Swing Town Mysteries Dorie Lennox Box Set

by Lise McClendon

  Agnes Marchand was a pretty woman, maybe ten years younger than her husband— by her looks, not yet thirty. She wore her reddish hair waved, a curl plastered to one cheek in a silly fashion. Her tight green skirt below a matching sweater crept up, revealing shapely legs, which she crossed. The heel of one shoe slipped off and she bobbed it from her toe impatiently, her tight face unhappy.

  “Mrs. Hines sent you over?” the husband prompted.

  “Is this about Wendy?” Agnes asked. Her nasal voice was impatient and sharp. “Because if it is, I don’t know anything about where she is. Julian already asked me if I’d heard from her.”

  Amos sipped the sweet cocktail. “You know Wendy?”

  “You’re a private detective, right? I read about you in the paper.” Marchand grinned like a baboon, so happy was he. “So she’s looking for the runaway wife. Got the gumshoe on the case.”

  “I was surprised as everybody,” Agnes said. “Took off just like that. Not a phone call or a by-your-leave. I don’t think she’ll be checking in here. She doesn’t want to be found, not by that husband of hers.”

  Amos wished an attack of narcolepsy on this husband. Instead, the liquor suddenly caught in his craw. He coughed delicately, then with fervor, sounding, he knew, like a bawling goat. Agnes looked alarmed and went for a glass of water. Marchand walked to the window, as if ignoring the hack would make it go away. A tactic Haddam had tried unsuccessfully for years.

  With water in hand, the moments passed and the cough with them. Agnes resettled edgily on the couch. Marchand remained at the window. A sigh from Haddam. He closed his eyes briefly.

  “If I could speak to Mrs. Marchand in private, sir, it would be most appreciated.” Haddam found his Englishness was suddenly back in force: stiff, formal, and mostly effective.

  “Anything you say to my wife, you say to me.”

  Agnes flinched, then composed herself. She looked at her varnished nails, a vibrant rose that matched the chair, then back at Amos. Her face was placid, a challenge.

  “I don’t know a thing about where Wendy’s gone,” she said. A broken record, this one.

  “Your concern is welcome. But I didn’t come here about Wendy. I’m afraid my mission is more to do with Mr. Barnaby Wake.”

  Agnes took a silent gulp of air. Her husband spun from the window and barked, “What about him?”

  Amos took a breath and felt the hot burn in his lungs. This was no time for an attack. He set the Manhattan down on the precious gilded coffee table. Agnes darted forward and slipped a woven coaster under the glass. In the face of a confrontation about her lover, she is worried about water rings on the furniture.

  “There has been some worry, at the Hines residence, that is,” Amos said flatly, “that Mr. Wake has been taking— what shall we call it? An unusual interest in Miss Hines. Thalia Hines.”

  Agnes sat back on the couch, tucking her hands under her thighs like a schoolgirl. Her blue eyes darted up at her husband and back at Amos, blinking furiously. Was she flirting with him, relieved, or about to lie? One of those.

  “What if he is? What business is that of ours?” the husband growled.

  Agnes cocked her head. “Yes, what business …” She lost her train of thought, or nerve.

  “May I ask if you have heard any talk about Miss Hines and Mr. Wake?”

  Marchand stepped closer, crossing his arms. “We’re not in the business of repeating gossip, Mr. Haddam.”

  Business and more business. What did Julian say this man did for a living? Insurance? Amos rubbed his cheek and looked at each of them. Should he quote them percentages? Just how was he supposed to work on this woman in front of her husband?

  “There has been gossip; I think you should know that.” He looked pointedly at Agnes. The color drained from her face. “And sometimes just the hint of scandal is enough to ruin a person’s reputation. If you know what I mean.”

  “You are a font of information, Haddam. Christ.” Marchand shook his head, walked to a buffet, and poured clear liquid out of a metal shaker, refilling his martini glass.

  “I have, um, I have heard a few things. Little things,” Agnes said, her voice a squeak.

  “So have we,” Amos said. “That’s why we need your help. We were very much hoping, Mrs. Marchand, that you could use your influence, as a member of the Hallelujah Chorus, to talk to Mr. Wake and make him see what a predicament this could be, for him and the choir. You see, we would hate it if the talk got back to Mrs. Wake.”

  “Mrs. Wake?”

  “In Arizona, I hear. For her health.”

  Agnes curled in on herself for a moment, then smiled wanly at her husband. He glowered at her over his martini. “You can do that, can’t you, dear?” he asked coldly.

  “Of course, Eddie.” She gave Amos a twisted smile. “Sure. I can speak to him.”

  “You see,” Amos continued, “he gets most of his backing from society people such as yourselves, business, banks, insurance. The type of business that relies so much on personal integrity and contacts. I expect your company might have given him some donations, Mr. Marchand. And that backing isn’t likely to continue if there’s a scandal involving married people.”

  Eddie Marchand threw back his cocktail in one gulp.

  “I’ll tell him to stay away from Thalia,” Agnes said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Mrs. Hines will be most grateful.”

  Amos made himself scarce. He might have enjoyed that scene, as a fly on the wall, when Eddie confronted Agnes with his suspicions. But he looked like a brute; she was already afraid of him.

  The arms of Barnaby Wake, ladies’ man, crooner, and fast talker, were probably a safe harbor, even if she had to share him with several other ladies. Amos hoped he wouldn’t read about Agnes Marchand in tomorrow’s paper.

  After a dinner in a cafe downtown, Amos tried to talk Gwendolyn into going back to his apartment while he followed Thalia. But she was having none of it. He drove back through the dark streets to the apartment, the feel of the car alien after so many months. Surprising the old beater had even started up. Things were so busy these days, what with the Monarchs business, Mrs. Hines going in several directions, and sweet Thalia’s shenanigans.

  Amos parked the car. “Can you drive, Gwen?”

  “Me? Oh, yes.” She smiled at him in the shadows from the streetlight.

  “All right, then. You’re hired.”

  Gwendolyn laughed. “Hired? As your driver?”

  “Mrs. Hines can afford it. Why not?”

  She laughed again. He did so love the sound of her laugh. “Why bloody not?”

  The call from Mildred, the Hines secretary, came early, just after eight o’clock. Gwendolyn mastered the gearshift after the first intersection, groaning a bit about the size of the car, an old Buick, well made but tanklike. It took a strong pair of arms to take a corner slowly, and Gwendolyn soon learned the art of the quick get-around. Amos got his exercise by hanging on to the door handle and grinning at her exuberant laughter. A year’s worth of repressed happiness was now bubbling out of her uncontrolled, a geyser of glee. It made him forget about his mother mashing tea in a tube station, about his sister sneaking around France with an artist, about bombs and Nazis and Hitler.

  Gwendolyn took a curb at a hop on Twelfth Street, trying to park the Buick, barely avoiding a red Pierce. Amos took a breath. “Well, here we are. One piece, more or less.”

  She yanked on the parking brake and turned off the engine. “I said I could drive; I didn’t say how well.” She laughed. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

  “A few gray hairs, no problem.”

  “Is she in there, then?” Gwendolyn nodded toward the Reno Club on the corner, its marquee bright with the name of an orchestra. The brassy sounds of jazz music amplified as a couple opened the doors and disappeared inside.

  “That’s the plan.” As he got out of the Buick, he had a niggling feeling in the back of his head, a spark of guilt. He should have gone to the Hine
s mansion, followed Thalia from home to wherever she was going. She had assured her mother that she was going to the Reno Club, then to chorus practice. The combination sounded unusual enough to be true. But now he wondered if she really would be inside.

  But there she was. Thalia Hines sat with another woman and a man, both of whom looked like decent citizens, sipping cocktails and listening to a warm-up band with a shapely, out-of-tune singer and a loud drummer. It was only 8:30. The main event wouldn’t start until at least ten o’clock at which time Thalia would be singing hymns with her man.

  The only interesting thing at the Reno Club at that hour was watching Gwen get tipsy. Thalia Hines left, alone, at 9:15 and drove— badly, so Gwendolyn, her reflexes a bit slow, could keep up easily— to the Knights of Columbus Hall. A group of about twenty people, mostly women, gathered on the platform stage and were already singing when Thalia made her entrance. Barnaby Wake stopped the song midway to usher her into place.

  Haddam and his shadow settled into the last row of folding chairs in the old church. He scanned the faces of the chorus members and didn’t find his new friend, Agnes Marchand. Of all the dirty things he’d had to do over the years, informing a woman’s husband of her infidelity ranked low on his list. Was it a rare thing, a woman seeking affection outside the bounds of marriage? He doubted it. He’d seen plenty of men who deserved a good cheat. Those who beat their wives, bullied them like Marchand, scared them to keep them in line. He thought about his sister Beryl, a decent woman, if not strong-minded, living in common with that Frenchie. Where was she? Was she safe? His mother’s letter hadn’t reassured him. Just the opposite. And now, even with drowsy, happy Gwendolyn at his side, he had too much time to think about Beryl.

  The chorus lacked most of its tenors and baritones. Two men tried their damnedest. The sopranos, including Thalia, weren’t bad, but Amos particularly liked the rich alto voices. Hard to sing harmony, to assist rather than shine. Like a marriage, he supposed. One part would always be louder, stronger, but the supporting part— equally important— made it glow.

  Amos took Gwendolyn’s hand. She smiled up at him, sighed as she laid her head on his shoulder. A thought, a possibility, bloomed in his mind. He’d never thought of marriage with anyone but Eugenia. He’d always thought it would be a betrayal of their love. But Eugenia had been gone these twenty years. Surely she wouldn’t object to a good-hearted English girl.

  The music was rather lovely, and Amos felt slightly mesmerized. Then the chorus broke up suddenly, gathering coats and handbags and heading to the door. Ten-thirty. Quite early for Thalia to go home. On the edge of the stage, Wake helped her on with her wool coat. She had dressed tonight in a chic blue suit, with a string of pearls and little dove gray gloves. Her hair was pulled up and she wore a small gray hat with a feather in the back.

  Amos helped Gwendolyn to her feet. The poor girl had dozed a little, relaxed from the cocktails and music. Haddam shook himself. Barnaby Wake and Thalia came down the aisle, her arm through his, defiant, head high. They paused next to Amos and Gwen.

  “All ready, then, for Wendell Willkie?” Amos asked, tipping his hat to Wake.

  The choirmaster squared his shoulders, a hard glint in his eye. For a moment, Amos thought answering a simple question was beneath the man. Then Wake said coldly, “I hope you enjoyed the entertainment.”

  “My mother has no right— no right,” Thalia blurted. She caught herself, biting a lip. “Leave me alone or I’ll call the police. I’m warning you.”

  “You’d rather the boys in blue follow you, then?”

  Her nostrils flared in anger. “I’d rather you— jumped in a lake.”

  Thalia pulled Wake into action and they made for the door. Amos waited until they disappeared, then burst out laughing.

  “Jump in a lake?” Amos choked. “Oh my, I am so tempted.”

  At one o’clock, or a little past, Thalia Hines backed her new roadster out of Barnaby Wake’s drive. Gwen stepped up to the challenge and kept up with her, only hitting three curbs and two muddy flower beds. The telephone pole she brushed really didn’t count, as it sat far too close to the street. She braked the Buick in front of the Hines mansion as Thalia pulled around to the garage hidden behind the house. In a moment, the lights in the front hallway went on.

  “Drive on?”

  “Home, Jeeves,” Amos said, patting her arm. “No hurry, dear.”

  “But I am getting good at these fast corners, aren’t I?”

  “A little more practice and we’ll take you on the racing circuit.”

  She parked, badly, across the street from the apartment building, in the place the Buick had occupied for the last year. Four tire marks and a rectangle of dirt marked the spot. They walked across the street together, Amos watching the way the glow of the streetlight attached itself to her cheeks, her hair, the line of her neck. So long since he’d thought of the future with wonder or curiosity. He wasn’t so old. He wasn’t so sick. He still had a future.

  Halfway up the walk, Gwendolyn stopped suddenly, jumping backward as she gasped. Amos followed her gaze. A man stood in the shadow under the canopy. The light was out. It wasn’t until he pushed off the brick and stepped forward that his face became visible.

  “Haddam. I’ve been looking for you all night.”

  “It’s bloody late. What are you doing here?”

  Irritation was Amos’s first emotion at the sight of the reporter. Then he remembered his manners. “This is Gwendolyn Harris, my friend from England.”

  Harvey Talbot nodded quickly at Gwendolyn, turned back to Haddam. “Haven’t you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  Gwendolyn shivered violently. “Can we go inside. Please?”

  Amos unlocked the door, punched the lights. The overhead fixture was dusty and dim, giving them all sallow complexions. Talbot looked anxious, barely containing himself. He didn’t sit when offered a chair.

  “It’s Saunders, Gibson Saunders. The third baseman.” He paced, arms waving. “They did this press conference— you heard about that?”

  “Quincy said he was planning something.” Amos had found a bottle of ale in the back of the refrigerator and popped it open. Gwen sat on the sofa, a frown on her face as she watched the reporter.

  “He wanted Saunders because he’s well-spoken.” Talbot stopped suddenly. “He’s from the North, from Michigan. He gave this little speech about how the game would go on, that it would show unity between the coloreds and the whites, all that. Togetherness. Nothing wrong with it, except you know and I know that one little speech isn’t going to change people.”

  Gwendolyn crossed her arms. “Change what?”

  “Race feelings,” Amos said. “Then what happened?”

  “The meeting broke up about eight-thirty. Not too many people there, the sports reporters scratching their heads. I went back to the Star to write my story, and about midnight I get a call from the police reporter downtown.”

  Harvey pushed his hat back on his head. He stared at the ceiling, his voice flat. “Saunders was shot. In his bed at home. Nobody saw anything. He lives in a shack, behind a house on Troost. Somebody came down the alley, I guess. His landlady heard the shot and called the police.”

  “Is he dead?” Gwendolyn asked.

  “Yes,” Harvey said, standing in the middle of the floor, hands limp at his sides. “He is dead.”

  Chapter THIRTEEN

  Ballplayer Shot; Blues-Monarchs Game Under Wraps

  BY HARVEY TALBOT

  Negro League ballplayer Gibson Saunders, a third baseman for the Kansas City Monarchs, and a starter for three seasons, was found shot to death last night in his Troost Avenue home. Police say an intruder crept in at approximately 11:00 P.M. and shot Saunders at close range. He was pronounced dead at the scene.

  Earlier that day, Saunders had participated in a press conference in the Monarchs locker room, decrying a series of threats to the team if they played the all-white American Association Blues, who won
the pennant this year. The game was scheduled for Sunday afternoon at 2:00 P.M. Monarchs’ owner J. L. Wilkinson said he will confer with the Blues management about rescheduling the postseason game.

  The Monarchs have received several anonymous letters in the last weeks, threatening harm if the Blues game was played. Management was concerned enough to bring in outside security consultants. The consultants downplayed the serious nature of the threat, claiming it was all “fluff and lather.”

  Earlier in the week, Monarchs’ owner Wilkinson’s home was burglarized. Little of value was taken, but in one blatant message, Satchel Paige’s jersey, kept for when (and if) he returns to the team, was smeared with mud. Someone, it appears, has it in for the Monarchs, who won the Negro Athletic League pennant again this season.

  Are the Monarchs better than the Blues? Are the Blues the team they could be? If they don’t play, it’s all talk. If they do play, can more violence be far away?

  DORIE STALKED INTO THE SUGAR Moon office and slapped the copy of the Kansas City Star on Amos’s desk. He and Gwendolyn were sipping tea from the cups they’d never returned to the cafe around the corner. Steam curled from the spout of a sturdy white teapot on the tray. The morning sun reflected off the building across the street, creating spots of blinding light on the desktop.

  “What the hell is this?” She jabbed at the paper. “He might as well have said you bought the gun that killed him. That shady, scheming, underhanded yellow dog.” She threw the newspaper on his desk. “I’ve half a mind to march down to that scandal sheet and— “

  “Have a seat, ducks. Tea?” Amos stared at her over his teacup.

  Gwendolyn had spilled her tea, startled by the outburst. She dabbed at the dress Dorie had given her, the blue one that didn’t fit.

  “How can you sit there and sip your stupid tea?”

  Amos set down his cup. “Sit down, will you? You’re scaring Gwendolyn. She’s had a bad night.”

  “Not as bad as Gibson Saunders, it seems.”

  He sighed. “Please. Sit.”