Murder, She Uncovered

by Peg Cochran

  Kaminsky stirred his coffee, his eyes resting on something far away. Suddenly he jerked.

  “There’s Orla.” He pointed out the window.

  Elizabeth pushed back her chair and Kaminsky dug in his pocket for some coins.

  She followed Kaminsky as he dashed across the street. Orla was ahead of them, and Elizabeth began to limp as she strained to keep pace with Kaminsky.

  They caught up with Orla just as she was mounting the stairs to the boardinghouse. She whirled around when Kaminsky called her name.

  “Miss Cullen,” he waved at her, slightly breathless.

  Orla paused on the stairs, a hand on the railing and one foot on the step above her. She looked tired—her face powder had collected in the creases in her forehead and there was a smudge on one cheek. The term shopworn came to Elizabeth’s mind.

  “Yeah?” Her tone made it clear she wasn’t glad to see them.

  “Can we talk to you for a moment?”

  “I already talked to you, didn’t I? I don’t have anything more to tell you.”

  “Just a few more questions, if you don’t mind,” Kaminsky said, as he and Elizabeth followed Orla up the steps.

  “You might as well come in.”

  She led them into the parlor where she plopped down on the sofa and stretched her legs out in front of her. Elizabeth and Kaminsky sat down opposite her.

  “I’m exhausted,” she said. “The checkers found some missed stitches on a number of the dresses we were working on. It wasn’t our fault—the supervisors were rushing us to complete the order. It didn’t help that Maisie didn’t come in today, which meant we all had to take on more work than usual. She’d been coughing for weeks and the doctor finally diagnosed her with whooping cough. Just my luck we’ll all come down with it.” She picked at a hangnail. “I can’t afford to be out of work.”

  “I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said soothingly. “It sounds like you’ve had a rough day. I’m sorry we have to disturb you.”

  Orla gave a tiny smile. “Just so you don’t want to take my picture.” She touched a hand to her hair. “I look a mess.”

  “We were talking to Mrs. Lis,” Kaminsky said, crossing one leg over the other, “about the Sunday before the big hurricane. She said you were out all day in that terrible weather.”

  Orla’s eyelids flickered and her eyes darted from Kaminsky to Elizabeth and back again.

  “A couple of gals and me went to the pictures.”

  “I love the movies,” Elizabeth said. “What did you see?”

  “That picture with Jean Arthur and Lionel Barrymore.” She picked at the cuticle on her thumb. “What’s it called?” She scratched her forehead. “You Can’t Take It with You, that’s it.”

  “Great movie,” Kaminsky said, rubbing his hands together. “Where was it playing?”

  “Hey, what’s it to you?” Orla said, starting to get up.

  “Take it easy,” Kaminsky said.

  Orla settled in her seat again, but with her arms crossed defensively over her chest and a mulish expression on her face.

  “It’s odd, you see,” Kaminsky said. “You’re out all day Sunday—the day Noeleen was killed. And you had good reason to hate her. She stole that job with the Posts right out from under your nose.”

  Orla tightened her lips.

  “And then you find yourself working in a miserable factory while Noeleen is taking vacations by the beach and riding around in sports cars with rich young men.”

  “Still, I didn’t kill her!” Orla shouted.

  They heard footsteps in the hall and Mrs. Lis stood in the entrance to the parlor.

  “It’s all right.” Orla waved a hand at her. “Everything is fine.”

  Mrs. Lis gave Kaminsky a piercing look, but after a minute turned and walked away.

  “Do you want to get me in trouble with my landlady?” Orla said, pointing at Kaminsky. “She threw Rosie Garland out just because her boyfriend came around and made a drunken scene outside the night she broke up with him.” Orla picked a piece of loose thread off her dress. “Mrs. Lis is a decent landlord and her price is fair. I don’t want to lose my room.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” Kaminsky said. “I’m just curious how you managed to spend such a foul day.”

  “This isn’t going in the paper, is it?” Orla said.

  Kaminsky shook his head.

  Orla gave a deep shuddering sigh. “I was with my boyfriend, see? He’s married so we have to keep it real quiet until he gets his divorce.”

  “Surely you didn’t go to the beach in that weather?” Elizabeth said.

  Orla looked momentarily confused.

  “Mrs. Lis found sand in your room.”

  Orla’s face flushed a deep crimson. “We had to go somewhere where we could be alone.” She looked at Elizabeth with a calculating look in her eyes. “It’s not what you think. Earl is a decent man. His wife…well, his wife doesn’t understand him.”

  Elizabeth was proud of herself for restraining from rolling her eyes.

  “He’s a businessman and in his line of work, he knows a lot of people. He’s able to get things. He got me a lovely coat—real wool with a silk lining.”

  Kaminsky scratched his head.

  “I wanted to thank him for the coat. Nothing wrong with that, is there? It’s not like he can come here.” Orla waved her hand around the room. “Mrs. Lis wouldn’t even let us sit in the parlor. The only men allowed are the ones who live here.” Orla gave a sly smile. “Although I don’t know what she’d do if I took up with one of the gentlemen residents….Tommy Schmidt, say. What’s to keep us from sneaking around when the old battle-ax is tucked up all nice and snug in her bed?”

  Elizabeth frowned. “But the sand? I don’t understand.”

  Orla laughed. “Not too many people know about it, but it’s fairly cozy under the boardwalk at Coney Island.” She shrugged. “So it’s not the Waldorf-Astoria, but at least you can have a bit of privacy.”

  She smiled at Elizabeth and Kaminsky.

  Chapter 18

  “Do you believe her?” Kaminsky said as they left the boardinghouse and headed toward the subway.

  “I can’t imagine admitting that you’re meeting your lover under the boardwalk at Coney Island unless it’s actually true,” Elizabeth said

  “I think you’re right.” Kaminsky bent his head over his cigarette to light it. “I wouldn’t admit something like that if I was a dame.”

  “But it’s okay for a man?” Elizabeth said.

  She was struggling to keep up with Kaminsky’s long strides and her leg was beginning to get weak.

  Kaminsky gave her a sidelong glance. “Something like that’s not befitting a lady.” He took a puff on his cigarette and let the smoke trail lazily out of his mouth. “Of course, I’m not so sure Miss Orla Cullen is much of a lady. An opportunist, certainly. But a lady?” He shrugged.

  “So if we rule out Orla as the murderer, who’s left? We know Duff Lambert was the father of her baby, but not the killer,” Elizabeth said.

  “Someone in the Post household?”

  “That caretaker of theirs out on Long Island acted a bit strangely, I thought. And he was the one who found poor Noeleen.”

  “That does seem a little too convenient,” Kaminsky said. “He was looking after the house, but why go all the way up to the bedrooms on the third floor? The Posts were lucky—most of the damage was limited to the exterior of the house and the first floor.”

  “But I don’t see anything that would connect him to the murder of Father McGrath.”

  “There could be something we don’t know about yet.”

  Just then a man jumped in front of Elizabeth. His coat was nearly threadbare, with dirt soiling the hem and elbows, and a piece of string held his left shoe together. He thrust a swea
t-stained hat at Elizabeth.

  “Move along,” Kaminsky said.

  “No. It’s all right.” Elizabeth dug in her handbag for her change purse. She dropped a quarter into the man’s hat.

  The man bowed and shuffled away.

  “You have a good heart, Biz.”

  “Sometimes I feel guilty,” Elizabeth admitted. “I have more than I need and there are so many people who don’t even have enough to eat.”

  Elizabeth thought of her friend Irene as they headed down the subway stairs. She had come through some very difficult times, but now that she was working at Madame Louise’s, she’d been able to move out of the single-room-occupancy hotel where she’d been living and into a boardinghouse much like Mrs. Lis’s. Irene had even put some weight back on and looked far healthier than she had before. Certainly she was much happier.

  Someone had crumpled up a sheet of newspaper and dropped it on the subway steps. Elizabeth’s heel caught in it, and she nearly tumbled down the stairs, catching herself by grabbing on to the shoulder of the man walking in front of her.

  He spun around and put his hand out. He had gray hair and a gray handlebar mustache.

  “Lost your balance, young lady? Be careful now. If you gals would only wear sensible shoes.” He glanced at Elizabeth’s feet.

  Elizabeth thanked him and smiled weakly.

  “I’m going back to the newsroom,” Kaminsky said as the train entered the station.

  Elizabeth glanced at the subway map on the wall. “I think I’ll stop off to visit a friend. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  * * *

  —

  A puff of softly perfumed air greeted Elizabeth when she opened the door to Madame Louise’s dress shop. The interior was an oasis of cool and calm after the jostling crowd on the sidewalk, rushing home from work to have their dinner.

  An impossibly thin and elegant saleslady dressed all in black glided toward Elizabeth.

  “May I be of assistance? If you’ll tell me what you’re looking for—an evening gown, perhaps, or a day dress? Madame Louise’s new collection has just arrived, and it’s simply divine.”

  “Thank you. But I’m actually here to see Irene Nowack. Is she in?”

  If the saleslady was disappointed that Elizabeth wasn’t a customer, she had too much self-discipline to show it. She disappeared behind a gauzy gold curtain, and Elizabeth heard her heels tapping on the wooden floor beyond.

  “Elizabeth!” Irene came through the curtain, her face lit by a broad smile.

  “I thought I would see how you were doing,” Elizabeth said, moving toward Irene so that her friend didn’t have to maneuver any farther than necessary with her crutches.

  “Business has been very good,” Irene said. “Madame Louise is pleased. Oh! And…” Irene’s face turned slightly pink. “One of my hats is going to be featured in Women’s Wear Daily. Can you imagine?”

  “That’s wonderful, Irene. I’m so happy for you.” Elizabeth hugged her friend impulsively.

  “Things are going so well I’m almost afraid I’m going to do something to jinx them,” Irene said.

  “Nonsense. You deserve it all. And more.”

  Irene rolled her eyes. “Now if only my love life would improve. Men are put off by these.” She gestured toward the iron braces on her legs.

  An idea suddenly struck Elizabeth.

  “What is it?” Irene said. “You’ve got that look.”

  “What look?” Elizabeth said, striving to appear innocent.

  “The same look you got on your face when you hatched that plot to steal Nurse Dobson’s thermometer when we were in the hospital.”

  “I had forgotten that,” Elizabeth said, laughing.

  The door to the shop opened, and Irene immediately stood at attention, a professional smile replacing her previously exuberant one.

  Elizabeth turned toward the door and was surprised to see the Posts’ cook, Mrs. Brown, walk in. She was carrying a glossy white shopping bag with Madame Louise written in black script.

  “Can I help you?” Irene said smoothly.

  Mrs. Brown held out the shopping bag. “This is from Mrs. Post. She said some of the paillettes have come loose on the bodice.” She handed the bag to Irene.

  Irene opened the bag and removed the dress inside—an exquisite bias-cut evening gown in royal blue.

  Mrs. Brown pointed at the beaded neckline. “There. You can see right there that some of the paillettes are loose.”

  “This can easily be taken care of,” Irene said briskly. She pulled a pad from under the counter and began writing a receipt.

  Mrs. Brown looked at Elizabeth with a suspicious glint in her eye.

  “You’re the gal from the newspaper, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Such a lot of drama we’ve had. All because that Noeleen got herself killed. The police coming and going at all hours. Reporters, too.” She shook her head. “Mrs. Post went to a reputable agency—Mrs. Sutton’s Irish Employment Agency—and look what happened. I think Mrs. Post should ask for her money back, and I told her that myself.”

  Mrs. Brown folded up the Madame Louise shopping bag, carefully smoothing out the creases.

  “Still, the poor girl didn’t deserve to be killed like that. She was a good girl. I tried to warn her. I told her no good would come of confronting him.”

  Elizabeth’s ears perked up. “Confronting him? Confronting who?”

  “That Hogg fellow—the caretaker out at the Posts’ place on Long Island.”

  “What did she confront him about?”

  “Someone was stealing things. Little things—nothing terribly costly. Like a bottle of the perfume Mrs. Post bought in Paris when they last went abroad and a small porcelain ashtray from the sitting room.” Mrs. Brown fiddled with the handle of her purse. “Noeleen found out that Hogg was trying to blame her for the thefts.”

  “Why would they believe him?”

  “Hogg has been with the Posts since he was a young lad. His father was the caretaker before him, serving Mr. Post’s father and mother. Noeleen had only been with the Posts a short while. Why would they believe her instead of him?”

  “Did Mrs. Post ever talk to Noeleen about Hogg’s suspicions?”

  Mrs. Brown puckered her lips. “Not that I know of. But Noeleen took great offense when she found out Hogg was trying to pin the blame on her. I tried to talk her out of confronting him, but she would have none of it. She was going to say her piece and no one was going to stop her.”

  “You don’t think that Mr. Hogg had anything to do with—”

  “I wouldn’t know, would I? I’m just saying it’s something of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

  “But you never mentioned this before,” Elizabeth said.

  “Well, I’d forgotten about it, hadn’t I? And I’m telling you now. So there’s no harm done, is there?”

  * * *

  —

  A fine drizzle was coming down when Elizabeth left her apartment building the next day. She popped open her umbrella and turned up her collar against the chilly morning.

  People scurried along the sidewalk toward the subway, their heads bent against the rain. Elizabeth stopped at a newsstand where copies of Life magazine were displayed, clipped in a row to the front of the stand. Carole Lombard was on the cover. Elizabeth had loved her in My Man Godfrey. Phillips had taken her to see it the year before.

  She didn’t want to think about Phillips.

  She took a quarter out of her change purse and picked up the latest issue of Popular Photography. There was an article on color photography that she wanted to read.

  As she waited to pay, she scanned the headlines of the newspapers lined up in stacks on the counter. The headline on The Sun caught her eye—SOCIALITE DUFF LAMBERT SUSPECT IN MURDER OF MAID—and s
he craned her neck to see if she could read the rest of the story.

  “Can I help you, miss?” The man behind the counter held out his hand.

  “Oh.” Elizabeth dropped her quarter into his palm. “And this, too.” She picked up a copy of The Sun, tucked it under her arm and took another nickel out of her change purse.

  “Have a good day, miss,” the man called after Elizabeth as she joined the crowd scurrying toward the Lexington Avenue IRT.

  The train was crowded, but Elizabeth managed to hang on to the center pole with one hand while dealing with the newspaper with the other. She was so intent on reading The Sun’s article on Noeleen Donovan’s murder that it wasn’t until a young man in a plaid cap tapped her on the shoulder as he tried to maneuver around her toward the open door that she looked up and realized it was her stop.

  “Excuse me, excuse me.” Elizabeth sidled through the crowd and made it out the doors just as they began to close.

  She plowed down the street, barely noticing the people passing by. She was thinking about The Sun’s article. They had it all wrong and didn’t even know it.

  “Looks like you’re in a hurry,” the elevator operator said as Elizabeth stormed on board.

  Elizabeth barely glanced at him, but she did hear him mutter “some dames” under his breath. She didn’t care. She had other, more important things to think about.

  She strode off the elevator when it reached the sixth floor and yanked open the door to the newsroom. Kaminsky was standing next to his desk talking to Becker. He must have heard Elizabeth’s heels clicking against the floor because he spun around expectantly.

  Becker glanced at Elizabeth, raised his eyebrows at Kaminsky and strolled away, his coffee mug in hand.

  Elizabeth tossed the copy of The Sun on Kaminsky’s desk and pointed at the headline about Noeleen Donovan’s murder.

  Kaminsky collapsed into his chair and picked up the newspaper. He was quiet for several moments as he read, then he tossed the paper back on his desk.

  “They’ve got it all wrong,” he said, looking at Elizabeth. “We’ve already proven that Lambert didn’t do it.”