Murder, She Uncovered

by Peg Cochran

  The reporters and photographers began to shuffle from the room.

  Elizabeth was almost to the door when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned around to see Marino standing in back of her.

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been so busy,” he said. “I’ve wanted to call you. I’ve picked up the phone, but there are always interruptions.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “I understand.”

  “When this is all over…” Marino waved an arm around the room. “But for now we have to find that girl’s killer. She was so young and so new to this country. She didn’t deserve what happened to her, and we owe it to her to find out who murdered her.”

  Marino’s eyes never left Elizabeth’s face as he talked, but then someone called his name.

  “I have to go.” He put a hand on Elizabeth’s arm. “Soon, okay?”

  Elizabeth nodded. She stood rooted to the spot, watching Marino’s retreating back, until someone bumped into her from behind.

  * * *

  —

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Kaminsky said as they made their way back to the newsroom.

  Elizabeth gave him a weak smile. “Just tired, I guess.”

  She didn’t want to tell him she was still thinking about Marino.

  They were going down the steps to the subway when Kaminsky said, “I’d really like to break this story before the other papers. Especially the New York Herald Tribune. I owe Bobby Markowitz one.”

  “Why Markowitz in particular?” Elizabeth said, dropping her nickel into the slot and pushing the turnstile.

  “He scooped me on a piece I’d been following for months. He knew I was after that story.”

  “Aren’t you the one who told me that everything’s fair when it comes to following a story?”

  Kaminsky groaned. “Throwing my words back at me now, are you? I’ve created a monster.”

  Elizabeth laughed. “I’ve been thinking about Orla Cullen. Jealousy can do twisted things to a person. Maybe it drove her as far as murder.”

  “You could be right,” Kaminsky said. “And we don’t know where she was that Sunday, do we? She has the day off—she could have gone out to Long Island. It would probably have taken most of the day to make the trip out and back, but it’s certainly possible.”

  A train pulled into the station, its wheels sparking against the rails, emitting sulfurous belches into the air. Elizabeth and Kaminsky let the crowd carry them into the nearest car.

  “I don’t think it would hurt to talk to Orla again,” Kaminsky said as the train pulled out of the station. It went around a bend, tossing everyone in the car against one another like an amusement park ride gone off the rails.

  “Or maybe Mrs. Lis,” Elizabeth said as the train arrived at their station. “It looked like she kept a fairly tight watch on the comings and goings of her boarders. She might remember whether Orla was out that Sunday or not.”

  “Good idea.”

  Elizabeth went through the revolving door to the Daily Trumpet building with Kaminsky behind her.

  “I’m going to write up the Tyler story,” Kaminsky said. He took off his hat and hung it from the hook on the wall. “Then what do you say we take another trip to the Bronx and Mrs. Lis’s boardinghouse?”

  “Good idea.” Elizabeth unbuttoned her coat and hung it on the wall. “I’ll get those pictures developed for you.”

  Elizabeth took her camera and went into the darkroom. The darkness was soothing—like being in a cocoon tucked away from the noise and hustle and bustle of the world, with only her photographs to focus on.

  She unloaded the film from her camera and poured out the chemicals for the developer, fixer and stop bath.

  The first shot was one of Marino standing in front of the microphones at the press conference. Elizabeth couldn’t help staring at it. She marveled at how his vitality and energy came through even in a black-and-white still photograph.

  She had just finished developing the roll and clipping the pictures to the carousel when there was a knock on the door.

  “Can I see what you’ve got?” Kaminsky said when Elizabeth opened the door.

  Kaminsky worked his way around the carousel, his hands behind his back, his head nodding now and again.

  “I’ll take this one and this one,” he pointed to two snaps. “We’ll run ’em along with the photograph you took of Tyler and his paramour on that street corner in the rain and one of poor Mary Tyler’s body lying on the sidewalk.”

  He slapped Elizabeth on the back. “Good job, Biz. I’ll finish this story up and then we’ll take a trip to the Bronx for a nice chat with Mrs. Lis.”

  * * *

  —

  Tommy Schmidt was standing outside the darkroom door when Elizabeth opened it.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said.

  Elizabeth was shocked by his appearance. His face sagged with fatigue and it looked as if the collar of his shirt had become loose on him.

  “Are you okay?” Elizabeth said.

  Tommy looked around. “Say, do you mind if we stepped outside? I want to talk to you if you have a minute.”

  “Certainly.”

  Elizabeth grabbed her coat and slipped it on.

  “Did you hear the Chicago Cubs beat the St. Louis Cardinals in a doubleheader to win the pennant?” Tommy said as they rode down in the elevator.

  The elevator operator turned around. “That was some game, wasn’t it?”

  “Sure was,” Tommy said.

  They reached the first floor and the elevator operator opened the door.

  Elizabeth and Tommy walked outside and he suggested they sit on the low retaining wall that bordered the small plaza in front of the building.

  “Is this okay?” Tommy said as he brushed off a spot for Elizabeth to sit. “There’s a bit of sun here.”

  “This is fine.” Elizabeth stuffed her hands in her pockets and lifted her face to the sun.

  Tommy pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He offered it to Elizabeth but she shook her head. He took one out, lit it and took a puff.

  “What is it you wanted to talk to me about?” Elizabeth said as the silence lengthened.

  Tommy sighed and his shoulders slumped. “That detective has been around the boardinghouse again asking me about Noeleen. I told him I only took her out that one time for ice cream.” He glanced at Elizabeth and then looked away. “They seem to have gotten it into their heads that there was more between us—between me and Noeleen—than that.”

  “Why would they think that?”

  “I think someone told them lies about us.”

  “That’s terrible.” Elizabeth clenched her fists. “Who was it? Why would they do that?”

  Tommy stubbed his cigarette out against the wall. A sudden gust of wind sent water from the small fountain in the middle of the plaza spraying into the air. Drops landed on the shoulder of Elizabeth’s coat and she brushed them off.

  “Don’t tell anyone,” Tommy said, clutching Elizabeth’s sleeve.

  “I won’t.”

  “I think Miss Cullen told the police a bunch of stuff that wasn’t true.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  Tommy shrugged. “I don’t know. Out of spite?” His face turned red. “I think she kind of wanted me to ask her out. But I wasn’t keen on it.” He grimaced. “There’s something not so nice about her.” Tommy looked down at his feet. “I mean, I’d love to have a gal of my own, but I haven’t had much luck finding one. All I know is Miss Cullen isn’t it.”

  “But even so, the police can’t possibly think you had anything to do with Noeleen’s death,” Elizabeth said firmly.

  Tommy shuffled his feet. “I don’t know, Miss Adams.” He hesitated. “I got in a bit of trouble once—back when I was younger. Some friends of mine dared me to do something th
at I knew was wrong but I did it anyway.”

  “It can’t have been that bad,” Elizabeth said. “Lots of kids get in trouble but they learn their lesson.”

  “I stole some magazines from the newsstand on the corner where we used to live. Some of those pinup magazines, if you know what I mean.” Tommy’s face got even redder.

  “A boyish prank. I’m sure the police won’t hold that against you after so many years.”

  “You think so?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “As long as you tell the truth, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  The expression on Tommy’s face lightened somewhat.

  “You and Kaminsky are staying on the story, I hope. Kaminsky has broken some of the biggest scoops the Daily Trumpet has ever had.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll definitely stay on it.”

  * * *

  —

  It was late afternoon by the time Elizabeth and Kaminsky were walking down Westchester Avenue. The sun had begun to dip behind the buildings, lengthening shadows and darkening doorways and alleys. Lights flickered on in windows and soon the streetlights would come on.

  The wind had picked up, sending dried leaves scuttling down the gutters and kicking up the dirt and grit left behind by the day’s traffic.

  Elizabeth nearly lost her hat when a gust suddenly lifted it off her head. She clapped it back down and refastened it with her hatpin.

  “Tommy Schmidt came up to me before we left. He said he wanted to talk to me.”

  “Not developing a crush on you, is he?” Kaminsky smiled. “You’d better let him down gently. I suspect he’s the sensitive type.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not that. It was about Noeleen’s murder.”

  “Oh? Not still worrying, is he?”

  “I’m afraid he is. He said Orla has been trying to stir up trouble for him.”

  Kaminsky stopped in his tracks and stared at Elizabeth.

  “What?”

  “She told the police stories that led them to believe that Tommy had an actual relationship with Noeleen.”

  “And therefore a motive to murder her,” Kaminsky said.

  His heels struck the pavement with increasing furor.

  “Tommy is a good kid. He doesn’t deserve this. Let’s see what we can pry out of Mrs. Lis.”

  * * *

  —

  Mrs. Lis was outside sweeping the front steps when they arrived at the boardinghouse. She had a baggy sweater with a hole in the sleeve over her housedress and her hair was tied up in a kerchief.

  She stopped sweeping and leaned on her broom when she saw Elizabeth and Kaminsky coming. She didn’t look pleased to see them.

  “Yes?” she said as they approached the steps.

  “Can we talk to you for a minute?” Kaminsky said.

  Mrs. Lis hesitated. “Okay,” she said finally. “We can go into the parlor. I’ve been on my feet all day. I could do with a chance to sit down.”

  The parlor was just as dark and gloomy as Elizabeth had remembered from their previous visit. Mrs. Lis grunted as she lowered herself into one of the armchairs.

  “So,” she said, slapping her hands against her legs. “What do you need from me this time?”

  “We’re hoping to find out whether or not Orla Cullen was here on the Sunday before the hurricane hit. Do you remember the day?”

  “I do. I saw Miss Cullen go out right after breakfast. She had her face all made up like it wasn’t the Lord’s Day but was Saturday night and she was going to a dance hall. We could still smell her perfume an hour after she’d left.”

  “Did she come back at all during the day?” Elizabeth said.

  “No. I give my boarders a real Sunday dinner midday—a nice roast or a chicken with all the trimmings. Not like some who charge more than I do for room and board and don’t even put out a hot meal on Sundays. Orla never showed up even though I set a place for her at the table.”

  “Do you know what time she did return?”

  “On Sunday nights I like to lock up early.” Mrs. Lis rubbed her palms on her knees. “Everyone is off to work early the next morning so there’s no need to be staying out late.”

  She paused and took a deep breath.

  “But Miss Cullen wasn’t in yet. I wanted to go to bed myself—you have no idea how tiring it is putting three meals a day on the table and keeping this place clean on top of it—but I didn’t want to have to get up later when she finally came prancing home and expected me to come down in my nightclothes to open the door.”

  “Of course,” Elizabeth said. “But she did come home eventually?”

  “It was after eleven o’clock. Can you imagine? Some people have no consideration for others.” She blew out a puff of air that fluttered the ends of her head scarf. “But that’s Miss Cullen for you. Only thinking of herself. She’s a sly one, that girl.”

  “What was she like when she got home?”

  “Like? She was soaked—her fancy hairdo ruined and her dress plastered to her legs. It was raining cats and dogs by then.”

  Elizabeth and Kaminsky exchanged a glance.

  “Did she say where she’d been?”

  Mrs. Lis snorted. “Her? She’s a secretive one, that girl. No, but it was quite strange.”

  Elizabeth and Kaminsky waited, but she didn’t continue.

  “Strange, how?” Elizabeth said.

  “I clean the boarders’ rooms for them,” Mrs. Lis finally continued. “They’re responsible for changing the bed and putting their clothes away, but I don’t trust them to do a decent job of the dusting and the sweeping. I like to keep a clean place for my boarders.”

  She took a deep breath. “The next morning—the Monday—I went to do Miss Cullen’s room like I do every Monday. Her clothes were jumbled every which way in the closet and there was face powder all over the dresser.” She shook her head. “And when I go to sweep, what do you think I find?”

  By now Elizabeth and Kaminsky were hanging on her every word.

  “There’s sand all over the floor. What a mess it was. As if she’d been traipsing around on the beach and couldn’t be bothered to wipe her feet when she came in.”

  Elizabeth and Kaminsky exchanged glances again.

  “Did you ask her where she’d been?” Kaminsky said.

  Mrs. Lis pulled on the ends of her head scarf, tightening them. “Hardly. What my boarders get up to in their own time is none of my business as long as they mind their manners when they’re here and don’t bring trouble back with them.”

  * * *

  —

  Elizabeth and Kaminsky were heading back the way they had come when he put a hand on her arm and stopped her. He glanced at his watch.

  “Orla Cullen should be home any minute now. It will save us a trip if we wait and interview her today.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Kaminsky pointed across the street. “There’s a coffee shop. We should be able to see her walking down the street if we sit by the window.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  “I don’t suppose I could get a shot of Old Schenley’s in here,” Kaminsky said as he pushed open the door to the shop.

  Elizabeth laughed. “That sounds like wishful thinking to me.”

  Kaminsky steered her over toward an empty table by the window.

  They’d barely sat down when a waitress appeared. She had a bored expression on her face and there was a sour set to her mouth.

  “Two cups of coffee, please,” Kaminsky said. “And a slice of lemon meringue pie.” He looked at Elizabeth and she shook her head. “Saves me having to get something for dinner,” Kaminsky said after the waitress had turned away and headed toward the kitchen.

  Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. “Pie for dinner?”

  “Why not?” Kaminsky grinned.


  “That was an interesting conversation we had with Mrs. Lis,” Elizabeth said.

  “It sure was. Sand on the floor of Orla’s bedroom. Very interesting. And where would she have been likely to have picked up that sand?”

  “The beach,” Elizabeth said.

  “With the kind of weather we had that Sunday, I doubt Orla took a picnic basket and her beach towel out to Jones Beach for the day. So where else might she have picked up a load of sand in her shoes?”

  “Long Island,” Elizabeth answered.

  Kaminsky pointed a finger at her. “Bingo. I think we’ve got her dead to rights. It would have been easy enough for her to take the train out to Long Island. Noeleen was probably alone in the house since the Posts had already headed back to the city.”

  Kaminsky changed the subject when he saw the waitress approaching.

  “Say, did you know Edgar Allan Poe used to have a cottage up here in the Bronx? It’s over on the Grand Concourse. This area was considered the country back then. It’s hard to imagine now.”

  The waitress put their coffees and Kaminsky’s pie on the table. Kaminsky poured a long stream of sugar into his cup followed by a hefty dose of cream. He tucked his napkin into his shirt and forked up a bite of pie.

  “Not bad. My mother made the best lemon meringue pie.”

  “You’ve never told me anything about yourself,” Elizabeth said, blowing on her coffee.

  “What’s to tell? I grew up in the city in the Greenpoint section of Brooklyn. My father worked for the Union Porcelain Works on Eckford Street. A lot of our neighbors worked in the shipyards and my mother always fancied us to be slightly better than them.”

  “And your mother?” Elizabeth took a cautious sip of her coffee.

  “She was a housewife like most married women at the time. Although since I was an only child she had more time on her hands than most of her friends who had four or five children. She was known for her kremówki—a very delicate cream-filled pastry that took hours to make. What I wouldn’t give to have one of those right now.”