Murder at the Flamingo

by Rachel McMillan

  “That’s your story?”

  “I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “That’s not what I’m implying. You know that. But I saw it, Luca. I was there. She was injured before she fell.”

  Luca laughed darkly. “You’re not a detective. And you’re repeating yourself. It’s what you do when you’re trying to convince yourself of something. Leave it to the professionals.”

  “The professionals aren’t doing anything about it.” Hamish folded his fingers into his palm. Luca noticed and raised an eyebrow.

  “Now you’re just getting yourself upset. You’re not good to anyone when you’re like that. It’s just easier when you have nothing muddling up your mind.”

  “Easier.” Hamish blinked. How did Luca know to cut right through to his heart and twist?

  “What?” Luca’s voice was stale, fuzzy with another long lap of liquor.

  “Easier!”

  “Look at you go on. See, this is exactly what I meant. You start worrying about something and it topples over and you have another bout of nerves.”

  “You’re just like my father.”

  Luca froze, his glass midway to his mouth. “I am not.”

  “You are! Embarrassed. Look at you. Uncomfortable. Not sure what to do with me.”

  When Luca spoke it was in a voice softer and sobered. “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Just like my father was trying to help when he told me to hide my hand in my pocket or check my heartbeat every blasted second!” Hamish’s voice rose.

  Luca cursed under his breath. “I never should have said anything.” He reached over and cupped Hamish’s neck. “I . . .” Luca flashed a small smile but his eyes were dead set. Something had changed between them. Luca rose and padded in the direction of his room, saying over his shoulder, “I just don’t want you to worry.”

  Hamish heard Luca slam his door. He fingered the discarded newspaper. A dead headline. There was a fine balance between immediately capturing supposition to sell a few papers and circulating a headline that would fall dead immediately.

  Hamish reached for a pencil beside a half-finished crossword on the coffee table. He smoothed a section of the paper and over a pomade ad wrote:

  The men from Dragonfly: Mark Suave and other.

  Johnny Wade—also from the Dragonfly but now attached to Luca . . .

  Schultze

  Luca

  All of the men who might have had a reason to see the end of Mary Finn. Luca. He looked up and around frantically as if his cousin might barge in. That name had been hardest to write. A betrayal in the shaky slant of his right hand. Luca wouldn’t kill. Luca didn’t have a reason. But Luca was so deeply involved. He was not innocent, regardless of whether he was responsible for Mary’s death.

  CHAPTER 20

  You should feel bad,” Reggie told the reflection in the cab she’d splurged on to transport her to her boarding house so she could slip out of the dress she had borrowed from Mrs. Leoni and take a quick shower before dressing again with the intent of returning to the office and making good on what she had told the reporters. She would solve this murder. Even if it was late afternoon and her fuzzy head had taken more time than it should have to wake up and perform the menial tasks separating her from returning to Hamish and adventure. The sun was butter over the window and when she exited at the corner of the North Square, she had a skip in her step. Adventure! Adventure! Despite her tiredness. And a juicy bit of news to tell Nate with the latest papers.

  Turned out, he awaited her arrival, rocking back and forth on his heels outside her office. When she crossed over the creaky floorboards, he immediately gripped her forearms. “Are you all right? You should try to take a nap.”

  Reggie rattled in her purse for her keys and turned the lock. “I can sleep when I am dead, Nate! I am on an adventure. Besides, you wouldn’t sleep either if your name were in all the papers. I keep expecting telegrams from my parents. They’ll show up eventually.”

  “Do they have your address?”

  “They have something better.” Reggie ran a fingernail over the edge of her desk. “Vaughan Vanderlaan.” She told him who he was and how he was at the club that night.

  Inside, Reggie exhaled and sifted through the mail. Telegrams tucked under the door. Luckily, none from New Haven. The afternoon edition of newspapers with headlines about the Flamingo in bold, along with pictures of Luca, who, even under custody of the police, looked like he stepped off an ad in Photoplay. The phone ringing off the hook.

  Reggie dove for it then clicked it down again without answering. “Reporters.”

  Nate picked up the rolled newspaper near the door, unfolding it. “An accident.” Nate clucked his tongue, shaking his head at Reggie. “This won’t be the first time or the last. It’s amazing what certain police officers can swear on at a crime scene.”

  “Crooked?”

  “Tampered evidence. Eyewitnesses who come out of nowhere.” He shrugged. “If you know where to go.” He rolled the top of the newspaper with his finger. “Who to bribe. Which cops will turn a blind eye.”

  Reggie slumped into a chair. “I suspected as much. He just let me and Hamish in.” She turned the radio dial through the static of commercial jingles and news broadcasts. Valari’s name was mentioned. More than once. Then her name. She exchanged a look with Nate.

  “Reggie Van Buren of the New Haven Van Burens.” Nate scratched the back of his neck. “Never really gave a hide for any Van Burens before, but assume that your parents won’t be thrilled to have the family name associated with a scandal in Scollay Square.”

  Reggie flicked the switch to silence. “I’ve done a poor job of maintaining contact with them this summer.” Reggie felt a strange sense of empowerment by not caring.

  “I doubt that will help.” Nate looked at the radio.

  “There was a gash on her head. A bloodstain on the wall. A red mark on her neck. She fell backward. If she just tripped on her way down, why would she be walking backward? Wouldn’t she have fallen face first?” Reggie squirmed. “She had a rather annoying laugh. It’s cruel to say so, but true. And now it’s turned off forever.”

  Nate met her eyes but didn’t attempt to fill the silence with a throwaway line. One of the reasons Reggie liked him so much. The phone rang again and Reggie prepared herself for slamming the receiver. She had no patience for Luca’s cryptic phone calls. Or reporters. She sighed with relief when it was Hamish.

  “Hamish!” She looked at Nate, who smiled.

  “I don’t want to talk there,” he said, his voice tired and raspy.

  She hopped up. “Where, then?”

  “Union Oyster House. It will be loud.”

  Reggie nodded, folding her journal into her handbag.

  “I suppose this means there isn’t only one gumshoe in the building.” Nate smiled, thinking of Jimmy Orlando down the hall.

  “We won’t keep anything from you,” Reggie said.

  “I should hope not. Though, Reggie, to be a detective, you maybe shouldn’t be so trusting with your top-secret information.”

  “It’s you, Nate. You’re our ally. Like that doorman in Winchester Molloy’s building.”

  “I don’t know whether to take this as a compliment.”

  “Yes! Our ally!”

  With a last smile, Reggie hopped out the door and down the stairs, tossing her hair a moment as if she were Irene Dunne and the camera lens was following her fluid movements. She quickened her pace over Hanover, swerving on Marshall Street, her flat oxfords long accustomed to the grooves and stops of the cobblestones.

  Hamish was easy to spot at the oyster bar, book open in front of him. Notre-Dame. Of course. A safety blanket or good luck charm. She wondered if he kept it tucked in his breast pocket. She sat beside him on a rickety stool. He was studying the shells of raw oysters amidst squares of ice. Nearby, a man was shucking the sea creatures from their half-shells, spinning a yarn about a man who ate plates and plat
es full of oysters daily, between gulps of brandy and water.

  Reggie wrinkled her nose. “It’s smelly in here.”

  “It’s busy and no one will look for us here.” He looked at her pointedly. “Not even Vaughan Vanderlaan.”

  “Don’t sulk, Hamish.”

  “Luca doesn’t care. I mean he cares. He says a tarnished reputation is part of the sacrifice of fame.”

  “He’s so insufferable. Sorry. I know he’s your cousin. It’s just if it were my club . . .”

  “What would you do?” Hamish looked up, his eyes wide.

  “I don’t know.” She wrinkled her nose. “But something. I would want to do something.”

  Hamish reached for a napkin, hand grazing a basket full of condiments. The man behind the bar scooped more oysters. “What will you have?”

  “Fish sandwich.” Reggie knew she wasn’t hungry enough to eat it.

  “Sir?”

  Hamish hemmed and hawed through the menu before settling on crab cakes and a tomato juice.

  Reggie turned a napkin over in her hand. “We’re agreed on one thing, Hamish. Publicity or no publicity, that was no accident.”

  Say something clever. Say something clever to this clever girl. “To solve a mystery, my mother said, you just have to cut open the human heart and find its darkest corner.”

  “Perfect!”

  “Morbid, actually.” Hamish raised an eyebrow at her excitement.

  “It still saddens me.” Their food had arrived. Reggie stabbed a bite of coleslaw. “To think that the police are so easy to bribe.”

  “Not all. My friend Maisie . . .” His thoughts caught on Maisie a moment like a snag in a knit sweater. “Her father was on the police force. Now she’s a dispatcher. I just think you can find a few shady characters in every profession.”

  “If it was someone like Schultze, he probably knew which ones to put in charge of the Flamingo.”

  “Notice he was there when we went back?” Hamish said, playing the sun’s reflection off the end of his knife handle. “They always say people return to the scene of their crime. But”—he snickered—“it was an accident.”

  “I hate that odious man.” Reggie clenched her fist.

  “If they’re not going to pay attention, then we are. Luca may not mind having a trail of suspicion after him, but I do.”

  “You’re very loyal.”

  “He’s innocent.” Hamish looked at his untouched plate. “I know he is.” Hamish wasn’t sure he knew anything at all. He reached into his pocket and extracted the list of names he had scribbled at Luca’s. “Here.” He passed it to her and stabbed at a crab cake. It was fluffy and soft, and if he’d had an appetite, he would have found it tasty. “Have you ever solved a mystery before?” he asked, watching her eyes focus on the names.

  “Other than Jenny Wyatt’s runaway kitten?”

  “There is a 98 percent chance that we will fail miserably.”

  “So there’s a strong 2 percent chance we won’t. And I get to play Myrna Loy.”

  Hamish’s responding smile stifled his yawn. “So there are several reasons someone might kill Mary Finn.”

  Reggie reached for her notebook and pen. “Schultze’s jealous wife!”

  “His wife wasn’t at the Flamingo.” Hamish leaned back from his plate, played his fingers over his forearm like piano keys. “That we saw.”

  She continued scribbling. “It doesn’t rule her out.”

  “Crime of passion,” Hamish said. “She fought with Johnny Wade.” He recalled overhearing their passionate exchange behind the bar. “Hand me a piece of paper, Reggie.”

  Reggie tore a sheet from her notebook and slid it across to him with a pen. He flexed his fingers and picked up the pen, drawing a large square.

  “What’s that?”

  “The Flamingo.” He leaned into it, drawing. “Every exit and entrance. We need someone who had the opportunity as well as the motive.”

  “Dirk Foster.” Reggie scribbled the name underneath the list Hamish had made.

  “Who?”

  “Friend of Vaughan’s. When I was on my way to change the lightbulb, he was nearby.”

  Hamish felt a strange satisfaction hearing her say Vaughan’s name so passively. “Oh.”

  “I don’t think he could be a killer.”

  “Anyone can be a killer.” Hamish drew a circle on the table with his finger. “We’re all driven to things we didn’t think ourselves capable of.” He was thinking of Luca again. Luca and his club.

  He leaned away from Reggie and opened Notre-Dame. It fell on the chapter where Esmeralda gave Quasimodo a drop of water after his whipping and public ridicule in the stocks. Hugo spoke of the port of union of two scenes: the chapter began, developed in parallel lines at the same moment, each in its particular theater. Then the two adjacent storylines met at a point of intersection. Two seemingly separate things conjoining in the middle.

  “What are you thinking?” Reggie broke his reverie.

  “I’ve read Hunchback of Notre-Dame too many times.”

  “Tell me.”

  “What if someone wanted to set Luca up to take a fall?” He held out his pinky fingers. He shrugged. “Just something in the book about two separate events meeting in the middle,” he finished lamely.

  “With Schultze’s walking stick the murder weapon?” The oyster shucker looked at Reggie. She lowered her voice. “Wouldn’t that be a setup for Schultze?”

  “He left it behind the bar when he went to dance.” He rubbed his head. “Maybe Mary took it. I don’t know—because she was angry with him?” He rubbed his hand. “Besides, it wasn’t the murder weapon. Not that we know. It was just used to rough her up.”

  “Maybe he was tiring of her? Or his wife found out . . . ?”

  “Or maybe she was a pawn.” Hamish dragged his knife over his plate. “If she knew who knew what strings to pull . . .”

  Reggie picked up Hamish’s lead. “She may have known. Always around. Hearing things.”

  “Someone wanted her dead.”

  Reggie mussed her hair. “That still doesn’t explain why Luca was there. Or Suave.”

  “Mark Suave and the other man from the Dragonfly. Luca may have been meeting them. I didn’t see them leave, but I saw them throughout the night.”

  “So they could have killed her?”

  “I don’t know why they would want to.” Hamish folded a page of Notre-Dame absently with his finger. “Whether or not the murder was committed by my cousin”—Hamish’s voice was sad—“I can’t help but suspect him.”

  “What would his motive have been?”

  Hamish shrugged. “I don’t know . . . but I don’t know him at all, do I?”

  CHAPTER 21

  Sadness swirled through Hamish after Reggie left him for the office. He didn’t want to return to Luca’s penthouse and wondered if he should just start sleeping on the floor of the office. A prickle in his brain reminded him that he wanted to retreat homeward and shake the summer off, leaving it far behind until it was just Hamish and Luca again without secrets or corpses or telegrams. “Scandal sells,” Luca once told him, and the club that had seemed a success at its opening was now near legendary. Brian MacMillan had rung the penthouse earlier to say that people were already lining up hours before dusk. The police said that since it was a contained incident, there was no need to block the entirety of the premises.

  “There has to be something I missed when we were there,” Hamish explained to Reggie when she asked why he was going back to the club. “Why don’t you go to the office and see if anyone calls with anything and I will try to go over everything we may have missed.” The reporters probably would have moved on by now and Hamish knew that the club was intended to open per usual that night. Maybe Schultze would be prowling around and he could read him more closely.

  He wondered if his stomach would ever stop flipping. Luca was in the basement that night. And if he was innocent, why didn’t he just say, “I had no idea. I j
ust ducked downstairs to get some vintage champagne”? Luca didn’t think he owed anyone any explanation. Why would he? He was sent home without even a warning. An accident.

  A girl falling backward down the stairs. Confronted at the top, terrified. Two of the men who’d assaulted Luca and Hamish at the Dragonfly several days before hovering nearby.

  And no one would have heard her scream. Hamish recalled Mary’s cheese-grater voice, raspy from her boisterous laugh and the noise rising around her. She flailed with no witnesses, she screeched with a lost voice. The noise on the floor was overpowering. But Luca would have heard her.

  Hamish walked through the ornamented doors, looking around. The club seemed so stale in daylight, devoid of the magic that set it alive at night. A uniformed officer was lighting up near the bar and a few vendors were delivering the usual shipments.

  Schultze was indeed there, unmoved. Hamish avoided him and walked to the bar. Johnny Wade wasn’t there yet and standing behind it gave him the best vantage of the world of the Flamingo in daylight. A different perspective. The bar was slightly curved, and Johnny could easily ease down and take in the whole of the action in front of him.

  When the phone jangled, he considered letting it ring and ring and ring into oblivion. Instead he picked it up, fully prepared to slam it down again if it were a reporter.

  He didn’t know how to answer. “Flamingo Club.”

  “Hamish.”

  His father’s voice was half-frantic and half-angry. Hamish listened silently through the barrage of Italian, tempted to follow the instinct to listen to his father’s advice and buy a train ticket back to Toronto. Of course the headlines had reached Toronto. The ordeal had the right ingredients for a top story: A promiscuous woman. A dashing club owner. Music and madness and blood and passion. Hamish’s father doubtless had heard the take that Mary was entangled in an ill-fated love affair with his nephew. Hamish placated him as best he could then dropped his head on the bar top. What wasn’t he seeing through his cataracts of loyalty to Luca?