Behind me the guard called out, “See you soon.” I swallowed my response.
At the door stood two men who looked like policemen, but weren’t in uniform. Sutton turned to me and said, “It’s crazy out there. Just keep your head down and follow these gentlemen. And don’t talk to anyone.” He grabbed my elbow and turned me toward him. “Ever. Reporters are going to try everything to get you to talk. Everything you say will be twisted and rearranged to fit their story.” He squeezed my arm and looked into my eyes. “If you can’t do anything else, keep your mouth shut.”
He gestured for the men to go outside. One of them opened the door, and they pushed through it into a mob of reporters. My senses were overwhelmed. The sun was bright, causing me to squint as though I had been in solitary for years. Men were shouting over the top of one another, clamoring for our attention. I was overwhelmed by questions, all some variation of a theme: Did I kill John Cooper?
My father and Mr. Sutton stood on either side of me. We were jostled continuously as we followed the two men who pushed and shouldered their way through the crowd. The noise was tremendous, voices shouting at me from all sides, cameras clicking all around me. I kept my head down and walked as close to the men in front as I could. We finally made it to the curb, where my father’s roadster sat. He and I climbed into it while Sutton and the two other men shoved away the reporters.
The roadster pulled away from the curb with a squeal of the tires. My father got it up to fifth speed in a matter of seconds and took the first three corners at twenty-two miles per hour, looking back over his shoulder every few seconds to see if we were being followed. Satisfied, he dropped down to third and relaxed.
I could hardly believe I was back in the real world. Glancing at my father, I asked, “How did you get me out?”
He was quiet for a moment before looking over at me with a furrowed brow. “I put up the company against your bond.”
I was stunned. “After I lied to you?”
He shrugged. “You’re my son.” He paused for a second and then said, “Would you like to come home?”
“Home? Your home?” It didn’t seem possible he would still trust me. I had underestimated him. I hoped, for his sake, he wasn’t overestimating me.
He shook his head firmly. “It’s our home, Will.”
“No. I won’t do that to you and Mother. I should just go to my apartment.” After the scene with the reporters at the police station, I could only imagine what the next few months would bring.
I really looked at my father for the first time and barely recognized him. He looked old and feeble. Lines cut deeply into his face. I was overwhelmed with guilt. “Father, I didn’t do it. John called me, and I did go to the factory, but he was already dead. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you everything before.”
He remained quiet, his eyes on the road.
“Don’t you believe me?”
He looked at me, surprised. “Of course I believe you. Even with the engagement, I don’t think you would have killed John.” He shrugged. “I don’t think you could have killed him. But I don’t know how you’re going to get out of this. The evidence is overwhelming.”
“I know.” I glanced at him and said quietly, “Thank you for helping me.”
Looking surprised again, he said, “You’re my son, Will. Of course I’ll help you.”
He turned onto Peterboro and hit the brakes. A big man stood outside the door of my building, arms folded over his chest. In front of him were a dozen or so other men, some with cameras, some with notebooks. “He’s one of Sutton’s men,” my father said. “Still, let’s try the back. They say it’s been quieter there.” He threw the roadster in reverse and backed out onto Woodward, narrowly missing a coal wagon before he put the car into first and started down the road again.
He turned right on Charlotte and again onto Second Street. We approached the building slowly, the near-silence of the electric motor a real benefit. No reporters were in sight. “Stay inside if you can,” he whispered, “and phone me if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll be back here Thursday at nine fifteen to pick you up. We’re meeting with Sutton to discuss your defense.”
I thanked him again and jumped out of the car. The bourbon bottle was calling me.
My father said, “Here, take this,” and handed me a brown leather briefcase. “Thought you should know what you’re up against.”
I thanked him again, ran to the back door, and unlocked it. When I threw it open, a burly middle-aged man in a gray suit and derby stepped in front of me. “Hold up there, fella.”
“What? I live here.”
He looked at me carefully. “Oh, sorry, Mr. Anderson.” He smiled and tipped his derby. “Carl Hatch. I’m helping to keep the pests out.” He nodded toward the back stairs. “Go on ahead.”
I took the stairs to the third floor two at a time. The corridor was empty, and I hurried to my apartment. I got inside as quickly as I could, threw the briefcase on the table by the door, and headed for the kitchen and the glistening row of Old Tub bottles. I used my teeth to pull the cork from one and took a long pull. The heat of the liquor filled my mouth and throat, then my midsection. Another long drink and the warmth spread throughout my body.
The apartment was still. A shaft of sunlight cut across the floor, dust motes cycling through it like tiny snowflakes. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The familiar scent of home: upholstery and carpeting, a slight mustiness, a hint of the kitchen—a dollop of coffee, a dash of grease. And, of course, the sweet caramel aroma of bourbon. My heart slowed. My breathing slowed. I was home.
I took a long bath, put on a fresh suit, and walked over to Wesley’s apartment. He answered the door looking much better than he had the last time I’d seen him, though, to be fair, it would have been difficult to look worse. His face was bruised, his hands were bandaged, and he moved like an octogenarian, but the twinkle had returned to his eyes.
“Hey, convict,” he said.
“I’m not a convict. Not yet anyway. Thanks for talking to the police.”
He shrugged. “Don’t expect them to believe me.”
“No, I don’t think they did. But thanks. Listen, Wes, I’m really, really sorry about getting you and the Doyles involved in this mess.”
“That was my doing, not yours. I volunteered, remember? As did the Doyles. It wasn’t your fault.” He nodded toward the interior of his apartment and said, “Come on in.” He didn’t wait for me to accept, just walked back to the parlor.
I followed him, trying to ignore my hesitation. The man had almost given his life to help me, and I was still afraid someone would see me with him.
The parlor was immaculate. The wallpaper was ivory, vertically striped with fine blue swirls. A yellow floral-patterned settee and a matching pair of upholstered chairs, Louis XIV, I thought, surrounded a large mahogany coffee table. A small crystal chandelier hung in the center, and a pair of cut crystal lamps adorned the end tables. Against the wall, a small bar sat next to a sofa table topped by an oversized Victrola with dozens of records propped against it.
Wesley waved me to one of the chairs. “Sit, sit. How about a drink?”
“Sure, thanks.”
“I don’t have bourbon. Scotch okay?”
“That would be great. Nice place you’ve got here.”
He ignored the compliment and gestured toward my face. “Looks like you took quite a shot. I’d like to see the other guy.”
“No. You wouldn’t. Trust me.”
He bent over the bar, using his damaged hands to try to pour whiskey into a pair of glasses. I thought I should probably help him, but I didn’t. He managed to pour a few fingers of Scotch into each glass, then brought me one, holding it between the palms of both hands. When he returned to the bar for his, he said, “I just got a record you should hear—Sophie Tucker. She’s unbelievable.” He fumbled with the disc record and Victrola, finally getting it to work. A dynamic female voice poured out from the horn. Wesley grabbed his drink and
sat on the settee. Cocking his head to the side, he said, “So what are you going to do now?”
“Do? I . . . don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. As soon as I’m capable, I’m going to find the son of a bitch who murdered the Doyles. And I’m going to kill him.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His face was red. “You don’t understand, Will. I’ve been beaten more times than you could imagine. I don’t do that anymore.” He looked into my eyes. “He’s a dead man.”
“I believe you.” We made small talk for a few minutes before I finished my drink and stood. “Well, I should probably be going. I’ve got a lot to catch up on.”
With a grimace, he pushed himself off the settee. “Sure, I understand.” He followed me to the door.
After I opened it, I turned back to him. “Thanks for the drink. And thanks for everything you’ve done for me. God knows I wouldn’t have done it for you.”
He grinned. “Friends, remember? And Will, my offer is still open. I want to help you. If it gets me closer to the killer, so much the better. Don’t try to deal with this on your own.”
I nodded. “Thanks.” I stood at the door for a moment. “Wes?”
He waited.
“Sorry I’ve been such an ass.”
He waved off the apology. “Don’t worry about it. I knew we’d be friends.” He smiled. “Eventually.”
I laughed. Such an optimist had never lived. “What I said about not helping you out with something like this? Just give me the chance.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bottle in hand, I walked into my den and phoned the Detroit Electric garage. Elwood and Joe would never believe what had happened to me. When the phone was answered I asked for Elwood.
A minute or so later he picked up. “Hello?”
“Elwood, it’s Will. How about I buy you and Joe a drink after work?”
“Will. Oh, uh, I can’t tonight. I’ve got something.”
“Since when do you have anything? Come on, one drink, ten minutes.”
“No.” He was firm. “I can’t. Listen, Will, I’ve got to get back to work.”
“How about tomorrow night then?”
“I’m busy tomorrow, too.”
“All right, spoilsport. Let me talk to Joe.”
“He’s not here.”
I glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s not even five yet.”
“He had something, too. I’ve got to go.” The line went dead.
I sat back in my chair and stared at the telephone. They both “had something” tonight? Neither of them had ever passed up at least a quick drink. It finally hit me. I was an accused murderer. In their eyes, my friends’ eyes, the word “accused” meant nothing.
I sat in the den for a few minutes before walking across the hall and knocking on the door. When Wesley answered, I said, “Listen. I’ve caused you an awful lot of pain. I know it doesn’t come close to returning the favor, but I’d like to have you over for dinner tonight.” I hesitated, and added, “Just . . . friends sharing a meal.”
He leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. “You want me over for dinner?”
I nodded.
He appraised me for a moment. One side of his mouth turned up in a smile. “That’d be nice.”
I asked him to come over in an hour or so for drinks, then turned to go back to my apartment.
“Will?”
I looked back to him.
A wry smile was set on his face. “I understand what the word ‘dinner’ means.”
I felt my face go red. “Of course you—sorry.” I retreated to my apartment. The briefcase my father had given me still lay on the table by the door. I opened the flap. Inside were about a dozen newspapers, from Sunday until this morning. Each had a front-page story about me, “the Electric Executioner.”
I scanned through the articles. My heart began to pound as I looked at story after story of love, revenge, and cold-blooded murder, all prominently naming me, Anderson Carriage Company, and Detroit Electric. Judge Hume had been quoted several times, each time implicating me as the murderer. Enraged, I swept my hand across the table, scattering the papers over the floor, and then stomped into the parlor and fell onto the sofa.
I was no longer William C. Anderson, Jr., son of a successful businessman. Now I was the most infamous man in Detroit—the Electric Executioner.
I bit my lip as I waited for someone at the Humes’ to pick up the tele phone.
Alberts finally answered. “Hume residence.” He spoke quickly, his voice rising in inflection at the end, almost a question.
I lowered my voice an octave. “May I speak with Elizabeth, please?”
He paused and then answered, sounding like Alberts again, words clipped, tone formal. “She’s not in at the moment. May I take a message?”
“Uh, no. When do you expect her?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”
Still in the deep voice, I said, “May I speak with Mrs. Hume?”
“I’ll see if she’s available. Who may I say is calling?”
For a second, my mind went blank. Then I said, “I’m with the Detroit police.”
“What’s your name and badge number?”
I had no idea what to say. A second later, a quiet click came from his end, and the line went dead.
“Shit!” I had to speak with Elizabeth or Mrs. Hume, but I couldn’t go to their house. The judge would almost certainly be home by now. Tomorrow would have to be soon enough. I set down the receiver, and the phone immediately rang.
When I answered, words poured out in a rush. “Will? It’s Edsel. I heard you were getting out today.”
“I just got home.”
“How are you holding up?”
“As you might suspect, I’ve been better.”
“How about I take you out to dinner tonight?”
“Edsel, no. First of all, you don’t want to be seen with me. Your father will kill you. Secondly, I’m not going out in public. And I’ve got plans—”
“Will, if you give in, the bad guys have won. You need to show them you’re standing up straight, that you have nothing to hide.”
“I really don’t—”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He hung up.
I set the receiver down. At least I had one friend—no, two. Neither Wesley nor Edsel had even asked if I was innocent. They just assumed it. Now I needed to convince everyone else.
The telephone rang again. I picked it up. “Hello?”
A reedy voice said, “Will? Will Anderson? This is Herbert Cole from the Herald. I just need a few minutes of—”
I slammed the receiver onto the hook and stalked to the parlor. The phone rang again. Another reporter. And again. Now I understood Alberts’s suspicion. He’d been fielding lots of phone calls, too. I left the receiver on the table and shuffled back to the parlor, stopping at the window. A dozen reporters stood in front of the large man guarding the door. How in the world was I going to get to the market? I rummaged around in my cabinets and icebox, and came up with two cans of tomato soup, half a box of cornflakes, and a quart of slightly rancid milk.
There was only one thing I knew how to cook. I ran down the back stairs to the first floor and asked Mr. Hatch if he would be so kind as to pick up a roast, potatoes, and carrots from the market around the corner. He gave me a funny look but agreed.
When he returned, I asked him to let Edsel in if he came in the back, and asked him to pass along the information to his partner. On the way back to my apartment, I stopped at Wesley’s to let him know Edsel would be joining us for dinner, then locked myself in my apartment again.
I lit a cigarette and wandered into the parlor. The sun was setting, and the light reflected off the top of my coffee table, showing a fine layer of dust. I stopped in front of the side window. The sky glowed around the houses on Second Street, starting red at the horizon and flowing into orange above. The few clouds drifting pas
t glowed a delicate pink, like gigantic puffs of fairy floss from Electric Park. I stood at the window until the blue faded to steel and the final orange light extinguished.
I tried to enjoy it. I didn’t know how many more sunsets would be in my future.
Edsel Ford, wearing a stylish dark gray suit and derby, rushed into my apartment, saying, “That nose doesn’t look so good, Will. Are you all right?” His large dark eyes bored into mine.
Edsel was small and looked young for his age, but behind that facade was a thoughtful young man. Had I not known better, I would have said we were about the same age, which I attributed to his maturity and my lack of same. I had the impression he looked up to me. We could certainly appreciate each other’s situation—wealthy, successful, driven fathers, and the expectation we would continue that tradition.
“I’m fine, Edsel, thanks.” My voice was still dull and nasal. I told him about Wesley’s injuries and asked if he’d mind eating in with us. Edsel agreed, gracious as ever. I brought him over to Wesley’s apartment to introduce him.
Wesley was dressed in a blue pinstriped suit, an ivory cravat draped around his neck. Edsel held out his hand, but quickly dropped it when he saw the bandages covering Wesley’s hands. “Wesley McRae. Hey, the Scottish Songster, right?”
Wesley began to give a theatrical bow, but quit, grimacing, after dipping half a foot. “At your service.” He turned to me. “If you’ll just give me a hand with this cravat, we can find a better address for dinner.”
Edsel clapped his hands. “That’s what I told him. No hiding.”
“Wes, do you really feel up to it?” I said.
His eyes goggled. “Lawdy,” he drawled, “if I don’t get out of here, I’ll go plumb crazy.”
Edsel laughed. “We’re going to get along just fine, I can tell already.” He looked from Wesley to me. “Seriously, are you fellows all right? We can eat in, you know.”
“If Wes wants to go,” I said, “I’ll go.” The way I cooked, my roast could well be inedible anyway. “So long as we go somewhere dark where we won’t run into anyone who knows me.” I thought about how that might sound to Wesley. “I just don’t want people bothering me about the murder, that’s all.” But that wasn’t all.
The Detroit Electric Scheme Page 13
