Swing Town Mysteries Dorie Lennox Box Set

by Lise McClendon

  She stared at him, her mouth agape. Who had given him this information— Amos ?

  The judge was sizing up Louie anew. “I remember this now. She jabbed you with a knife, didn’t she?” His gaze turned to Dorie. She shrank under the discerning stare. “And now you’re representing her in court.” He sounded mystified. That made two of them.

  “We’re requesting— “

  “Are you healed, Mr. Weston?”

  Louie, to his credit, tried to stay off that topic. “Mostly, Your Honor. Thank you for your concern. We request that Miss Lennox be remanded to my— “

  “No!” Dorie blurted, then clamped a hand on her mouth.

  The judge cocked an eyebrow. “You wish to remain as a guest of the county, Miss Lennox?”

  Louie lowered his head and hissed at her, “You want out or not?”

  Dorie ignored him.

  “Your Honor, I have made every parole meeting. I’d like to be released on my own. I promise I’ll show up for the trial. I have always shown up; you can ask Wilma Vunnell. I live right here. Near here.”

  Louie turned to the judge. “Your Honor, we request that she be released into my custody and supervision. I will make sure she completes her probation requirements and appears in court at the appropriate time.”

  Dorie stared at the judge, her temper flaring. She tried to calm herself as her fingernails dug into her elbows. A few more minutes of this insanity. Just get out. She told herself to agree with Louie, with the judge, just to get sprung. She dropped her hands, but they were shaking so badly that she clasped them together again.

  Just get out. That was all that counted. She bit down on her molars to keep from talking. Louie’s smell, aftershave mixed with bourbon, drifted over her. She felt queasy again.

  “Do you have any prior convictions, Miss Lennox?”

  “No, sir,” Louie said quickly. “Not as an adult.”

  The judge grimaced at the lawyer. “Mr. Weston. Why would you want that sort of responsibility for a woman who sliced you in the— liver, was it? If I were you, I’d want to be as far away from her as possible.”

  Dorie stared at Louie. Good question.

  Louie laughed under his breath as he looked at his fingernails. “It’s complicated, Your Honor. I feel a responsibility toward her, to get her rehabilitated and all. She’s not a bad person; she just did this one thing. And I do think someone planted that gun in her car, sir.”

  “That we can discuss at trial. All right, Miss Lennox, you are released without bond into the custody of Mr. Weston and ordered to appear in court on Wednesday, November sixth, for parole violation.”

  He banged his gavel and waved them off as the bailiff called the next defendant.

  She turned away from Louie Weston.

  She was out. Free.

  At the back of the courtroom, a woman rose to leave. Her blue hat was pulled low over her face, like before; her fitted red jacket pulled tightly across her hips as she turned her back to the court. Dorie froze, staring.

  “Arlette!”

  The judge banged his gavel again and called for quiet. By the time she looked at the judge, apologizing, then back, the woman had gone through the doors. Dorie ran down the aisle, Weston on her heels.

  The hallway was dimly lighted by yellow glass globes hanging over dark marble floors. She skidded to a stop and looked one way, then the other. Where was she? How had she disappeared? And why?

  “Did you see a Negro woman go by here— wearing a hat?” she asked, tugging on the sleeve of a woman standing by the door. The woman shook her head. Dorie ran to the stairwell and looked down. No one there. Arlette was gone. Again.

  “Here she is.”

  She spun on her heel, hope coming back. Louie knew Arlette; he would find her.

  Louie stood with his hands on his hips and a deep frown on his face. Next to him stood Harvey Talbot. Of all the bastards she’d seen this morning …

  Louie smirked at her groan. “You didn’t really think I was going to take you under my wing, did you? And risk life, limb, and liver?” He turned to Talbot. “She’s all yours. Make sure she gets back for the trial.” He wiped his hands down the front of his blazer as if wiping off the last of her, then skipped down the stairs. Always the schoolboy.

  She turned to Harvey, her mind doing tricks to set the pieces of the morning’s events into place. Talbot and Weston— working together? For what? It didn’t make sense in her rattled brain. Then she knew what it was: Harvey had somehow gotten Louie to come down and defend her.

  But where was Arlette? Her mind strained toward the fleeting image, wanting to give chase. Dorie blinked a few times, frowned at her hands. What could she say to Talbot? The shame of the moment, of him seeing her in court, in trouble again. She couldn’t think of anything to say. She turned to walk away, down to the end of the hallway. What was down there? Who cared? It was away from Talbot’s stare.

  Her heels tapped on the marble. She was out of jail. She didn’t care who had sprung her. It could have been the devil himself, or Santa Claus; she’d still be out.

  She wasn’t going to be grateful to Harvey Talbot; he just wanted a story out of it. She could see the headline now: BLADE GIRL NABBED FOR GAT. He’d like that. She kept walking, her indignation giving her strength. She reached the end of the hallway and tried to open a door. It was locked. She tried another. Locked. No more doors.

  She leaned her forehead against the wall and closed her eyes. Why did everything have to be so difficult? Where had Arlette gone? Why wouldn’t she stay and talk? Was she in trouble? Dorie bit her lip and tried to breathe normally. Maybe it wasn’t Arlette. Maybe she was seeing things, dreaming things. She turned. Talbot stood where she’d left him, by the stairwell.

  “What do you want?” Dorie stood her ground, not close, but not so far she had to shout.

  He looked at her sheepishly. There was no other way to describe it. He twisted his neck, looked at his shoes. “Are you hungry?” he asked quietly.

  “What?”

  “Want to get something to eat? I’ll buy.”

  “What else are you buying?” She crossed her arms. “I’m not one of your stories.”

  He looked up at her. He had been so cold that day at the gym, so what was this? It looked like a plea of some kind, an apology in his eyes— but for what? What had he done that he needed to apologize? It was she who had broken off with him in May. All that ugliness, humiliation, degrading— and more of the same today.

  “I was thinking about the Top Hat for eggs and bacon,” he said. “Just breakfast, Dorie. That’s all.”

  The grease did its magic.

  Harvey knew her all too well. She ate four fried eggs and six strips of bacon. Nobody counted toast. He ate something, too, but she didn’t pay attention. When the waitress brought more coffee, she pushed back her plate and stared at him.

  Talbot didn’t look well. He had dark circles under his eyes. His dark hair needed a trim. His clothes had that Haddam look— slept in. He wore an old blue cardigan that looked like something of his father’s, and his shirt collar was dirty. With a full meal in her belly, she felt a little kinder toward him. He hadn’t asked her a single question.

  “Thank you. For getting Weston down here. That can’t have been easy on a Saturday.”

  He shrugged.

  “Amos said last night that none of them would come,” she said. “How did you do it?”

  “Blackmail,” he said flatly.

  “Ah.”

  Dorie watched the street outside the Top Hat get busier with shoppers and campaigners. A group of girls came by in perky patriotic uniforms, handing out buttons for Willkie. Today was the rally at Union Station. And Mrs. Hines would receive her Republicans, as well. She felt like she’d been in Oz and suddenly was back in Kansas and no one had missed her.

  Except Talbot.

  She frowned at him. “Why did you do this, Talbot?” He stared at her, mute. She lowered her voice, leaning in. “After the last time, when I st
abbed him— “

  She gulped her words. Did I really say that— “when I stabbed him”? But what else could she say? She had stabbed a man. Talbot knew what she was.

  She took a breath, determined to continue. “I was too embarrassed. Too ashamed to talk to you, to talk to anybody about it. I’m still … humiliated by the whole thing. I just couldn’t explain it away. I couldn’t tell you about it.”

  He swallowed. “And now?”

  “I still can’t.”

  She felt the heat rise into her cheeks. Oh hell. She took a deep breath and tried to will away the blush. “Look, I—” She closed her eyes for a second, trying to figure out what the hell she was feeling. “Talbot, I’m not the one for you. I have a bad temper and—”

  He leaned forward suddenly, his voice hissing. “Don’t tell me what I should feel. Don’t do that.” He stared at her, eyes blazing. “You don’t know me that well.”

  She reached out suddenly, touched his cheek. Stubbly and dark, it was rough and warm to the touch. He grabbed her wrist, color rising to his face. A spoon and fork clattered to the floor. Dorie felt her pulse against his fingers. Her breath was hot and short. Talbot blinked and let her hand go.

  She thought about his words. Didn’t she know him well? A spot of hurt from the words filled her. Did he want her to know him? And did she dare let him— or anyone— know her?

  A shiver went up her spine. She slid out of the booth and brushed crumbs from her trousers. She blinked, smiling to the old couple in the next booth. She took a breath, trying to be normal.

  “Come on, Talbot. Drive me home. We’ve got a rally to cover.”

  On the drive to Charlotte Street, she watched him. He didn’t seem like the same man as last year, cocky, full of brass. He had charmed her with his good heart and warm body. Now he seemed tired and angry. She wanted to talk to him, she realized. To know him. Even if it was hard. Also, she understood this much: She wanted the spotlight off herself.

  “What have you been doing with yourself, Talbot? You look like hell.”

  He rewarded her with a small smile. “You don’t look so hot yourself.”

  “I’ve been in stir. What’s your excuse? Are you sick or something?”

  He shook his head. “Unless sick at heart counts.” He glanced at her. “Gibson’s funeral was last night.”

  “Oh. That must have been rough.”

  Talbot turned a corner. The Plymouth had a floating suspension and fat tires, which made the cobble stones seem like tiny waves. She hadn’t gotten her keys back for the Packard, hadn’t

  even tried. Apparently, she was contented enough to let her benefactor drive her home.

  “Do the cops have any leads about who did it?” she asked.

  “Leads? No. Theories? Plenty.”

  “What are the theories?”

  “Kluxers, for starters. Then Blues fans.”

  “They think Blues fans killed him?”

  “They’re grasping at straws. They don’t have any idea. Then there are the old standbys— debts, drugs, making it with somebody else’s wife, being a player in some racket.”

  “Any of them valid?”

  “Not that I can tell. He wasn’t that sort of a guy.”

  “You knew him?”

  He nodded.

  They drove in silence around the last corner. Talbot idled the Plymouth in front of Mrs. Ferazzi’s boardinghouse. Carol and Betty sat on the front steps, painting their fingernails. The day was sunny, warm enough to remind you of summer again.

  Her hand on the door handle, Dorie turned to Talbot. “Somebody planted that gun in my car. I think I know who, but I’ll never be able to prove it.”

  “Who?”

  “Barnaby Wake, the choir director for the Hallelujah Chorus. We’ve been investigating him. There’s a story there. A big one.”

  He didn’t bite.

  “I guess there’re stories everywhere these days,” she said. She moved across the seat. Taking his chin in her hand, she kissed him quickly.

  “Thanks, Talbot.” She slid back to the door and opened it.

  “Are you going to the Willkie rally, then?” he asked.

  She nodded. “See you there?”

  Across the street, Joe Czmanski stepped into the sunshine in the doorway of the garage, wiping his hands on a greasy cloth. He raised his hand in a wave and she nodded back. What was she going to do with Joe?

  “Somewhere,” Talbot said.

  She looked at Harvey. “How is your mother?”

  “Good. No big complaints.”

  “That’s great.” She closed the door again, turned in the seat to face him. “I hear Luther is playing at the Blue Room.”

  “Once. He was pretty nervous.”

  “We don’t see him much on the street anymore. It was great, that story you did about him.” She paused. “What would you think about some more digging on Charlotte Street?”

  He looked suspicious.

  “See that fella? In the garage?”

  “The one with the scars? I met him— name’s Joe?”

  “Czmanski. He wants to find out why that car blew up in his face. It was Roscoe Sensa’s, you know.”

  “Sensa?” Harvey squinted at Joe, who remained in a patch of sunlight, working over his palms. “When was that?”

  “About two years ago. Now somebody’s coming around, since Sensa was hit, trying to put the squeeze on Joe.” She sighed, laying the drama on thick. “He wants me to find out who planted the car bomb so these fellas will leave him alone, but I just don’t have time.”

  “Who are the squeeze guys?”

  “Don’t know. Sensa’s droppers, I guess. But I don’t get it. Why would the trouble boys who hit Sensa care about the fella they burned by mistake?”

  He was considering it, watching Joe, then examining his own fingernails.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “Might be worth a follow-up story.” Harvey turned to her, a spark of his old self in his smile. “Or do you just want me hanging around Charlotte Street?”

  “Better than the county jail.” She wanted to kiss him again, but she backed out of the car. “See you at the station, then. I’ll be the one in red, white, and blue. Thanks for bailing me out, Talbot. I won’t forget it.”

  Dorie watched the Plymouth roar away, down past Steiner’s grocery and around the corner. Why had he done it? Did he still care about her, after all she’d done to him? She was a convict, a criminal, capable of violence, full of anger and voices from the dead. If only she hadn’t stabbed Louie Weston. But she had, and she knew herself well enough to know she’d do it again if she had to. She just couldn’t see how a girl who did that could end up with a man like Talbot. He was too good.

  She stepped up the curb. Carol and Betty whistled in unison, loud and sassy.

  “Guess who spent the night with tall, dark, and Har-veeeee,” Betty said, teasing. “Who was a naughty girl and didn’t come home last night? It’s all over the street, Dorie— you are a loose woman.”

  Carol threw back her head and laughed like a hyena. Betty had a smirk plastered on her mug. Carol, with her hotcha lipstick and blue shorty shorts— what a laugh. She straightened her long, curvy legs and wiggled her platform shoes in uncontrollable glee.

  Dorie stopped to stare at the pair of them. Their nails were a racy shade of scarlet. Betty had turned hard under Carol’s influence. Now she wore tight sweaters over pointy brassieres and looked like a magazine ad for eye shadow.

  Dorie stepped around them, going up to the top of the stoop. “What sort of fun did you girls have last night? Milk and cookies? Walking the dog?”

  Carol looked over her shoulder. “Oh, I walked the dog all right. I walked him all night long.” Betty slapped her thigh and guffawed.

  “They pay well for dog walkers these days, Carol? Twenty bucks? Fifty if you can get them to do tricks?”

  Carol and Betty stared at each other, suddenly quiet.

  “Hey!” Carol spat, ri
sing as Dorie let the door slam behind her.

  At the Hines mansion, the door stood half-open. Amos Haddam leaned in and could hear voices, a commotion, running footsteps. He pushed the door wide, alarmed.

  “What is it?” Gwendolyn whispered, peering over his shoulder.

  Pulling her into the foyer, Amos skipped down the hallway to Mrs. Hines’s bedroom. He had a bad feeling. Her empty bed made his heart sink. Something had happened to Eveline.

  “Oh lawk,” Gwendolyn said. “Has she gone to hospital?”

  They backed out into the hallway. Noises came from the front of the house. There was a formal parlor and dining room off the foyer, rarely used, and a wing of private rooms Amos had never seen. He dragged Gwendolyn toward the sounds. A clatter came through large double doors. Amos put his ear to the door, then turned the wrought-iron handle plundered from a medieval torture chamber.

  “Over there. Yes, yes, by the window. And fluff them, will you? They look like a horse stomped on them.”

  The sound of Eveline’s compelling voice rang out in the parlor. Amos pushed open the door. A fire burned in the massive fireplace, warming the room with its stone walls and leaded windows. On the sofa lay the Commander under a pile of blankets, barking orders to a squadron of servants. The maid, her cupcake hat askew, struggled with a huge bouquet of white lilies and red glads in a crystal vase. In the adjoining dining room, the kitchen crew was setting out a lavish display of food and drink. Mother Ruth hovered behind Eveline, plumping pillows and looking at her watch. Miss Miller paced in front of the sofa, talking to herself while consulting a notebook. Panicked, she barked at Amos and Gwendolyn.

  “Too early! Go away and come back in an hour!” The secretary flapped her hand in a shooing gesture. “You’ll wear her out.”

  “Mildred, help her, will you?” the Commander said. “She hasn’t a clue about floral arranging, but then, who thought she would? Please, Mildred. The flowers.”

  Miss Miller turned to the maid. Amos stepped into the room, circumventing a poorly placed footstool. Eveline’s face creased with a smile.