In an absent sort of way, I’d kept an eye out for anyone following me when I set out this morning. I’d been so revved up when I left the bank that I couldn’t recall checking since. Whether or not the bag I shoved onto the floor of my car contained money, I was fairly certain it held the contents of Draper’s safety deposit box. I didn’t want to walk anywhere with it – not into The Good Neighbor store, not to my office. I wasn’t that keen on driving around with it, either.
The solution that came to mind made it prudent to hide evidence of my widow’s weeds. Keeping my eyes peeled around me, I took off the black hat and jacket. I unpinned my hair and shook it out like I usually wore it. I couldn’t do anything about the dowdy black skirt. I slapped on some lipstick and headed a couple of blocks to Market House.
Finding a parking space right in front of police headquarters was less than zero, but on the building’s north side there was a huge sliding door. Aware I was about to get myself in hot water, I pulled up in front of it and leaned on my horn. It took another blast ... another ... and another.... The sliding door opened halfway and a cop in uniform stormed out. An older guy.
“What the hell do you think – ah, jeez. It’s the Sullivan kid. You doing okay after the business you took in that alley?”
“Yeah, I’m good.” Half the department must know details. Fine, as long as Seamus and Billy didn’t.
“Clear out before both our heads roll. You know there’s no stopping here.”
“I’ve got something for Freeze – bag of evidence in a homicide. Not sure what’s in it, but maybe money enough to pay the salaries of the whole department. Didn’t want to chance walking around with it. Someone’s been following me.”
He thought half a second.
“Okay, drive inside.” He opened the door enough to accommodate me as he spoke. “Mind you pull to the side. You know where to find Freeze?”
I parked the DeSoto as close as I could to the wall and jumped out. Staring at me from the center of the garage was the massive steel-plated Cadillac used by the Flying Squad. If a bank was robbed, an alarm sounded here and members of the squad came tearing down and into the car, which would already have its motor running. Machine guns, shotguns, tear gas and more were lined up inside it.
Fortunately, no banks were robbed as I made my way up the stairs.
“Is Boike or the lieutenant in?” I asked when I reached Freeze’s section.
“Boike is, don’t know about Freeze.”
I nodded and found him. Boike looked up as I dropped the bag on his desk.
“Draper had secret accounts at another bank,” I announced. “He cleaned them both out the day before he died. Happens that same day he asked to leave this at a place where he got Swedish massages. He told the owner he’d be back for it. I’m guessing it may hold a good bit of cash.”
I gave him a few particulars, mainly addresses.
“Hey, wait!” he said as I started to leave.
“I’m parked where I shouldn’t be. You don’t want me getting a ticket, do you, Boike? I’ve got to be somewhere. Tell Freeze if he has questions I’ll fill him in later.”
“At least tell me how you happen to have this.”
I smiled from the doorway.
“A woman who looked like she was in mourning with a veil on her face handed it to me.”
* * *
By the time I drove toward Bellbrook the afternoon was more than half gone. I’d returned my borrowed outfit to The Good Neighbor shop, followed by a stop at my office. There I’d dashed off some notes about what I’d learned at the bank and from Ingrid, with names and addresses. I’d put them into an envelope addressed to Wildman, and that envelope in another one to a post office box I keep. If anything happened to me at this point, Wildman would still get a decent account of what I’d learned.
The last thing I’d done was retrieve the photographs borrowed from Cecilia Perkins and Rogers. I removed them from their nice frames and put them in cardboard ones that protected them but were easier to haul around without breaking glass.
The drive from downtown to Bellbrook took half an hour, maybe longer. It was country roads most of the way, so I couldn’t fly along at thirty-five like I did on the highway. That was fine with me since it was the first chance I’d had to sit and think through the considerable number of things I’d learned that afternoon. How did they fit with what I already knew, and what did it all tell me?
First there were the brief facts I’d shared with Boike. Friday before last, one day after Wildman had hired me, Draper had surfaced long enough to clear out his clandestine bank accounts. That same day, he’d left a bag with Ingrid. He’d told her he’d return for it.
Unfortunately for Draper, on the next day, Saturday, someone had hit him over the head and pushed him into the river. Several days after that, someone posing as him had opened his safety deposit box and thrown a fit upon finding it empty.
It had been the real Draper at Ingrid’s. After she’d handed me the bag, while I was still standing there, stunned, she’d told me awkwardly that he was a good man. When she’d scolded him about costing her money by missing appointments, he’d apologized and insisted on paying her for them, she said. He’d told her he wanted to get back on her schedule.
What the hell had he been up to? Deflecting suspicion by indicating he meant to stay around, surely. But why reappear once you’d disappeared? And why hadn’t he taken whatever was in the safety deposit box in the first place? I didn’t have any answers by the time I saw the place I was looking for up ahead.
It was a simple wood-sided building, painted brown. There was nothing fancy about it, but it wasn’t run down, either. Parked next to it were two pickup trucks and a car that looked like it might belong to a salesman. I pulled up beside them.
The place got right to the point with its advertising. A painted sign three times the width of the door it hung above said simply BEER. I’d switched to my blue hat and had on the new shoes I’d bought Saturday. They had stacked heels, stylish but sturdy enough for trotting around the way I did in the course of my work, and laced at the instep. What with the shoes and the hat and the progress I’d made that afternoon, I felt positively chipper as I went inside.
A man whose features were sliding off of his face stood behind the bar. He greeted me pleasantly.
“Nice location you’ve got here,” I said.
He nodded. “Get you something to drink?”
“A beer sounds good. Dark, if you have it.”
While he moved to get it, I had a look around. Three men in workmen’s garb were playing poker for matchsticks in the corner. Two others sat at a table sipping beer. A guy in a suit leaned on the opposite end of the bar with his chin on his hand. The walls were smooth, varnished knotty pine decorated with signs advertising Budweiser and Pabst Blue Ribbon and Lucky Strike. You wouldn’t expect excitement here, but it wasn’t a place where you’d worry about trouble either. A good part of their business probably came from people who were just passing through.
The beer I got was closer to amber than dark, something from the Olt Brothers. I paid for it and took a swig. It was okay.
“You selling?” the bartender asked, nodding at the big manilla envelope I’d placed on the bar beside me. The photographs were inside it.
“Buying, maybe.” I slid six bits toward him.
He studied the room.
“Information?”
I nodded.
“Man’s cheating on you, he’s not too bright.”
I laughed. “It’s not like that.”
I handed him one of my cards. He read it and the features on his face slid even lower.
“Nothing to make any trouble,” I reassured. “I’m just trying to locate a couple of people who might have come in here.”
He considered a minute. Another man, this one in shirt sleeves with a suit jacket over his arm, came in. His eyes made a sweep of the room. He came to the bar and ordered a whiskey which he took to a table. His manner was mor
e alert than that of the other occupants, but that could be nothing more than being in a new place. I kept an eye on him anyway.
“You want me to look at pictures or something? Is that all?” asked the bartender as he came back from serving the new arrival.
“That’s it.”
He took the quarters. I removed the two photographs and turned them so we both could see. At the other end of the bar the guy in the suit had looked up with interest.
“Let me know if you recognize any of these gents.” I watched the bartender’s eyes. They didn’t hesitate much. Neither did his finger.
“Sure, that one’s been in.” He pointed at Draper. His finger moved on. “That one too. Came in several times, both of them. Usually sat together. Haven’t been in for a while, though.”
I let out a long breath.
Thirty-eight
I knew who Draper’s partner was now. What I needed was proof. After waiting outside the roadhouse for five minutes to see if anyone came out who might be following me, I started the engine and pointed the DeSoto back toward town.
The sad-faced bartender hadn’t been able to tell me much more about the two men meeting there. Things were starting to jell, though. Except that I was ending up with more questions than answers. Why had Draper vanished while his partner remained? And once Draper had taken off, why had he come back? To get whatever had been in the safety deposit box, apparently. But why hadn’t he taken it in the first place?
There was also the nasty little question of who had killed Draper.
I knew who Draper’s partner was, but was that individual capable of murder? Maybe when you operated at the level of big time investment and big time swindles, you hired goons to do your dirty work.
Several people in this little drama knew goons.
* * *
The time for calling Ferris Wildman wasn’t ideal by the time I got back. At this time of day he usually met with his manager. After what I’d learned, though, I wanted to make doubly certain he stayed safe these next few days. I propped my feet on the desk and pulled the phone over and dialed.
“Miss Sullivan. Do you have something to report?” he asked when he came on.
“I know who Draper’s partner was, and I may have found part of the money, but I need you to act irritated from here on out like I’m not making progress. Did you send Stuart away?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t leave your house tomorrow – not for anything, not with anyone.”
“I really–”
“Please. Plead illness if you have to.”
Some seconds elapsed. When he spoke his voice was stoney.
“As you wish.”
“I need to go to Lebanon tomorrow to see if I can learn one more thing. I should have plenty to tell you when I get back. Could I stop by sometime in the evening?”
“Nine o’clock?”
“Fine.”
“You are not meeting my expectations.” He hung up.
I hoped he was playacting.
The envelope with the phone number Jenks had left for me caught my eye. I looked at the clock. Chicago was an hour earlier. Chances were good I could reach Lucinda Graham before her husband got home, which was what I wanted.
It took a while to get through.
“My name’s Sullivan, and I’m calling from Dayton about a friend of hers,” I told the butler who answered. “I won’t keep her a minute.”
I wondered whether she’d take a call from a stranger with such a vague explanation. Judging from what I’d been told about her shyness, I thought she might.
Several minutes elapsed before a soft voice answered.
“Hello? This is Lucinda Graham speaking.”
Soft and lovely and soothing, the voice matched Cecilia Perkins’ description.
“Mrs. Graham, my name’s Maggie Sullivan, and I hope I’m not inconveniencing you. I’m tying up some things related to the death of Harold Draper.”
At the other end of the line, I heard her breath catch.
“When?” Her voice broke on the question. She hadn’t known.
“A little over a week ago. I’m sor–”
My apology died as the receiver went down on a heart-broken sob.
Sometimes succeeding makes you feel like a heel. This was one of those times. I’d learned something that might help explain why Draper had done what he did. It looked like he’d had an affair with Lucinda Graham – and it had meant something to her.
* * *
I figured I’d earned some fun. I headed to Finn’s to collect. There was a great story I could tell about Wee Willie Ryan trying to tie a firecracker onto a cat’s tail. Wee Willie hadn’t been able to pick his nose for a week. Once his ma finished with him, he hadn’t been able to sit down, either.
As soon as I opened the door, the friendliness of the place gathered me into its arms. This time of year, no matter how often Finn mopped the hardwood floor, there was almost always a gray puddle right inside the door from people stamping off slush. I stepped around it. When I looked up I came to a dead stop. There was Connelly, watching me from the place where he stood near the back of the bar.
My thoughts has been so tied up on the Draper business, and I’d been in such fine spirits, I’d forgotten how unsettled the night he’d driven me home had left me. My taste buds were set on a proper beer, though, and Finn’s had been my place a long time before Connelly happened along. I wasn’t about to cede territory, so taking a breath to steady myself, I walked slowly back and sat down next to him.
Finn’s tended to fill from the front. Several stools separated us from other customers. Connelly gave up leaning on the bar to slide onto the stool beside me. We didn’t speak.
Connelly ducked his head to the full pint before him and took a sip, tilting the glass.
“Put out over me seeing you home, are you?” he said with amusement. “Here I thought you might be thawing a little.”
I felt the force of his presence.
“I wasn’t myself the other night. Don’t make anything of it.”
“You lecturing me or yourself?”
Down the bar Finn held a clean glass aloft and looked a question. I nodded. Finn drew my Guinness and set it aside to settle enough to top it for the perfect thickness of foam.
“There’s nothing wrong with having feelings, Maggie. With making a chink or two in that wall.”
But I’d seen too much of my dad’s feelings – love, adoration, pain as he tried to please my mother and got back scathing indifference. I shook my head.
“You don’t understand.”
“You’re right, but it won’t deter me.”
Memory of standing on the porch with him at Mrs. Z’s pushed through despite my efforts.
“You fight dirty, Connelly.”
He swiveled and leaned on his elbow, so close our breaths mingled. His voice was soft.
“I fight any way I can win, Maggie mavourneen. And I don’t give up easy. When I was eleven, men came to the house and killed my brother while my mother begged for his life and the little ones screamed. I vowed to get the men responsible. Took me ten years.”
“Jesus, Connelly–”
His head gave a shake, cutting me off. “Idiot thing to tell a woman. Sorry. I’ll speak no more on it. All I meant to say is, I know how to wait. And I’ll keep trying to win you ‘til barley grows diamonds.”
He turned and began to banter with Finn, who was bringing my Guinness.
My mouth was so dry I could hardly swallow. I’d just learned more about Connelly than all the rest I knew about him put together. More than anyone else here knew, likely. He was that self-contained. He’d come to manhood in bloody times, and had left Ireland only a few years ago, when he was already closing on thirty. He’d still been there when Michael Collins was killed.
I took another drink and saw him watching me from the edge of his eyes. I nodded. To indicate ... I wasn’t sure what. Acceptance. Agreement that if his brother’s death were mentioned again,
it would be his doing.
As he opened his mouth to speak, cheery voices erupted at the front of the bar. Here came Billy and Seamus, arm and arm, their faces ready to split with grins.
“And here he gives me this record,” Seamus was saying. “And it’s not my birthday or anything!”
“Women give each other blankets and rattles and such when they have a new baby,” Billy said proudly. “Figured I should do something like that for my oldest chum.”
Tough Cookie (Maggie Sullivan mysteries) Page 20
