Murder in the City of Liberty

by Rachel McMillan

  “Not right now, I don’t.” Nate kicked at a pile with his slipper. “Fellow comes down for tea because he can’t sleep and finds his flatmate going through everything. I left everything in plain sight because I figured if you can’t trust Hamish DeLuca . . .”

  Hamish wanted to tell Nate that Luca was back. That a kid was dead and he was probably responsible. Well, marginally responsible. If Toby was involved with Luca and had met him at the Parker House that night. “Movie star important,” Toby had said.

  “Maybe you can’t trust Hamish DeLuca,” he spat. “You’re right, Nate.” He kicked a small pile with his slipper. “Because look at who his family is.”

  “Hamish . . . ,” Nate said in a tone that sounded remarkably like Nate and not the stranger he kept encountering.

  “You don’t trust me with whatever secret you are keeping,” Hamish said.

  “That is not . . . There is no . . .”

  “Stop lying to me! I’ve known you for three years, Nate! Three! I’ve lived with you for most of that time! And—”

  “I don’t want to lie to you,” Nate said plainly. “But being friends with you comes at a high price.”

  “What does that mean?” Hamish’s voice was louder than he intended. Funny, he had never yelled before that day in his father’s office after the panic episode that drove him from his first court case and to Boston. “What high price?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Errol Parker’s nephew is dead. You’re constantly lying to me! I am clearly a bother to you. Constantly! I can feel it.” He splayed a hand over his chest. “I . . .” Hamish shrugged the end of the sentence, pasted on a sad almost-smile. “I won’t touch your things again.”

  He made quick work of the steps separating him and the staircase and bounded to the next level, not bothering to hear or reply to Nate’s calling after him.

  Chapter 11

  Reggie hadn’t slept all night. And it wasn’t just the sight of Toby, either. When one had to face the promise of her parents and Vaughan Vanderlaan while harboring feelings that grew deeper and deeper, one did not always sleep well. She had seen her parents since escaping down the tree outside her bedroom window and catapulting herself into a new life, of course, but never in Boston. At least dinner would be on their turf: the Parker House Hotel dining room, lit with sparkling crystal and pretention. She grabbed her second pillow to smother away the vision of her mother looking at her pointedly—then longingly at Vaughan—then back at her in hopes she would pick up on the equation.

  But first she would see Hamish: her still-tingling lips were fully aware of their exploration from the previous night. His breath over her cheek, tasting a little like coffee and a little like the lemon smell he carried with him beyond Mrs. Leoni’s cannoli counter.

  Hamish DeLuca was the smartest man she had ever met. And the kindest. And the most interesting and . . . Reggie fingered the ribbon at the collar of her nightgown. And maybe—she met her eyes in the mirror—she was in love with him.

  Reggie stumbled back. Humming to herself. Nope, nope. Not that song. “Begin the Beguine.” They had danced to that at the Flamingo on the night she learned that dancing was more than the classes that found her perfectly aligned with her breeding’s rigidity, a crisp 1-2-3 count, never wholly letting your partner fall into you, following his lead.

  With Hamish . . .

  The infernal clock by her bed drew morning closer. She closed her eyes, then opened them: a revelation. She was in shock! That made sense. Last night! It was shock! So she tucked herself into his warmth and held on to human connection.

  The flimsy curtains pulled back completely to usher in the sounds of Pleasant Street. She peered up, the breeze chasing the curtains into retreat, then a slow, ghostly dance. Shock.

  She reached into the drawer of her bedside table and retrieved her Journal of Independence. She was surprised at how many new entries she had made since arriving in Boston the summer of ‘37. More surprised still at how many things she had crossed out. She used it as a lexicon, as a list, and for accountability. Sometimes, as in the case of “Learn how to properly make a bed,” the entries were left untouched in her perfectly taught cursive. Other times they were scrawled or scratched out with enthusiasm like “Stay up ’til dawn.” Which she seemed to be doing now.

  “Argh!”

  A kid was dead with a piece of paper in his pocket. The piece of paper interrupted by scrawls she knew. But wished she could forget.

  The piece of paper . . .

  She squeezed her eyes shut and the kid and the paper and the case thrummed away with the clack of the old radiator under the windowsill.

  It was not her fault for being confused, she decided.

  Dawn was yawning, a slow lemon and pink, waking up the world. Reggie covered the purple under her eyes with Max Factor. She walked briskly as the sun slowly rose and began to thaw the morning chill, the spires and crooked roofs of the North End opening beyond the gentle lap of the river, a few boats chugging in and out. Maybe heading down to Pete Kelly’s place. By the time she reached the North Square, candy-striped awnings were being brushed by long brooms, and carts on rickety wheels rumbled over the cobblestones. The world was coming to life. The smell of fresh bread crept under the doors of numerous bakeries, and delivery trucks hugged the curb, their drivers hopping out, milk bottles clinking, soon finding their temporary homes on stoops and steps. The North End had been her home with Hamish for almost three years. Home. Hamish. Reggie, you need coffee. Straighten your shoulders and fix your lipstick!

  In a rather pathetic attempt to fall back on her upbringing, Reggie took the stairs to the office quickly and deposited her hat and purse before leafing through a neat pile of papers on Hamish’s desk and in the adjacent cabinet. Hamish had remarkably neat handwriting . . . with the exception of a few words now and then that betrayed the slight shake in his right hand. And his desk was a study in model precision. She could see how he treated it with the same care as everything in his life. He offered as much attention to a missing kitten as he did to Errol Parker’s case. The only personal items were a spare copy of Notre-Dame and a framed picture of Hamish with his childhood friend Maisie Forth. He kept it turned toward him, but more than once clients had asked about their relationship. Maisie was striking, with light bobbed hair and bright eyes; there was a trick to her smile too. Hamish looked completely relaxed next to her. Reggie knew Maisie was more like a sister than anything else, but she couldn’t help but feel a tug not unlike the one she felt when Bernice crossed the dance floor at the Top Hat.

  Reggie resettled at her desk, door open, waiting to hear Nate’s key turn in the lock. She picked up a pamphlet and flipped it open, nose wrinkling at the misguided and horrible views she found therein. Then she turned it over. The back was blank save for the stamp denoting the name of the printing house. Her eyes widened at the address: 275 Yonge Street, Toronto.

  Reggie picked up the phone and asked the operator to transfer her to the Toronto Telegraph office. Once patched through, she upped her high mid-Atlantic accent and lied to a secretary that her call was expected.

  She stole a look at her watch. Hamish said his dad kept all hours. Lived at the office. She straightened her back. She was a little nervous. But why shouldn’t she find out where Luca was? It was his handwriting. If she found Luca, she could meet him. Tell him to stay away from Hamish. Give it a shot.

  A moment later: “DeLuca.”

  “Mr. DeLuca, my name is Regina Van Buren, and I am calling from Boston.” She rolled her eyes. Of course he knew where she was. Who she was.

  “You’re Hamish’s Regina Van Buren.”

  She enjoyed the possessive sound of it. “Yes.”

  “Is Hamish hurt or sick or in trouble?”

  “None of the above.”

  “You’re early about it, aren’t you?”

  “Hamish isn’t even in yet.”

  “I’m listening.” His accent was strong. She liked it.

  Regina
Van Buren, just ask him. “Do you know of a divisive group called the Christian Patriots?” She began to improvise.

  “One of my men was on them at a rally a few weeks ago. Dangerous views. Especially here with the war fervor.”

  “I have one of their pamphlets.” Reggie used the hand not holding the receiver to turn it over in the window light. Ironically, she focused on something useful. “And . . . um . . . it reads that it was printed in Toronto. Montgomery’s. 275 Yonge Street. Do you know it?”

  “Yes. What kind of case are you working on?”

  “Not sure yet. It might be linked to a series of devastating pranks on a baseball player, or to some development down by the harbor with . . .” She bit her lip. Improvised some more. She was an actress! Move over, Vivien Leigh. “Nefarious means.”

  Ray DeLuca chuckled. “I can see why Hamish likes you. Nefarious.”

  Reggie’s cheeks flushed. He had talked about her. “I know that you’re pretty busy running a newspaper, but I thought maybe you could send someone. No one important. A junior reporter. I don’t want to take up too much of your time with this.”

  “Okay. Do you have anything specific?” She could hear the scratch of a pen over a piece of paper.

  Reggie flushed, caught off guard. She had nothing specific. She was in an elaborate game of make-believe. “N-not precisely.”

  “Good. Then whatever we find out might be useful. Keep an open mind.”

  “Yes! That’s how I see it. Thank you ever so much.”

  “So Hamish isn’t hurt or sick or in trouble?” he repeated, more lightly this time.

  Reggie smiled, hoping it shone in her voice. “No.” She took a beat and a breath and felt Hamish’s lips over her cheek again in memory and conjured the courage. “Mr. DeLuca, do you know where Luca Valari is?”

  There was a long silence on the other end. Then: “And this is about pamphlets?”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “And Hamish is not in trouble? You are not in trouble?”

  Describe trouble, Reggie added mentally. “No.”

  “I haven’t seen him. In a very long time.” There was something final in his voice.

  “Thank you.”

  Reggie signed off. Sure, three years later and they weren’t an entry in an Ellery Queen magazine. But they were trying and they were getting there. With Hamish’s empathy and instinct and Reggie’s penchant for adventure. The last thing she needed was for Luca Valari to show up and scare Hamish away.

  Her thoughtfulness turned to an immediate smile when she heard the routine sound of Nate turning the key in his office door. She leapt up and dashed out of the office in his direction, scuffing the side of her oxford shoe as she tripped over a loose board in the hall. She barely steadied herself by grabbing on to the doorjamb. Nate was in front of her in a split second.

  “All right there, Reg?” His tone was light but his face was concerned.

  “Just eager to see you.”

  “Come on in.”

  Reggie stepped into his office. She knew it well, but he still was more likely to be found across from her while Winchester Molloy played on their office radio. “I know you keep newspapers. I wondered if you had any on Errol Parker.”

  “Old Robin Hood, huh?” Nate pulled the chain of the banker’s lamp and light spilled over his neat desk.

  She lost him a moment as his dark head appeared to rummage through a cabinet. Soon he handled her a file.

  “Now, I usually just keep things specific to our little neighborhood here.” Reggie accepted the offered copy of the Globe, her heart sinking at the deep purple lines under his eyes. “But you know I have a weakness for the Patriots.”

  Reggie nodded and folded the paper under her arm. “Thanks, Nate.”

  “You and Hamish have some sort of row?” he asked lightly.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Wasn’t himself when he got in last night.” Nate shrugged. “Maybe it was Bernice.”

  “Maybe.”

  Back in her office, Reggie spread the paper. There was a picture of Errol Parker: a professional one. He watched the camera, unsmiling in his jersey, bat poised over his shoulder. The headline spoke to an altercation on the field between innings. Reggie read the fine print. A fistfight. Could someone have wanted Errol off the team? She scrawled some notes before preparing herself for her morning with Mrs. Rue. Later, her parents. Later, Vaughan. Vaughan who had kissed her several times before without ever tattooing himself on her or her memory.

  No Vaughan. A dead kid and a pamphlet and a case.

  Then it was time to report for her morning with Mrs. Rue. On the landing, she met Hamish, bicycle over his shoulder, a half smile for her that didn’t even come near to producing a dimple.

  “Hi.”

  “Oh, hi, Reggie. Feeling better today?”

  And Reggie couldn’t wait to swing open the door of the temporary employment office and disappear. The feel of his jawline still tingling her lips, the scent of lemon and soap still tingling her nose.

  The morning at Mrs. Rue’s passed quickly with Reggie sipping coffee from a mason jar. It jolted her awake, and rather than fiddle with the typewriter ribbon or study her nails, she concentrated on dictation and filing. Anything to keep her mind off the evening behind her or the evening with her parents before her.

  * * *

  Hamish parted a sea of journalists on his way back from Café Vittoria for a much-needed espresso. None would live up to his father’s staunch standards. To be a real reporter was not to stake out and annoy people, but to so impress them with the need for their story to be told that they wanted to talk to you.

  He straightened his shoulders and said, “No comment,” several times. It was worse at Errol’s house. He was staying with his sister, who was also on the receiving end.

  The phone calls were easily ignored. As were the telegrams. But when people were there, sprawled and talking and casting shadows on the windows and over the stones, it was a different experience altogether.

  The only good thing about the noise through the open window once he reached the office was that it helped in his active determination not to think about Reggie. He focused intently on a paper Reggie must have procured about Errol. But his eyes fuzzed over the pages. His right hand wasn’t stable, but he rapped a pencil on the side of his desktop nonetheless as he went over everything he knew and circled possible scenarios.

  He pinched his nose, reading the notes in his slanted handwriting.

  He fingered through his drawer and found a folder. It had little in it other than his theory (corroborated by the appearance of Phil) that perhaps Suave’s man was just trying to play him. Just trying to let him know that he was there and he had power. Hamish wondered why he felt the need to assert that power, that unexpected influence.

  After a while he called Coach Ed Winston, the name and contact easily procured from an earlier call to Reid, in hopes of setting up a meeting to talk about what happened.

  “No press. No police,” he said.

  “Listen. I like Parker. He’s a good player. But I am with the police on this. It was an unfortunate accident.”

  “On top of the pranks . . . ?” Hamish was certain it wasn’t so.

  But he got the same initial response from every teammate he dialed thereafter. Including Treadwell.

  “The only good thing to come out of this”—he smacked his gum—“is that I overheard Parker say he is playing in the kid’s honor. So maybe he won’t come after me anymore mid-inning, huh?”

  Hamish cradled the phone on its hook, pressed his hair back from his forehead, and wondered if worrying about Reggie wasn’t the better option.

  * * *

  Vaughan was to meet her at the front of his office so they could walk together to the dinner meeting with her parents. She willed the hours to stretch and keep dinner at bay. Hamish hadn’t said two words to her since she arrived from her shift, and she studied his profile.

  This afternoon for
the first time in ages she was pricked with a memory: she and Vaughan motoring over New Haven in the fresh air, the slight chill coaxing a cardigan over her shoulders, the scarf she wound around her hair soon tangled in her curls.

  Her parents, of course, were delighted that they arrived together. Her mother on the lawn, hand raised to visor her face from the sun. Her father striding forward to Vaughan, pumping his hand and calling him son.

  Cocktails were at five. Dinner a black-tie affair. Her mother admonishing her softly for her high-waisted trousers while her father proudly showed Vaughan the progress on his model of the Mayflower.

  Reggie changed in the communal washroom at the office. She had chosen a dress that scooped just so in the front and left little to the imagination at the back. She painted her lips, used her finger to smooth her eyebrows into place, and stepped into the past. But not before passing Hamish and his bicycle on the stairwell.

  “You look lovely.” He gave her a half-moon smile.

  “Thank you. My parents.”

  He nodded. “Sorry if . . .” His shoulders crept up to his ears a little.

  “Not my idea of a lark, Hamish. Especially not now. The world keeps turning even though poor Toby . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence. He gave her an empathetic smile.

  Make Hamish happy. It was a line she had scribbled so often in her Journal of Independence that it took precedence over kissing in the moonlight, being caught out in the rain without a driver, ordering something that fit from the Sears and Roebuck catalog based on measurements she took herself.

  But Vaughan . . . He was the only man from her parents’ set she could remotely tolerate, and they had always been good friends. He had established himself well in Boston and was making new friends with his easy charm. But she was playing a dangerous game and she was not the kind of woman who would toy with any man’s affections. Yet wasn’t that what her unsure heart was doing?

  When she and Vaughan arrived at the Parker House, she sucked in her stomach and straightened her shoulders and stepped into the world to which she had been conditioned.