Swing Town Mysteries Dorie Lennox Box Set

by Lise McClendon

  Too old.

  Tonight, he felt old— dried-up, useless. He set the tray down in front of Gwendolyn and poured them both tea. He added a healthy dose of milk to his own and let Gwen mix her own. She used masses of sugar, rationed at home.

  They sipped their tea silently. Amos both wanted and didn’t want to know what was in the letter. She would tell him when she was ready.

  Gwendolyn finished her tea and sat back on the sofa, letting a small sigh escape her. Her color had improved dramatically in her time in Kansas City. Her cheeks were rosy again, the dry patches had cleared, and her haircut framed her small face with a sophisticated shape. Amos felt the age again inside him, an aching weight, trouble and regret, what he sometimes called “the Dreadful.” It wasn’t age really, but tonight it felt that way, as if his years were more than they should be, and killing him inch by inch.

  “My aunt,” Gwendolyn said. Amos raised his eyebrows, noncommittal. “She wants me to come. She sent me money, and a train ticket.”

  He had expected as much. He felt no worse, curiously, and hoped this didn’t mean he hadn’t really become attached to Gwendolyn. He took her hand.

  “I don’t want you to go. You know that.”

  She patted his hand briskly and gave a brave smile. “You saved my life, but I can’t be sponging off you forever, now, can I?”

  “Marry me, Gwendolyn.”

  The words spilled out of him. He surprised himself, and as her eyes widened and lips stretched, they both laughed in a nervous explosion.

  “Silly man,” she said.

  “I meant it.” He dropped off the sofa onto one knee. “Marry me and be my wife.” He kissed her slender fingers with their broken nails.

  She laughed again. “Get up, you ridiculous creature. Do you want more tea?” She pulled her hand away and went for the teapot.

  Amos sat back on the sofa and assessed his heart. Resilient, warm, unbroken. And yet, he did mean it. He would marry her. In a flash, in a snap. He gazed at her, pouring more lukewarm tea into their cups. She was so lovely, so English. She reminded him of himself at fourteen, with love and fortune and good things ahead. She made him feel young, or at least remember what it had been like to be young.

  She passed him his teacup and he saw the tears on her face. He set the cup down and took hers from her shaking hands. She sat straight-backed on the edge of the sofa, the tears running over her delicate freckles, eyes gleaming.

  “I’m the ridiculous one. So sorry,” she said.

  Then he held her close for a long time, smelling her hair, feeling her breath on his neck.

  Life would go on. This war would be over and he would see her again. Perhaps even marry her. Who knew?

  His timing— not to mention the world’s— was off-kilter again.

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  DORIE HELD HER WRISTWATCH UP to her face and squinted at the dial. Four o’clock. Her eyes blurred. She had to find a bathroom soon or suffer the consequences. Her coffee was cold, but at least there was still a cup left in the thermos bottle. She sighed and looked at the back of the Wake house. The alley wasn’t the best vantage point, but so far it hadn’t mattered. All was dark, and had been since midnight, when she’d arrived.

  Stretching her bad knee across the seat, she yawned. Drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Drummed her fingers across her cheek, her chin. Pulled her hair horizontal.

  The life of the private eye. One sensational adventure after another.

  Forty-five minutes later, she eased out of the Packard, leaving the door ajar. Night was still thick in the sky, stars shining around the wisps of lavender cloud. The cool air made her shiver and brought the urgency of her physical needs to a head. The hedge between the alley and Wake’s house had lost half its leaves. Since midnight, there had not been a light on or a noise. They weren’t home; she was sure of that. But would they leave a door unlocked? Just in case a local snoop needed to use the bloomin’ loo? Fat chance.

  The front of the house had neither a porch light or streetlight. Cupping her hands, she looked through the small garage door windowpanes. No auto. She tiptoed around to the backyard again and tried the side door. Locked. There was one other door, possibly leading to a den. She stepped over piles of leaves on the brick patio and quietly rattled the knob. Locked. She moved to the windows, all at level in this ranch-style house, pushing on the sashes.

  Striking out again, she veered into the shadows, and found a bush sheltered from the street, alley, and neighbors. Zipping her trousers back up, she heard the crunching of leaves by the street. Then the figure, darting from tree to tree. She froze, shrinking back into the shadows.

  Had someone seen her in the alley? The Packard, hulking and far from invisible, might have given her away. She cursed under her breath. She hadn’t been too careful. Thalia was aware of them. What difference did it make? But now, a chill ran up the back of her neck. She wasn’t alone.

  She reached the defoliated hedge without snapping any major twigs underfoot. She was still in the shadows when the figure dashed along the other side of the hedge, a flash of dark fabric, dark hair, movement, air. Leaves crunched lightly, then a gasp— Oh!— somewhere near the Packard.

  Dorie looked behind her for somewhere to hide. The yard was barren of features. Not a single chair or table on the patio. No trees except on the lot line and in front. She veered right, into the shadows by the edge of the yard. She squatted, leaning against a small tree. It was cold and damp. She was no longer sleepy.

  Her knee, the bad one, had just begun to throb, when a pop of a gunshot broke the silence. She toppled over backward in surprise, catching herself on something sharp on the ground. She blinked, pulled her hand away. Listened for another shot. Someone kicked a car door, slamming it shut. Voices. Angry.

  She pulled herself upright. Who was back there? Had they been shot? Are they after me? It made no sense. Yet someone had tried to force her into a car by gunpoint. Wake’s men? But who had dashed through the front yard? Someone light on their feet, someone small.

  Wendy.

  Of course! Wendy had escaped Wake’s clutches (had she been a prisoner in the house?). Or she had been watching, waiting for her chance to get back to Eveline, and now they had shot her. Good, virtuous Wendy, married to that crazy bastard. Wendy, the woman she was supposed to be finding.

  Dorie stood behind the hedge again. Her palm was bleeding. She had no weapon, not even a big stick. Trembling, she made herself stand still and wait. No sounds from the alley. Then footsteps, fading. Christ, it was dark.

  Then a car engine roared to life, down where the footsteps had gone. Lights shone away. Had they taken Wendy? Had she been left for dead?

  This thought propelled Dorie through the hedge. Branches scratched her face and hands. She bolted onto the alley as the car turned out onto the street. A big dark car— the black coupe of Thalia’s shooting?

  The Packard sat dark and silent. The passenger door was open.

  She crept around the auto, keeping her head down. She looked down the alley both ways as she moved toward the Packard. A foot, in a small shoe, stuck out the door. A moan.

  She threw open the door. “Wendy?” she whispered, peering into the dark interior.

  Across the seat lay a woman all right. A bleeding woman. But it wasn’t Wendy, unless someone had forgotten to mention a mixed marriage.

  The woman wore a dark fitted suit with trousers and was holding her ribs with one hand. Her head lay back on the seat, eyes closed.

  I found her. Dorie felt a thrill run through her. Then she saw the blood.

  “Arlette! Are you hit?” Stupid question: Red oozed over her fingers. Arlette only moaned again, teeth clenched.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take you to a hospital. Come on, feet in.” She closed the passenger door and ran around the car, throwing herself behind the wheel. She turned the engine over, flipped the lights, then looked down at Arlette. Her eyes were open now, looking up from the seat.

  She patte
d Arlette’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of you, honey. Never you mind.”

  The Packard screeched to a stop at the Emergency entrance to City Hospital. The trip had taken less than five minutes.

  Dorie jumped out and ran around to open the side door. “Come on, girl.” She took Arlette’s free hand and tried to pull her upright. The woman groaned and pulled her hand away.

  “No. No hospital.”

  “Arlette, you’ve been shot. You’re losing blood.” Just like last time. Dorie wiped her hair off her face and realized she was sweating. Her heart beat wildly. “Please, Arlette. You’re going to die if I don’t get you in there.”

  The woman lifted her head. “I’m not gonna die. Get me over to Doc Friedkin.” She fell back and closed her eyes. “He can help me,” she whispered, her strength gone.

  “But we’re right here, Arlette.” Dorie looked back at the comforting lights and glass doors. Nurses in clean white uniforms waited, their caring hands at the ready, their minds bursting with first aid. “This is quicker.”

  Arlette didn’t answer. Could she drag Arlette inside without hurting her? No. She looked at the Emergency doors. “Stay right there.”

  Pushing through the door, she ran to the desk. No one was there.

  “Hello? Help, please! Gunshot wound!”

  A nurse in a white cap stuck her head out of white curtains in a large room behind the desk. Dorie slapped the desk with her palm. “Please, come help! She’s in the car!”

  Finally, two orderlies and the nurse followed her out the doors, carrying a pallet. The door to the Packard was still open. But Arlette wasn’t there.

  “She was right here.” Dorie felt the seat, coming up with warm blood on her fingers. “You see? She was hurt.”

  The orderlies scoured the street, behind bushes and curbs and mailboxes. Dorie went to the end of the driveway and called for Arlette— cursed her loudly, too— until the nurse took her arm.

  “She’s run off. You tried to help. Let’s go inside and wash that blood off your hand.”

  “Do you know a Dr. Friedkin?”

  The nurse, a sallow-cheeked woman, frowned. “Why?”

  “Just tell me. You know him?” She gripped the nurse’s arm. “Where does he live?”

  “Friedkin lost his license. A long time ago.”

  “Where is he?”

  “If your friend is going to Friedkin, she’s in trouble. Maybe that’s why she ran away. But I guess you knew that.” The nurse’s frown softened. “He used to be off Troost, on Twentieth. I don’t know if—”

  Dawn was breaking. The pearl sky turned rosy, glossy in its enthusiasm. The apartment building sat dull and brown and square, with dirty windows and burglar bars. The name on the mailbox was faded but readable. The apartment was on the third floor, in the back. Dorie ran up the stairs, consumed with fear. Arlette would never make it up these stairs. She would die somewhere, walking— crawling— to find this quack.

  Why, Arlette? Why go to another quack when one almost killed you?

  She pounded on the door. No answer. She pounded louder. “Dr. Friedkin?”

  Across the hall, a door opened. A fat man, wrapped in a plaid robe, glowered under tufts of black hair. “Hey. It’s five o’clock in the fucking morning, toots.”

  “Doc! Friedkin! I know you’re in there!”

  The fat man stood beside her, his robe revealing unruly body hair. “I told you once. Have a heart for a working stiff. It’s five o’clock in the morning.” His tone darkened.

  “You seen Dr. Friedkin? Did he go out?”

  “Do I look like I seen Friedkin? I was sleeping like a fucking baby.” She raised her fist to pound. The fat man grabbed her wrist. “Leave it, toots. I ain’t gonna tell you again.”

  She swiveled and brought her knee up hard, twisting out of his grasp. He fell to one side, sagging against the wall. As he bent over, gasping, she took the stairs, pausing for a moment at the first landing.

  “Nobody calls me ‘toots.’ “

  On the second floor, an old woman stuck her head out of the door of the apartment directly under Friedkin’s. Her hair was covered with a pink shower cap. She waved at Dorie

  “I heard his phone ring and ring, and he yelled at whoever it was. Then he left.” The old woman scrunched up her nose. “He wears big boots. Clomp clomp clomp. I hear him every time.”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  She shook her shower cap. “Can’t hear words through the ceiling, only yellin’. And bottles breakin’.”

  The neighborhood was waking up out on the street. The Packard sat at an angle to the curb, abandoned in a rush. A paperboy came by, delivering the Star, and Dorie found a dime for it. Distractions, that was what she needed after a long night and a day of anticipation of tomorrow’s headlines: WOMAN FOUND SHOT. BLED TO DEATH.

  She sat behind the wheel, spreading the front page before her. The headlines blurred. “Goddamn it, Arlette. Who appointed you anyway?”

  She smoothed the wrinkles in the paper. There was Barnaby Wake with that headline. What would he do? Would he tough it out? Smooth things over with his society gals? Did the bund— or the Silver Shirts— need him here? Had he and Thalia already flown?

  Or did these homegrown fascists plan treason, destruction, sabotage? Were they recruiting American citizens? Were they traitors— or just misguided? Would Hoover let them alone?

  That seemed unlikely. But Hoover’s G-men had their hands full. They might overlook a bunch of goons in shiny boots for a while. Should she be a true-blue citizen and tell the FBI what she knew about Tommy Briggs? What she suspected about Barnaby Wake? She hoped to hell she didn’t have to.

  And where was Arlette?

  She slept hard. At noon, she woke to smells of Sunday dinner coming up from the kitchen of the boardinghouse. She splashed water on her face, tucked her hair behind her ears and her shirttail in her trousers. The turnout at table was low, just Mrs. Ferazzi, her son Tony, one Swedish bachelor, and Carol. Dorie sat at the far end of the table from all of them, until Mrs. Ferazzi made her move in beside Carol. They gave each other a cold stare.

  The hot food made her feel human again, and she was scolded by Carol for having thirds of sweet potatoes. Even Carol’s snide remark, “At home, we feed sweet potatoes to the hogs,” couldn’t ruin supper.

  Mrs. Ferazzi dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Father told me after Mass that the Ford auto plant is going to be making tanks soon.” She shuddered. “Are we really going to war?”

  “It’s to send to the British,” Carol said.

  “I’m going,” Tony said. “Nobody can stop me.”

  “We’ll see about that,” his mother said. “You’ll be going to trade school next year in Wichita. That’s where you belong.”

  “Not if there’s a war. You won’t stop me.”

  Mrs. Ferazzi’s eyes blazed as she turned an Italian shade of scarlet. Dorie turned to Carol: “Where’s your best pal this afternoon?”

  Carol slumped over her plate. Her nails were bare of paint, and her hair needed a good comb. Gone was her eye makeup, and her brashness.

  “Don’t worry, Carol,” Mrs. F. said. “You’re paid through the end of next week and you’ll find something. With men enlisting there’ll be plenty of jobs.”

  “Get canned, Carol?”

  Carol squinted hatefully at Dorie, and she regretted her words. “Sorry. I— What happened?”

  Carol stuck out her chin. “I did nothing wrong. They said I was too—” She glanced at Tony, who was ogling her chest. His mother slapped his shoulder. “They said I flirted too much. They didn’t like my clothes.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Dorie said, although it wasn’t. “Maybe you can get a job in the Ford plant. Build us some tanks.”

  Carol snorted, then laughed, her false cheer settling over them, making them glad that there was no dessert to endure.

  Only the third inning, but Amos Haddam had sat long enough. The Monarchs were down one to nothing i
n uninspired play, swinging at everything and connecting at little. The Blues didn’t look much better, though they were jaunty and waved to the crowd. Could the players have decided on a fix now that Saunders was out of the picture? Or were they just short-handed and dispirited? Amos had a sick feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with the wieners he and Gwendolyn had bought downstairs.

  They sat five rows up over the first baseline. The best seats Amos had had all season. He’d made it to only six games, but the Monarchs played a short season, with plenty of road trips. The weather was brisk and sunny, with fast-moving clouds skidding across the sky. Gwendolyn sat quietly after a short explanation of the rules. She stared intently at the players, as if trying to figure out why no one was hitting the ball.

  Haddam patted her knee. “I see somebody I have to talk to. You’ll be all right?”

  Her eyes darted nervously, but she nodded.

  Amos made his way down the bleachers. This side of the ballfield was all white, all Blues fans, or at least white fans. He shouldn’t assume they were for the Blues, a team mostly popular for their skin color, even though they’d had a great season this year. True baseball fans went to watch Joe Greene and Hilton Smith and Zip Matchett and Buck O’Neill. And some years Satchel Paige, Turkey Stearnes, Bullet Joe Rogan, Big Train Jackson. So many great ones, personalities, that the other side of the bleachers was packed to the top with dark faces, cheering.

  Should be sitting on that side, Amos thought. Would be if it wouldn’t cause a race riot. Tensions were high after the death of Gibson Saunders.

  Rumors had linked the murder now to the Kluxers, the German American Bund, and other unnamed underground groups. The Kansas City Star was uncharacteristically silent on the subject. Amos Haddam had hashed it out with Talbot but was only now ready to find out what the management of the Monarchs thought.

  He made his way across to the box seats behind and to the left of home plate, where owner J. L. Wilkinson, Quincy Gilmore, and a few assistants and friends sat. Wilkinson was frowning, arms crossed on his chest. He looked up and waved Amos over. Haddam eased into a folding chair. As he did, he noticed black armbands around the left arms of the men.