept going, walking backward, talking fast. “I figure you knew something about it, that Gilmore or Wilkinson brought you for something. Not just a burglary. The cops can handle that. So why are you here? That’s what I was thinking.”

  “You think too much.” Amos was tired and the reporter’s voice was like a chattering squirrel.

  They were standing in the middle of the street. Amos realized he didn’t have a car. Quincy had brought him. He turned suddenly, and Talbot stepped on his foot.

  “Oh, sorry— “

  “You can take me home, lad. How about that?”

  The leafy streets where Wilkinson lived were close to the chorus director’s house, near the blunderbuss palaces that shouted money. The city had such extremes, the very rich and the very poor— mansions, servants, and goose-down, and then those who barely got through a cold winter on a curb with a threadbare blanket. It wasn’t strange, this hatred. If you were comfortable, did you hate? If you were satisfied, were you more charitable? He wondered. Maybe not. Were the Nazis comfortable? They certainly weren’t charitable. It was a hard world, full of desperation and grasping.

  “Here?” Talbot asked, nodding at the apartment building. It was dark, not even a porch light.

  “That’s it. Home sweet cave.”

  As he turned off the car, Talbot asked his question. “It was a race thing, wasn’t it? Somebody who doesn’t want the Monarchs playing ball? They’re too good, are they?”

  “They’re good.” Amos put his hand on the door handle, ready to pull it. “Don’t write it, boy. It’ll stir up feeling. Don’t give them that courtesy. They don’t deserve it.”

  Talbot peered through the gloom. “So I’m right.”

  “There are more important things than being right.”

  Harvey’s jaw clenched and he looked down, fingering the large steering wheel of the Chrysler. “You’re probably right. But I’m a newsman, Mr. Haddam. What I think doesn’t matter.”

  “Then what does that make you?” Amos got out of the car. “Thank you for the ride, Mr. Talbot.” He shut the door and walked around through the flare of the headlights. For a moment, he thought the newsman would call out, tell him to go sit on a stick, or at least ask about Lennox. It was a rare man who didn’t want the last word. Amos stepped up over the curb, negotiated the sidewalk toward his front door.

  Behind him, the Chrysler revved to life again and roared away.

  Inside the apartment, Amos looked for Gwendolyn and let out a sigh of relief at her absence. The woman barely slept, and when she did, she had nightmares. He listened to the quiet, feeling aches in his back and neck. Then his eyes fixed on the pile of mail he’d brought in but abandoned.

  Sifting through the bills and newspapers, he found the envelope. It was thin, stiff paper, scorched brown on two corners.

  Someone had traced over his faded name and address, but he recognized his mother’s schoolteacher handwriting. His heart skipped. He walked stiffly to the sofa and sat down. Outside, the birds had begun chirping. Light was creeping into the gray sky. He smelled the envelope. It had an odd odor, like ash. The postmark read August 20, weeks before Gwendolyn had gotten on the boat. He relaxed a little and tore open the flab with his thumbnail. There was only one page.

  Son,

  A short note to let you know things are fine here. The house is quite safe, and although I’ve taken the precaution of packing up all my china and silver and sending it to your cousin Luella’s, I’m determined to stay right here. Nothing can hurt this solid old thing. So not to worry about your old mum.

  I’ve heard from your sister at last. She hasn’t seen any fighting, but the Germans have occupied the area. She says she may be going to the south. I don’t know how she’ll manage that unless she’s joined the Resistance. Frankly, a bit of a stretch for our Beryl. She talks about going with her friend Jean-Luc, a painter. I do hope she knows what she’s doing. The children are safe, she says, with their father. I am glad of that.

  All for now. Ta-ta, love.

  Mum.

  Chapter EIGHT

  DORIE PULLED THE HEAVY DOOR closed behind her, the iron hinges creaking. She felt a wave of relief, then guilt, at passing off Gwendolyn to Amos. He looked so tired, so drawn, yet he’d called this meeting with Eveline Hines. Or rather, Eveline had called it through Amos, unhappy as she was with the police escort for Thalia.

  “I told her over and over again, Thalia honey, you have to let the men stay with you,’ ” Eveline said. “But she won’t
do it. They have uniforms, she says. It takes all the fun out of it, she says.”

  Dorie exchanged a glance with Amos that said taking away Thalia’s fun wasn’t a bad thing. In the silence, Gwendolyn piped up. “I’ve always been a bit afraid of bobbies at home. They carry the largest sticks. So serious. And their chin straps!”

  Eveline arched an eyebrow. Dorie found an excuse to slip away. Mrs. Hines didn’t look well. She looked thinner, paler, more tired. Her mind was still alert. That was something. In the dank, shadowy hallway, Dorie said a quick prayer for Eveline Hines as she walked the uneven floor. “And Lord, don’t forget Thalia honey,” she muttered as she reached the front foyer.

  “Is she a decoy?”

  Dorie almost bumped into the huge vase of blood-red gladiolas on the round table. There, in the same hallway as before, stood Julian Hines. He wore tennis shorts and a white polo shirt.

  He stared at her from behind his glasses. “Because she looks like Wendy from a distance, but she’s much too old. She wouldn’t fool anyone up close.” He stepped over to the table and looked cagily through the sprays of gaudy orange and yellow flowers. “I’d get someone younger.”

  “Mr. Hines,” she said, recovering herself. “How are you this morning?”

  “Fine.”

  She stared at him. “What is it you’re talking about?”

  “The woman you brought in.”

  “Gwendolyn?”

  “When is the meet? Tonight?”

  She moved around the edge of the table and grabbed his wrist. He smiled lewdly, enjoying the contact. “Stop, sir. Gwendolyn is not a decoy. And who is Wendy?”

  “My wife.” He pulled his arm away and stepped back. “You are the private detective. My stepmother told me.”

  “That’s right. What does that have to do with your wife?”

  “She’s gone. Missing for almost a month. I thought— ” He frowned, looking down the dark hallway to the sickroom. “She’s not looking for Wendy?”

  “She may be. I’m not.” She suddenly felt sorry for the man, confused and obviously cut off from his own family. “What happened to your wife?”