Murder at the Flamingo

by Rachel McMillan

  “He was arrested and let go,” Hamish explained when there was a break in his father’s words.

  “Arrested? And you?”

  “I found her. Well, Reggie and I found her.” Then remembered his father had no idea who Reggie was.

  “You found a corpse? You found a corpse. Hamish. You can’t even find a dead bird on the lawn without retreating to your room for a week. Are you all right?”

  “I am trying to be.”

  “I will wire you money. Buy a ticket. Come on. There’s still a chance, you know. Harry Winslow was by the office the other day.”

  “I don’t need you smoothing things over for me. I make my own decisions.”

  “You’re still playing this game? Don’t throw away your life for Luca, Hamish.”

  “Throw it away there instead?”

  There was a crackle of silence on the other end of the line. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I don’t know if I’m cut out for law. I don’t know if I’m . . .” He waved his hand, not sure how to explain himself, knowing there was nothing but static silence on his father’s end of the line. So much had happened. He felt different. He tangled his finger in the phone cord.

  “This is hardly the time. You’re tired. Anxious. Come home, we can talk here.”

  “You’ve read the papers. You know that the police have written the incident off as an accident. I don’t believe it is. I can’t go anywhere until I find out what happened.”

  “You sound like your mother.”

  “Thank you!” Hamish knew his dad’s statement wasn’t a compliment, but accepted it as one nonetheless.

  “Hamish.”

  “I’m fine. I promise you.”

  “I . . .”

  “You know how you used to tell me that you just knew . . . about Toronto? That the moment you saw the harbor and the skyline you knew it was where you were supposed to be?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s Boston for me right now. It’s all right,” Hamish said, knowing as the words left his mouth he was trying to convince himself. “It’s all right,” he repeated, starting to believe it.

  He clicked the receiver and narrowed his eyes out on the floor again.

  “Well, look at you, taking a serious interest in your cousin’s endeavors,” Schultze said, approaching the bar. “Are you going to mix me a drink?”

  Hamish leaned forward. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  Schultze straightened his tie. “If it were me, wouldn’t I be settled in a prison cell by now?” He waved toward the empty club. “I am just an investor making sure my capital won’t be lost due to an . . . unfortunate . . . scandal.”

  Hamish seethed inside, clutching his fingers tight. “How long have you been associated with my cousin, Mr. Schultze?”

  “Not long. Since he moved here. You always go to Luca Valari before he comes to you. Something I learned early on. Edwin Baskit knew his name.”

  “He has a reputation,” Hamish said casually, hoping his tone didn’t specify what kind. “But I know he didn’t kill Mary Finn. So who did?” He kept his eyes on Schultze.

  “That’s the question. Or she fell down the stairs. She was a clumsy girl, Hamish. I know better than anyone. Ah! Good!” Roy Holliday strolled from the entrance across the dance floor. “At least we have our bandleader. We can turn a better profit than Luca would have expected. This will help him when he opens the next one.”

  Hamish recalled Luca talking enthusiastically about several of the same type of clubs. “And I suppose you’ll be involved in that?”

  “You suppose right. Men like Luca are the same in every city. And the sooner you find one, the sooner you’re set.”

  Hamish studied Schultze. The man made him uncomfortable, but nothing clicked in his chest. There wasn’t anything inauthentic about him. What you saw was what you got: selfish, secretive, treated everyone but Luca as if they were below him. But a liar?

  Hamish took one more stroll down to the basement, not even registering the ease with which he explored the space where Mary had been sprawled lifelessly. If Hamish stopped to think about it—which he did once he was outside and walking in the direction of the North End office—he would notice that he wasn’t reacting the way Hamish usually reacted. He had nearly forgotten about his father’s phone call. He had walked into the club and behind the bar without permission—with a kind of command he assumed since Luca had called it “their” club. Men like Luca might have stayed the same, as Schultze said; but men like Hamish? The longer he stayed in Boston, the harder it was to recognize himself.

  Reggie couldn’t keep the image of Mary Finn suddenly pale and motionless from appearing behind her eyes as soon as she closed them. The calls she received the moment she picked up the jangling phone in the office were all reporters. It was a break from the usual Chicago calls, at least.

  “I spent my life saying, ‘My apologies, no comment,’” Reggie told Hamish the moment he walked through the door, explaining how reporters liked to shadow her parents’ parties and poke at the probability of scandal to serve up on the platter of the society pages. “Find anything at the club?”

  Hamish shook his head. Then yawned. “And I spent my life learning that a good reporter will get around ‘no comment’ and leave the scene with more than a scoop.” Hamish sat on the edge of her desk, swinging his long legs. He had become more and more comfortable, or else his brain was too tired to notice his proximity to her. “No comment often means someone is scared of something. You just need to know how to draw out the truth.”

  “Well, no good reporters are calling here then,” Reggie surmised, clicking the receiver on another one.

  “My father called.”

  “Oh?”

  “The Flamingo. I just happened to pick up.”

  “I suppose he realized that would be the best place to reach you.”

  “I meant to write him and give him Luca’s number . . .” Hamish trailed off. Then he studied a note she had written to herself. “Dirk?”

  “During one of our dances around the Flamingo, Vaughan told me he was staying at the Park Plaza, as was Dirk. The papers mention him, but he is no longer an interesting link now that the police under Vasser have named it an accident. He answered their questions when someone said they had seen him with Mary.”

  “And . . . ?”

  Reggie sighed. “Maybe I’ve seen The Thin Man too many times, but I am willing to bet that a girl didn’t bash her head unevenly on a wall and fall backward. No one showed real attachment to Mary, did they? She had made strong impressions on several men. Johnny Wade the bartender. Dirk . . .”

  Hamish picked up one of the rolled newspapers on the edge of the desk and unfolded it.

  “Johnny went on record with the Tribune.” He showed her. She nodded.

  The headline and the rows of print about his loyalty and passion for Mary showed a man gutted by the loss of his onetime girlfriend. Very sensational, and the shot they used of him captured the height of his cheekbones and the sensual upturn of his lips. Reggie inched the paper toward her once Hamish was finished and read it again and again, trying to find something that would suggest a motive. Something between the lines.

  Though favorable, the story gave a different slant from articles about Luca. Luca was quite popular in most of the papers, having breezed into the city with his dark good looks and modern club. Why, a society writer said it was even better than the Stork. More sophisticated than anything in Manhattan. Roy Holliday’s band and the selection of liquors had something to do with it. But it was clear that Luca was a part of the ambience and the success.

  Reggie rapped her pen over her open journal. She’d told the reporters she was going to solve the murder. How splendid would it be if they actually did it?

  “I don’t see the Herald,” Hamish said, leafing through the papers.

  “Nate has that one.”

  Hamish rose. “I’ll be back.” He ducked out of the office.

  Reggie
was inspecting the black ink on her finger pads from hours of leafing through the papers when she heard someone approaching.

  “Miss Van Buren.”

  “Mr. Suave.” She made his name sound as ironic as possible.

  He looked around, hands behind his back, brow furrowed. “So this is Luca Valari’s office.”

  “Any and all business pertaining to the Flamingo happens here,” Reggie said evenly. Suave’s voice prickled her neck and tingled down her arms. Even his hello had her on guard.

  “I need to take a look around.” He stepped toward her desk. “You won’t mind that, will you? Just a little peek?”

  Reggie followed his eyes over bookshelves devoid of books, filing cabinets with no files, her flowers wilting in the excitement of the Flamingo.

  So intent in watching what his eyes might see, she didn’t notice when he lunged in her direction. And when her arm was gripped white with his strength, she was too startled to do anything but gulp a breath and widen her eyes through the surprise.

  “Luca never does anything without purpose.”

  “I don’t know him that well.” Reggie’s teeth chattered, though she tried to stay them, her eyes darting around the office. He had clicked the door shut behind him, barring easy escape.

  “You know him well enough.” He grabbed her arm. “You’re a pretty one. I noticed it the other night when you were worried for your boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  Suave reached out his index finger and pressed it to her chin, working up and along her jawline, tracing over her cheekbone.

  “Please stop.” Her voice shook. Suave stepped behind her desk, moving into the slice of space she still possessed between her desk and the window opening to the square below.

  The giggles and shrieks of children, the call of a young woman to her boyfriend, mocked her with their nearness. And worse still, Hamish and Nate were just down the hall. When she tried to conjure a scream, her voice caught in her throat.

  His arms were around her now. “An aristocrat, if I am not mistaken.” His breath was suffocating. “What do you know about your employer? Does the name Frank Fulham mean anything to you?”

  Reggie shook her head, fighting against him, shoving him back, arm muscles stretched and taut with years of tennis lessons. But he was stronger and the walls closed in around her.

  “I don’t know anything. But you do. You’re the one who had him in the b-basement of that club that night.”

  He laughed lowly then began to say something as the door opened and Hamish returned.

  She breathed a sigh of relief as Suave turned, still gripping her but without his sour breath at her neck.

  Hamish registered the scene and his voice was immediately masked in anger. “Get your hands off her!” He crossed the room. “Do I need to call the police, Regina?”

  “Hamish,” Reggie breathed, relieved.

  Suave backed up then, looking Hamish over, Reggie wondering if he would move in his direction. Not worth it, he apparently decided. He swerved back to Reggie and with a cocky glance at Hamish stroked her cheek down into the swoop of her neck between her jawline and collarbone. “You really are quite striking. I will be back. Tell your boss. I am this close to closing in on him, and I won’t be as lenient.” He stabbed Hamish with a glare then shoved out the door. “I know his weakness.”

  Reggie crumpled over a little. Hamish was in front of her in a moment, putting his hand on her shoulder.

  “Are you all right?”

  “If you hadn’t come.” She blinked sudden tears as the realization of her situation hit. Hamish’s hand shook a little—but this time she was sure it was from anger more than anything else. “Can I get you something? Water? No? Oh, Reggie, I hate that he touched you.”

  Reggie shook her head. “If I was smart, I would pick up my hat and gloves and never return here. But we’re going to solve this.” She held on to that. “We are going to solve this murder.” She gestured between them. “You and I. And I don’t care if it implicates your stupid cousin.” She watched his face for a reaction. He still seemed to be processing the close call with Suave.

  Livid and unable to stand still, he rocked back and forth on his heels. “I want to find a nice column to shove Suave into. I should have . . .” He fingered the last whisper of a red mark over his neck. “I’m so sorry.”

  Reggie gave him a weak smile. “It’s okay. I can’t have you arrested too. We just need to find out who Fulham is and where the file is and solve the murder.” She ran her hand over her face. “It’s a lot. But, Hamish, Suave isn’t against using force and hurting people close to your cousin. What if Luca’s next?”

  “Just take a breath, Reggie,” he said, evening out his own.

  CHAPTER 22

  Hamish chewed his lip. Yes, but Luca brought it upon himself. Reggie was innocent and just in the way. He was innocent and just in the way. He blew out a long whistle of a breath.

  Reggie rose. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t been here.”

  Hamish swallowed. He didn’t know either. Reggie was quite formidable—but when overpowered?

  “Well!” Reggie clapped, sounding more like herself. “William Powell. We need to start solving our murder.”

  “Are you sure? We could call it a day. Get a cup of tea? You had quite an ordeal, Reggie.”

  “I like to think that I am prepared to handle anything—”

  Hamish anticipated a rousing proclamation of strength to follow, but instead she broke off, looking out the window to the square below.

  She shrugged. “So let’s start with Dirk Foster.” She rose. “He’s at the Park Plaza.” She reached for the phone. “I can call a taxi.”

  “Or we can enjoy a bit of sunshine.” His mouth tipped up a little while his eyes looked in the direction of the bicycle leaning against the opposite wall.

  Once they exited the building, Hamish motioned toward his bike and moments later she settled on the handlebars as if she had been doing so her entire life. She glanced back at him with a laugh, and while he could hear a tinge of nerves in it—something he could detect in a stranger as well as someone he had spent as much time with as Reggie—he sensed she truly had returned to herself. Hamish balanced her and they set off. They drew a little more attention in the daylight than they had returning from the Flamingo, but Reggie didn’t care. The breeze whooshed away the nightmares and the confusion since Vaughan had returned—and with him barrels full of expectation and memories that took her home.

  Hamish swerved with ease through Washington Street, turning on Tremont, the Common a sweep of green on their left, then taking a sharp left on Hadassah, while the triangularly shaped Park Plaza featuring hundreds of windows sweeping up several stories stood out grandiosely in contrast with the bustle of vendors hawking flowers and kiosks selling snacks.

  “Regina!” Vaughan’s voice was unmistakable as she hopped off the bar and smoothed her skirt beneath her. “Regina!” he repeated, jogging from the direction of the Common to reprimand her. “What are you doing on the front of this man’s bike?”

  “Vaughan!” Regina composed herself and blew a strand of hair from her forehead. “I believe you have yet to meet Hamish DeLuca. My colleague from Luca Valari’s office.”

  Hamish disentangled himself from the bike, and it wavered underneath him as he decided how to balance it properly and take Vaughan’s extended hand. He finally stayed it with his left and reached out his slightly trembling right. “H-how do you do?” He gave a weak smile.

  “Do you make it a habit of parading women around on the front of your bicycle?” Vaughan looked at her as if she had sprouted wings and flown over from the Back Bay.

  Reggie smiled. “It’s the fastest way to get from the North End.”

  “Are you here to see me?” Vaughan fixated on Hamish while talking to Reggie. “Because I was just out for a stroll. Dirk and I have been conducting business. An architect uptown wants to see some of our building
plans.”

  “That’s wonderful. You’ve worked so hard to get someone here to look at your work,” Reggie said. “But we’re actually here to see Dirk.” Reggie’s cheeks were a flattering pink from the wind in her hair and on her face.

  “What do you want to see him for?”

  “Hamish and I have a few questions about his connection to Mary Finn.”

  Vaughan took Reggie’s elbow and turned her from Hamish slightly. But Hamish could still hear. “Regina, you are not in one of those gumshoe pictures you like. The police learned all they needed to know from Dirk. He’s a friend. My friend and my business partner. He has to be fresh for our meetings on Monday. You have to understand that. You and your friend”—he stopped for an emphatic moment and shot a grating look in Hamish’s direction—“would best leave this to the professionals. Your name has been splattered around the papers enough. Your parents are mad with the notoriety. In fact, they demanded that I keep an eye on you and I mean to.”

  Reggie smiled and gently put her hand over Vaughan’s. “I know you’re just trying to protect me. But look at me! I am here in this big city! Found employment of my own means! Can change a lightbulb and poach an egg. I know what I am doing. Hamish and I aren’t placing the blame on anyone.” She smiled in Hamish’s direction. He was rolling the bicycle back and forth slightly, his knuckles white on the bars. “We just think the police could be a little more thorough.” Reggie leaned up on her oxfords and placed a kiss on Vaughan’s cheek. “We appreciate the concern.”

  “Dirk won’t take kindly to being pestered about this. A girl he stepped out with was just found dead.”

  “We’ll be compassionate and discreet. Have a lovely afternoon, Vaughan. Are you headed in the direction of the Public Garden? Seems lovely there in the sun.” She flashed him a dismissive smile.

  Hamish fought the urge to laugh. For some reason this exchange resonated through him like a victory.

  Don’t do what Vaughan tells you to, even when he uses his business voice. Another line to record in her Journal of Independence. Hamish rolled his bike silently toward the grand awning and the doormen standing at attention on either side of the monogrammed carpet, ushering guests into the broad marble foyer of the Park Plaza. He parked his bike to the left side of the gold-rimmed revolving doors and promised to collect it shortly. The doorman gave him an odd look. Hamish smoothed down the hair tousled with the exertion of their trip. Reggie pulled at her hem. Funny, the statues and fountains and perfumed air of the Plaza were more second nature to her than the convoluted cubes of the North End. At least they had been. Now, she fingered her hair and looked up at Hamish, who was silent as a morgue.