Murder, She Reported

by Peg Cochran

  “Irene!” Elizabeth called. “Wait.”

  Irene turned around. Elizabeth caught up with her.

  “I thought you were working tonight. I wanted to talk to you.”

  Irene turned toward Elizabeth. Her face was streaked with tears. Elizabeth put a hand on her friend’s arm.

  “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  Irene pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her coat and dabbed at her eyes. She looked around. “Can we go somewhere?”

  “Of course.”

  Elizabeth was quiet as she led Irene out the Lexington Avenue exit of the hotel. She thought she remembered seeing a coffee shop somewhere between Forty-eighth Street and Forty-seventh Street.

  The crowd all seemed to be going in the opposite direction, and Elizabeth felt as if they were swimming upstream as they wove and dodged their way down the street. It made conversation impossible so she didn’t try to question Irene while they were walking, but kept her arm on her friend’s in an attempt to shield her from the crowd as they maneuvered their way down the sidewalk. Irene’s leg braces and crutches made them slow and numerous people pushed past them, throwing pitying glances over their shoulders as they went by.

  The coffee shop Elizabeth had noticed earlier was still open, although only a handful of people sat at the counter and a few more were scattered among the tables.

  Elizabeth and Irene found a seat, and seconds later a waitress appeared at their table, sliding two menus onto the polished wood surface. Elizabeth pushed one toward Irene.

  “I…I’m not hungry,” Irene said, looking away. “Maybe just a coffee.”

  Irene was as white as anything, Elizabeth noticed, and her hands were shaking. She knew Irene had little money and she wondered how long it had been since Irene had had a decent meal. She remembered reading stories a few years back during the height of the Depression of single women living alone who’d actually died of starvation. She shuddered. It was too awful to contemplate.

  “Please order yourself something,” Elizabeth said. “It will be my treat.”

  Irene hesitated. “I can’t let you—”

  “Nonsense. It’s my pleasure.”

  Irene gave a ghost of a smile and opened the menu. Moments later the waitress reappeared.

  “I’ll have the meatloaf and mashed potatoes.” Irene hesitated and looked at Elizabeth.

  “Go on, order a side dish. Don’t you want a salad or a vegetable?”

  Irene sighed. “The creamed spinach, please.” She snapped the menu closed.

  The waitress scribbled on her notepad then looked at Elizabeth.

  “A coffee please. No, make that two coffees.”

  The waitress walked away, and Elizabeth leaned on the table. “So tell me what happened?”

  Irene’s smile faded and her lip began to quiver. “I’ve lost my job.”

  “No!” Elizabeth took Irene’s hands in hers. “What happened? I know you, and I’m sure you did a wonderful job.”

  “I tried.” Irene gave a twisted smile. She pointed to her crutches leaning against the wall. “A customer complained that they’d had to wait too long for me to bring them their coat. I told my manager that the girl who’d collected the coat, Barbara—her shift was over and she’d gone home by then—had somehow put the wrong ticket on the coat, and I couldn’t find it, but he didn’t believe me. He said it was because of my…my legs. And that since I couldn’t do the job properly, they’d have to let me go.”

  “That’s horrible,” Elizabeth said, nearly flying out of her chair in her anger. “That’s so dreadfully unfair.”

  The waitress appeared with a tray, slid the plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes in front of Irene, and placed a small dish of creamed spinach to one side.

  Elizabeth saw how Irene’s face lit up at the sight of the food, and she wanted to cry for her friend. And to think she’d been ready to spend money on a hat she didn’t even really need.

  Irene eagerly began eating the food the waitress had placed in front of her. She was nearly done when Elizabeth said, “What will you do?”

  Irene was scraping up the last bit of mashed potatoes from her plate. “I don’t know. My rent is paid through the end of the month. I’ll have to find something before then.” Irene put the empty plate her creamed spinach had been served in on top of the dinner plate and pushed both to the side. “Anyway, what is it you wanted to talk to me about? You said there was something?”

  “Oh!” Elizabeth had been so engrossed in Irene’s plight, she’d nearly forgotten. She picked up the white envelope and slid the photograph out.

  “Do you remember telling me that Frances DeWitt—the woman who was murdered at the Waldorf—was arguing with a man in the Peacock Alley bar before the ball?”

  Irene nodded.

  “Could he be the man in this picture?” Elizabeth turned the photograph around so that Irene could see it.

  She held her breath while Irene studied it. Finally, Irene looked up. She tapped the photograph.

  “Yes, that’s definitely him. I’m positive.”

  Chapter 12

  Elizabeth was glad to be on her way home. It had been a late night and a long day, and she was tense with worry about Irene. How would Irene find another job?

  There had been a special bond between them ever since they met in the hospital. Irene had been the sicker of the two of them, and Elizabeth had fallen into the habit of looking out for her. They had whiled away the tedious hours spent in bed talking about what they would do when they got better. Poor Clara had wanted nothing more than to ride her horse again. Irene’s dream was to run on the beach with her dog Rollo, and Elizabeth’s had been to learn the steps to the Lindy Hop, the latest dance craze.

  She would have to talk to Kaminsky and find out if there were any jobs Irene could do at the Daily Trumpet. She was smart and a hard worker—perhaps there would be something for her there.

  Elizabeth couldn’t wait to tell Kaminsky that Irene had identified Guy Dupont as the same man Frances had been arguing with the night she was killed.

  Surely the police must be looking for him at this very moment and hopefully he would confess and put an end to the investigation. The thought that the paper might yet print another story about Gloria haunted Elizabeth.

  Mrs. Murphy had already served dinner by the time Elizabeth walked in the door. It smelled like Mrs. Murphy’s famous Irish stew—a favorite with everyone. Elizabeth sniffed appreciatively. Suddenly she was ravenous.

  “Here you are,” Rose said as Elizabeth was hanging up her coat. “Dinner was appalling.”

  “But Mrs. Murphy is such a good cook.”

  “Oh, the food was fine,” Rose said, tossing her long, dark blond braid over her shoulder. “But mother stayed in bed and had a tray in her room, and you weren’t here so it was just Father and me. It was positively ghastly. We had nothing to say to each other except ‘please pass the salt’ and ‘would you like another roll.’ ”

  “I’m sorry.” Elizabeth put her arm around Rose’s shoulders.

  “And he kept asking me about my classes at school, and I don’t even want to think about school until we go back.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Elizabeth said. “Now, I’m starving. I’m going to get something to eat. Why don’t you have Mrs. Murphy make you some hot chocolate and you can join me.”

  “Okay.”

  Elizabeth pushed open the door to the kitchen.

  Mrs. Murphy was at the sink, plunged up to her elbows in soap suds. She turned around when she heard Elizabeth come in.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve had anything to eat? I made a plate for you and popped it into the oven to keep it warm. You go sit down, and I’ll bring it out.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Elizabeth said. “I can get it myself. You’re obviously busy, and I don’t want
to put you to any trouble. And I’ve promised Rose some hot chocolate.”

  Mrs. Murphy frowned, but Elizabeth was already putting a pot of milk onto the stove and opening the cupboard for the tin of cocoa.

  “How is Mother today? I must go in and see her as soon as I’ve had something to eat.”

  Mrs. Murphy grunted. “You know your mother—she doesn’t take kindly to being put off her routine. Your father fixed the radio up in the bedroom to entertain her and she’s been listening to Mary Noble, Backstage Wife and those other serials all day.”

  The milk began to steam and Elizabeth mixed up Rose’s cocoa and carried it, along with the plate of stew she retrieved from the oven, out to the dining room where her place was already set.

  “I imagine you did all sorts of exciting things today,” Rose said somewhat breathlessly as she blew on her hot chocolate.

  “Yes. I typed up Estelle Draper’s column.”

  Rose looked crestfallen and Elizabeth relented. While she certainly wasn’t going to tell Rose about the body in Central Park, the visit with Lady Darlington ought to make an amusing story.

  “What did you do today?” Elizabeth asked when she was finished talking. “Did you go ice skating or to a movie?”

  Rose made a face. “I helped poor Mrs. Murphy. Mother was calling for her every other minute. First she needed to be readjusted in bed—she can barely move around with that enormous plaster cast on her leg. Then she was cold and wanted another blanket or she was hot and wanted the window cracked. It was like that all day long.”

  “I suppose not being able to do things for herself must be terribly frustrating for Mother.” Elizabeth put down her fork and patted her lips with her napkin. She looked at her younger sister. “You do look awfully tired. Now that I’m home, I can listen for Mother and you can get some rest.”

  “Thanks.”

  Rose finished the rest of her cocoa and pushed back her chair. “I’ve been reading the newest Agatha Christie, Death on the Nile, and I just have to find out who did it.”

  Elizabeth smiled as Rose jumped up from her chair and ran from the room. She picked up her plate and silverware and carried them into the kitchen where Mrs. Murphy was nearly finished washing the dishes.

  “You might look in on your mother,” Mrs. Murphy said as she slipped Elizabeth’s plate into the soapy water in the sink.”

  “I’m going to do that right now.

  * * *

  —

  The lights in Helen’s room were dimmed and the radio was off. At first Elizabeth thought her mother was sleeping, but then Helen’s eyes fluttered open and she smiled. She was propped up in bed wearing a lacy, flowered bed jacket over her negligee. Her leg—a monstrous plaster thing—was elevated on a pillow.

  “How are you feeling?” Elizabeth asked, perching carefully on the edge of the bed.

  “Dr. Krause is keeping me comfortable, but I’m afraid the pills are making me sleepy. I dozed off during the ending of Backstage Wife, and now I have no idea what happened.”

  “I’m glad you’re not in too much pain,” Elizabeth said.

  Helen shook her head, her hair making a swooshing sound as it brushed against her pillow.

  “It’s just dreadfully boring, and I’m missing the Winterfest luncheon and fashion show at the Pierre. I was planning on wearing my new Vionnet.”

  Helen’s expression grew serious, and she took one of Elizabeth’s hands in her own. “I have to confess that until now I never truly realized how dreadfully awful it must have been for you in that hospital when you were sick—weeks and weeks lying in bed with nothing to do.” She dashed a hand across her eyes. “I’m afraid I might not have been as sympathetic as I should have been.” She squeezed Elizabeth’s hand. “But I was so terribly scared, you see—scared of losing you.”

  Elizabeth squeezed her mother’s hand back and smiled. “But you didn’t. I’m alive and I plan on staying that way.” She got up from the bed. “Now is there anything I can get you?”

  “I’d love some tea. The Lapsang Souchong, please. With the tiniest drop of milk and a spoon of sugar, if you don’t mind. I’m afraid I’ve already run poor Mrs. Murphy ragged today.”

  * * *

  —

  Elizabeth took her book to bed with her and, propped up on several goose-down pillows, began to read. It was warm and cozy under her fluffy comforter, and the reading lamp beside her bed created a warm, mellow pool of light.

  She soon found her eyes closing and as much as she wanted to continue reading, she could fight sleep no longer. She put the book down on her bedside table, turned out the light and closed her eyes.

  She fell asleep almost immediately only to be awakened an hour later by the sound of her mother’s voice. She pulled on her robe, slid her feet into her slippers and went to her mother’s room.

  Helen had the light on and was sitting up in bed.

  “Where’s Father?” Elizabeth said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

  “He thought it would be more comfortable for me if he slept in his study.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes. I can’t sleep—probably because I napped all afternoon.” She pointed to a striped brocade slipper chair. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  Elizabeth groaned inwardly and pulled her robe around her more tightly. Her mother believed in sleeping with a window open, and the room was chilly.

  “I imagine you must hear all sorts of things on that job of yours.” Helen plucked at the bedcovers. “I didn’t see the paper today. Have they found out who killed poor Frances DeWitt?”

  Elizabeth took a deep breath.

  “I’m afraid not.” She figured the less said the better.

  “I don’t know the DeWitts very well at all, although we’ve been at a few of the same events together. But Mabel Worthington knew Frances quite well. She’s devastated, of course. They’re saying that Frances’s stepdaughter killed her. But it’s hard to imagine a well-brought-up young girl like that pulling out a gun and shooting her stepmother in cold blood, even if they did have their differences.”

  Elizabeth stifled a yawn and sat up straighter. “I don’t think that Gloria had—”

  “Mabel says that the daughter was afraid the family fortune would go to Frances. I don’t know if that’s true, but a man does have a duty to provide for his wife even if it’s his second wife.”

  “According to Gloria—”

  Helen wasn’t listening. “Mabel says that the daughter is quite the handful. Frances has arranged parties and dinners for her to meet any number of fine eligible young suitors, but the girl insists on taking up with all sorts of inappropriate men.”

  “Really?” Elizabeth was wide awake now. “Did she say who?”

  “They were hardly the sort of men Mabel would know, but she thought one of them might be a stable boy or something equally appalling.”

  Helen yawned. “I think my book is still in the living room on the table next to the sofa. Could you bring it to me, please? Maybe reading a few pages will make me sleepy.”

  Elizabeth was about to leave the room when her mother called out again.

  “Oh, and could you get me a glass of warm milk, too? Warm milk is always so soothing.”

  Elizabeth was nearly asleep on her feet herself when she left her mother’s room and walked into the hall. She just missed bumping into Rose.

  “What’s wrong? Is Mother okay?”

  “She’s fine.” Elizabeth put a reassuring hand on her sister’s shoulder. “She wants her book from the living room and a glass of warm milk.”

  “I’ll get them for her,” Rose said. “You have to be up for work in the morning. I can take care of Mother while I’m still home on vacation.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Elizabeth didn’t a
rgue but went back to her own room and climbed into bed. She was grateful for Rose’s help and prayed that their mother would soon be on the mend and on her feet again.

  Despite her fatigue, it took Elizabeth quite a while to fall asleep. According to her mother, people were still gossiping about the possibility that Gloria had killed Frances. Would Gloria blame Elizabeth and her photograph for that? Not for the first time, Elizabeth wished she’d never taken that picture.

  * * *

  —

  Kaminsky wasn’t at his desk when Elizabeth arrived at the Daily Trumpet the next morning. She’d had two cups of coffee at breakfast instead of her usual English Breakfast tea, and she felt as if her nerves had been replaced by electric wires that were sparking wildly.

  She couldn’t wait to talk to Kaminsky and hoped he hadn’t been called out on a story before she got to the paper. If only the subway hadn’t been stalled at Fifty-ninth Street when a woman had gotten her baby carriage caught in the door, she might not have missed him.

  If she had missed him. He might not have come in yet at all.

  It was nearly impossible to concentrate on typing Estelle’s latest column. How Elizabeth longed to be rid of her gal Friday duties! Perhaps if she and Kaminsky broke the case of Frances DeWitt’s murder, the editor would make her an official Daily Trumpet photographer.

  The door to the newsroom finally opened, but it wasn’t Kaminsky, it was Sullivan, his face etched with grim lines. Elizabeth looked away and busied herself pecking out Estelle’s words of advice. Ever since Sullivan had subtly threatened her, she’d been slightly afraid of him. She raised her chin. She wasn’t about to let Sullivan stand in the way of her dreams.

  The door opened again bringing in a rush of air tinged with the scent of cigarettes and coffee. Elizabeth spun around. Kaminsky was standing by his desk talking in low tones to Sullivan. Elizabeth bit her lip. She hoped that didn’t mean that Kaminsky was taking Sullivan with him on a story.

  She heard a chair scraping across the linoleum and turned around again. Sullivan was getting his coat, but Kaminsky was sitting at his desk. As soon as Sullivan was out the door, Elizabeth jumped up and went over to where Kaminsky was sitting.