Tough Cookie (Maggie Sullivan mysteries)

by M. Ruth Myers

  “It’s not much of a walk from your place to the trolley, and I like walking. Feeling the weather and that. Don’t do near as much of it as I did back home.”

  There was a wistfulness in his voice which I’d never heard before. Not that Connelly and I had spent much time around each other, and when we had, we were usually sparring. He rubbed at the windshield, which was starting to fog.

  “I heard details of what really happened yesterday in that alley. Don’t think Billy got wind of it, though. Figured if I brought him by first thing this morning and he saw you were okay, he wouldn’t have reason to poke around asking questions.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “How bad hurt are you?”

  “Sprained shoulder and a couple of scrapes I could do without, but I’ll live.”

  We drove for a minute.

  “So, that dandy with the chocolates,” he said. “You going out with him?”

  I started to chuckle. “So that’s what this is about.”

  “It’s about exactly what I said it was when I made you the offer. I’m not one for playing games, Maggie mavourneen.” He gave a small smile. “Don’t mind admitting I’m a bit jealous, though.”

  I chuckled again, too weary to stop myself.

  “He’s someone I met on this case, and yes, he keeps asking me out. But he’s not my type and I don’t quite trust him.”

  His deep chuckle blended with mine. I’d partly turned and was leaning against the door of the car. Connelly reached out to rub the glass in front of him clear again. The streetlights we passed threw alternating bands of light and darkness across his face. It made looking at his strong profile like watching a picture show when the projector started to stutter. The small, enclosed space of the car even had the intimacy of a theater. I spoke to break free of the spell that was settling.

  “What do you make of the Japs taking over that island out by the Philippines?”

  “Can’t be good. They seem as greedy to grab land as that puffed up Adolph Hitler.”

  “Think they’ll try for the Philippines then?”

  “I think they’re right fools if they do. The Philippines are what, seven hundred some miles from the place they just took? Lots different from just rolling across a border. And America’s not going to turn nancy like the Brits and the French.”

  I traced a finger through the fog on the window beside me. I felt glum and weary and taken care of in a way I hadn’t been in a long time. Dangerous territory.

  Forcing my eyes open I made myself focus on streets and turns until we reached Mrs. Z’s. Windows along the street were cozy with lights. Here and there at the curb cars parked for the night or the weekend already were covered by a skiff of snow. Connelly gentled the DeSoto to a spot in front of Mrs. Z’s and turned off the engine. Silence swirled through the darkened car, as inescapable as the snowflakes dancing against the windshield. There was no one around but the two of us.

  “Beautiful.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Connelly removed the ignition key and handed it to me. His fingers were supple, with traces of long-ago calluses on the middle sections. I opened my purse and dropped the keys in next to my Smith & Wesson. By the time I’d finished, Connelly had come around to open my door.

  Without quite meaning to, I let him take my arm again. At this time of evening all the other girls were in, some of them primping for Friday dates. We didn’t speak as we walked up the neatly swept concrete leading to Mrs. Z’s front door. My new coat which did such a fine job of keeping out cold didn’t keep out the thrum of energy which Connelly exuded. As we reached the porch and stopped at the door, I spoke quickly to preempt any awkward ideas he might be hatching.

  “Thanks for bringing me home. And for not fussing over me the way Billy does. It drives me crazy.”

  “Sure, I know. You’re invincible, tip to toes.”

  I thought maybe he was peeved, but when I glanced up, he was smiling. He took my hand between both of his and folded it, caressing it with his thumb. Time hung suspended while we looked at each other and snowflakes fell. Then his fingers squeezed mine.

  “Take care of yourself, Maggie Sullivan.”

  Thirty

  The ride home with Connelly and the scene on the doorstep bothered me throughout the weekend. I’d felt safe. And cared for when I needed it most. And I’d liked it. I’d liked it too much.

  I slept late on Saturday, then joined the other girls filtering into the kitchen. Saturday was the one day each week when Mrs. Z gave us the use of her toaster and teakettle. We all split the cost of a couple of loaves of bread plus coffee and tea and a stick of butter. Mrs. Z supplied cream and sugar. Sometimes somebody – usually Jolene, whose folks had a farm out near Xenia, or Esther and Constance, who had an aunt in town – shared a jar of homemade preserves. Today there was strawberry-rhubarb. Anticipation of its tart sweetness bathed my tongue with saliva at every bite.

  Papers rustled as sections were passed back and forth. Today’s front page news was that William O. Douglas, chairman of the SEC, was the top pick to replace retiring justice Brandeis on the Supreme Court. It generated nearly as much discussion as yesterday’s mention of Ohio’s own Senator Taft as a favorite for the 1940 Republican presidential candidate. Interest in both lagged well behind talk of last night’s dates and sale ads with sketches of new spring fashions.

  Amid the cozy companionship, I thought about killers. Had the same person who pushed Draper into the drink also tried to kill me? More likely whoever it was had hired others to do their dirty work.

  “You won’t believe who she was with!” Constance was saying dramatically.

  If the driver of the black car in the alley had been paid to kill me, did he collect half price for missing me and killing somebody else?

  The giddiness of the thought made me realize I needed more tea. Once I’d refilled my mug and my brain cleared, I thought more productively. The attempt on my life meant I was getting close enough to the truth that someone felt threatened. The knowledge dangled in font of me like a carrot, along with the two new leads I now had to follow.

  First there was Rogers’ account of Vern’s drunken ramblings. Vern claimed someone – by the sounds of it, someone he knew – had meetings at an out-of-the-way beer joint. And he’d mumbled something about wanting his cut. The last part was particularly interesting since it jibed with what Cecilia Perkins had told me about him storming in and making a scene. It might also be one of the places where Vern had been less than truthful when I’d had him spread-eagled. He’d claimed then that he wanted in on Draper’s investment, but wanting a cut – or maybe trying his hand at blackmail – seemed to fit him better.

  The second new trail to emerge was Nico’s parting firecracker hinting Draper might still be alive. Yesterday both brain and nerves had been overloaded by my meeting with him. Today I examined the possibility from all angles. I still hit the same conclusion. Nico would know very well a morsel like that would make me turn over rocks I hadn’t looked under previously, along with quite a few that I had. If he’d told the truth about not knowing Draper or anything about him – and why should he lie? – then he must have heard something. Had someone seen Draper? Thought they’d seen Draper?

  “I still say they should have picked an American actress! She’s opposite Clark Gable!” The page in Jolene’s hand cracked as she turned past it.

  What else could lead someone to think a supposedly dead man was still alive? I tapped my teeth with a fingernail. As I cast about for reasons, the tapping slowed. Draper had done something. Or rather someone presumed to be Draper had done something. Now all I needed to do was figure out what.

  * * *

  Late Saturday I took the trolley downtown in time to find a pair of shoes to replace my ruined ones. On Sunday I went to dinner at Billy and Kate’s. I had a standing invitation, and whenever I needed reminding what decent, normal life was like, or maybe just a tie to the past, I went. Unlike the other cops’ wives who’d w
atched me grow up, Kate could be trusted not to serve me potential suitors along with her roast. The bonus was the best string beans I’d ever eaten and pies that were out of this world. Ordinarily Seamus was there, so his absence indicated the riff continued between him and Bill.

  Monday I got an early start so I could stop by Wheeler’s garage. Then I picked up the laundry I usually retrieved on my way home on Thursdays. By midmorning I’d caught up on papers, mail and other routine business. Something told me Rachel Minsky didn’t start her day as early as other people, but it was late enough I chanced a call.

  “Pearlie says somebody tried to run you over,” she said when her officious male secretary put me through.

  “Yeah, but they did sloppy work.”

  She chuckled.

  “The gentleman I met on Friday, how much can I count on what he told me being true?”

  There was silence at the end of the wire, but not because she didn’t understand I meant Nico.

  “I haven’t had many dealings with him,” she said carefully, “but from what I know of him, and have heard, it’s sound as silver.”

  “And he’s not someone who needs to bother lying.”

  “That too.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Was he useful?”

  “I’m not sure.” I’d asked all I needed to, but I found myself speaking again. “You interested in a drink after work?”

  This time the silence was short, just enough to tell me I’d surprised her.

  “Quarter to six?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Where?”

  I couldn’t quite picture her in Finn’s.

  “Hotel Miami?”

  “I think I’ll leave Pearlie elsewhere.” She chuckled and hung up.

  * * *

  It was just about noon when I got to Vern’s dealership. Three salesmen in suits were giving their spiels to potential customers who were all bundled in coats. One of the salesmen was Vern. I parked and moseyed toward one of the most expensive models near Vern.

  “Be right with you....” he began, looking up. His sunny smile started to sag as he saw who it was.

  “Just a few more questions about this number, Vern,” I trilled, waving. I pointed to the glossy roadster where I’d stopped. It was far enough away that the customers wouldn’t hear if Vern kept his voice down.

  With a few words to the couple he’d been wooing, he hot-footed toward me.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he snarled under his breath

  “Finding out why you tried to run me over on Thursday. Or hired someone to.”

  “I – don’t know what you’re talking about.” His eyes shifted and the whites were expanding. I’d made him nervous. “I told you last time you came that you’re not welcome here. Now you’re going to clear out and not come back if you know what’s good for you.” He grabbed my shoulder.

  “I don’t think so, Vern.”

  The Smith & Wesson made its public debut from my new coat’s pocket. Its tip nudged his belly about where his shirt met his trousers. His eyes traveled down. His tongue flitted out like maybe his mouth was dry. He managed a sneer.

  “You wouldn’t dare. Not here.”

  “Wouldn’t I? I’m still pretty shaken up from that car coming at me, Vern. Not really thinking straight. Hysterical, even.” The shiny roadster I’d pretended interest in was blocking the view of everyone else on the lot. So was Vern himself. Unless someone came up behind us, the gun was hidden. I kept at it. “You grabbed me ... you’d just admitted trying to kill me—”

  “No! It wasn’t me!” His voice went soprano.

  “And I panicked–”

  “I didn’t know! He said he just wanted to scare–”

  “Who, Vern?”

  “I don’t know! A-a voice on the phone.”

  “Quit lying. I know about the beer joint out toward Bellbrook. I know about you wanting a cut.”

  “Anything wrong, Vern?”

  The other two salesmen were walking toward us. Vern hadn’t kept his voice down.

  “This creep won’t cough up any money for our kid – that’s what’s wrong,” I snapped.

  The salesmen did an about-face. From the edge of my eye I saw a husband and wife who’d been looking at cars walk quickly back to their own. Vern’s panic and rage had left him almost apoplectic.

  “You’re in this up to your ears, Vern. The swindle. A woman’s death.”

  “No! All I did was give someone a phone number – that and drive a package down to Lebanon and leave it in a car!”

  “Whose car?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You chose one at random?”

  “Of course not!”

  He’d reddened, furious I was ridiculing him. Here’s where he’d tell me he’d had a license plate number which he then threw away. I nudged his belly with the .38.

  “I looked for a particular car. A maroon Ambassador. A straight-eight Speedstream” he said sullenly. “Probably the only one in the whole state.”

  He’d described such a flashy car he had to be making it up. Except he was sulking so much I believed him.

  “What was the package?”

  “A bag. Like a doctor carries. With a lock around it. I got a telephone call at home telling me it was on my doorstep. Where I was to take it. I drove to some roadside park this side of Lebanon. The luggage compartment on the Nash was unlocked. I put it in and turned the handle.”

  Vern smoothed his hair. He was recovering his wits.

  “That’s all I know. Now go away. And don’t come back.” He gave a smirk. “You can’t pin anything on me, no matter what you think you know.”

  I returned the .38 to my pocket and leaned close enough to kiss him.

  “I can still come up behind you some night when you’re out catting around. So can the men who are paying you off. You’re an inconvenience to them, Vern. You know too much.”

  Thirty-one

  Turning my back on Vern, I sauntered to my car and drove away. Two blocks from the dealership I pulled into a side street. Exactly as planned a gangly young kid hopped out of his jalopy to lope toward me. His name was Calvin and he was learning the mechanic’s trade from Eli Wheeler.

  The two of them took care of my car. Calvin was crazy for any excuse to drive it. Now and then we traded cars so I could follow someone who might recognize mine. When Calvin had to wait around to switch like he had this time, I tried to pay Eli for his helper’s hours away from work, but mostly Eli wouldn’t take it. When that happened, I took him half a ham or a chunk of the cheese that he liked.

  Calvin flipped open one of the clean towels he and Eli always used to protect the seat of customers’ cars, slid behind the wheel and drove away. From the time I got out to the time he got in took about ten seconds. I crossed the street and got into Calvin’s well-worn vehicle, which despite its looks started as fast as a sleeping cat springs up for a bird. I let the clutch out and headed back toward Vern’s place, circling a block to park where I had a view not only of anyone leaving the lot, but of cars coming out from behind the building. In back was likely to be where anyone working there parked.

  I’d shaken Vern with what I knew, even though some of it had been guesses which his reactions confirmed. Right about now, I suspected he’d be running to someone for help. That might mean calling; it might mean heading out at any moment to meet someone. If he’d tried telephoning, chances were he got cut off fast. Either way he was likely to bolt.

  When Calvin and I made arrangements, I’d transferred a pair of binoculars I kept in my car for stakeouts to the passenger seat of his car. Using them told me one of the salesmen who’d been on the front lot earlier was still there, buttering up what might even be the same customers. Vern and the other salesman were nowhere to be seen. Before I noticed anything further, a car shot out from behind the building. It wasn’t the brown-and-tan number Vern had been driving the day I dropped in on his wife, and it wasn’t the pretty champagne c
olored one she drove, but even Vern was smart enough to think of switching cars. As owner of the dealership he’d have his pick of plenty. The one I was watching was a navy blue Buick.

  Of course it could be someone else. The other salesman giving potential buyers a test ride. A customer whose car had been in for repairs or an oil change. I started the engine without lowering the binoculars, but reflection from the windshield of the navy blue Buick made it impossible to tell who was inside. It had cut through the lot as if in a hurry, and it entered the street with the same sense of urgency. But then it crept along. It could be the uneven pace of a customer unfamiliar with the car’s controls and wary of an accident. It was also a fine speed for someone watching to make sure they weren’t followed.