The Big Brush-off (10 page)

The next morning, I awoke with thoughts of Blackie Doyle. I hadn't felt this good about my writing in years. I climbed out of bed, trying not to wake Laura.

After a quick shower and shave, I changed into casual trousers and my lucky purple shirt. The cuffs were beginning to fray. The shirt was a birthday gift from Laura, the day I began my first novel.

I'd come to Hanover to save my career. I couldn't wait to get started writing, but I'd promised myself I'd visit Mary. I didn't want anyone in Hanover to suspect I'd returned to investigate Katie's murder. If word got out, everyone would clam up like they did ten years ago.

I tiptoed into the bedroom, where Laura stirred.

She sat up. “Anything wrong?”

“I need to go see Mary Caldwell before I start writing.”

Laura scrambled out of bed. “I'm going with you.”

A half hour later, Laura and I turned onto Maple Road, though I didn't see maple trees anywhere. The house number on the slip of paper Mary Caldwell handed me in New York revealed a small house with a sagging roof. The place was much smaller and older than the house Mary and Katie had lived in down the street from the church.

I parked the Ford in front of the brown, neglected lawn. There was no easy way to tell her that I wouldn't look into her daughter's murder.

Laura reached for my hand. “Oh, Jake. I don't even know the woman, and I can't get over how sad the end of her life will be.”

I knew how she felt. I swallowed a lump in my throat. Mary buried a beautiful young daughter she'd been so proud of. Now her end was near and apparently the authorities had given up on finding the person responsible. What could I do?

At her front door, I stood beside Laura and knocked. I knocked a second time, but no one answered.

Finally, the door opened a crack and Mary's hands flew to her mouth. “Praise the Lord. Jake Donovan. Come in, come in.”

In a gray cotton dress, Mary stepped back and let us in. The place looked even smaller inside, with a threadbare couch and a wooden rocking chair. In the far corner were a stove and icebox. A door to what must've been an even smaller bedroom was open.

Mary blinked away tears. “I'd given up.”

“I'm Jake's wife.” Laura patted the woman's hand then looked to me with glistening eyes. She sat on the couch.

I remained standing and cleared my throat. “Mary, Laura and I arrived last night. As I said in New York, we wanted to come to Katie's memorial service Sunday.”

“But it's Wednesday.” The flicker of hope in Mary's face faded. “Please tell me you're going to look into my daughter's murder.”

I knew this wouldn't be easy.

Laura spoke in a reassuring tone. “On the way here, we stopped by the Pinkerton office in Philadelphia and reviewed Jake's file.”

“We'll drop by the sheriff's office and meet with—”

“Someone who gives a damn?” Mary sat in the rocker. “If you're not going to try to solve the case yourself”—her face hardened—“why are you here, Mr. Donovan?”

I wanted to tell Mary I hadn't come just to write, but if I came up empty when I looked into Katie's death, I'd never be able to walk away again like I did ten years ago. I couldn't do that to the woman, or myself. “If I thought there was a chance of solving Katie's murder after all these years…”

“To me, it happened yesterday.” She struggled to her feet and pointed to the door. “Please leave.”

I let out a ragged sigh and held my hand out to Laura. “Let's go.”

She shook her head. “I'd like to stay, if it's all right with Mrs. Caldwell.”

It appeared as if Mary didn't know what to say.

“Jake's told me about Katie. I saw photos of her in the Pinkerton file in Philadelphia. If you don't mind, I'd like to learn a little more about her.”

Mary pulled a hankie from her pocket and dabbed misty eyes. “I have some pictures. Would you like me to get them?”

Laura nodded to me before replying. “Of course I would.”

Mary stopped on her way to the bedroom. “Good day, Mr. Donovan.”

I walked to the door and stepped outside.

I sat in the shade in the Ford's passenger seat with the door open for almost an hour. The morning air was beginning to warm. When Laura came out of the house, she was carrying a book.

I rose and wiped sweat from the back of my neck with a handkerchief and gestured toward the open door.

As we drove off, Laura showed me the book. “Katie Caldwell's high-school yearbook.”

“You were in there for an hour.”

“I think I smoothed things over between you and Mary.” She flipped through the yearbook. “You always said you can learn a lot about a person from their high-school yearbook. Let's go back to the inn, and I'll tell you all about my visit.”

When we reached the inn, two couples occupied tables on the front deck.

“Follow me.” I led Laura to my favorite part of the building, the west deck overlooking the meadow and the pond. Wind blew the windflowers, dancing through tall grass. Sunlight shimmered over the calm water, and dragonflies zipped over the surface.

A pair of ducks swooped low over the tree line and glided in for a gentle landing on the pond. Laura took a seat. “Aren't they wonderful? I love wild ducks.”

“So do I, fried or baked.”

Laura rolled her eyes and set the yearbook on the table. “This is lovely. I can see why you'd want to spend time here.”

“I need to start writing.” I sat across from her and folded my arms. “Did you have a pleasant visit with Mary?”

“Don't be snippy.” Laura's eyes left the scenery, and she stared at me. “Do you want to hear what Mary and I talked about or not?”

“I'm sorry.” I wasn't mad at Laura. I was angry with myself for not solving Katie's murder ten years earlier.

“After you left, Mary shuffled into the bedroom and returned carrying a box that looked far too heavy for such a frail woman. She showed me Katie's baby book. Then we went through stacks of old photographs, down through the years.”

Laura described the Katie I knew, an athletic young girl who loved to climb trees and sleep outside in a tent. As the girl grew older, she began to change.

Laura opened the yearbook and showed me Katie's sophomore picture. “By the time she got to high school, she was a beautiful young woman, and I suspect she began to like the changes she was going through.”

From what everyone told me years ago, she was one of the most popular girls in school.

Laura set the yearbook down. “When we finished going through the photos, we talked about who might've done such a thing to such a sweet girl. I asked who she thought might've done it.”

“Alan Tremain.”

“Bingo. It took her a long time before she said the name. Mary never liked Alan back then. She thought Katie could do much better than, as she called him,
that skirt-chasing grease monkey.
Over the years, however, Alan seemed to seek out opportunities to stop by and chat. Mary came to believe Alan's alibi about working in his uncle's garage.”

“So did the police, eventually.”

“Do you know he never left Hanover? It must have been rough being the prime suspect in the biggest murder in the town's history. He stuck around and still works at his uncle's place, Sam's Garage. Lives in a little shack behind the garage. Don't you find that surprising?”

I did. “When I first interviewed him, he talked about how he couldn't wait to get out of Hanover.”

“His uncle passed away last year, so we won't be able to check on his alibi.”

“Check on his alibi?” I reached for her hand. “Listen to you. Laura, that's not why we came.”

She looked away, toward the pond, her jaw tense. Then her face softened and she smiled. “I haven't forgotten, but I spent an hour with that poor woman, who needs someone to take up her cause.” Tears glistened in Laura's eyes. “Jake, I have to help her.”

“Help? It's too dangerous!”

“I'm not talking about interrogating suspects. I thought I'd snoop around town and see what people think.” A smirk spread across her face. “People might talk to a Hollywood star.”

Maybe they would, but I didn't like the idea. “If the killer's still in town, you'd be an easy target. He killed once, possibly to protect his identity. He'd do it again.”

Laura jumped to her feet and set both hands on her hips. “You don't think I can be careful? I was careful when I helped you and Mickey with your cases years ago. I was helpful in New York even before you came back from Florida”—her voice rose—“and when we got to Hollywood and the cops almost arrested you for murder…and Hawaii…”

“Okay, okay.” I held up both hands and surrendered. “If you get arrested, I'll post your bail.”

“You're very kind.” She blew out a breath and sat. “Don't worry about me. I can handle myself. Now, shouldn't you be working on your novel?”

That's exactly what I planned to do, but I was finding it harder to let go of the Katie Caldwell case with each passing minute. “I will, but tell me the rest.”

Laura glanced at the yearbook. “I asked Mary if Katie had any other boys she liked or boys who liked her. Apparently, most of the male population of Hanover High had a crush on Katie.”

Laura pulled a photograph from her purse. “You'll love this.”

The picture was a photo of Katie's homeroom class. She stood in the front row beside her teacher, Mr. Hanson. “His smile looks phony. He seems like the kind of guy who'd look down a girl's blouse when he walked past her desk.”

“I thought I'd probably have uncovered a romantic relationship between Katie and Mr. Hanson if I'd had more time in Hanover.” Except for a book of poetry, there was no actual evidence of an inappropriate relationship, just rumors and speculation one would expect in a small town.

The truth of the matter was I detested the man the moment I met him. Maybe back then I wanted him to be guilty. Now it seemed possible I might have let my feelings cloud my judgment.

“Mary told me Katie liked George Hanson as a teacher. He loaned her books of poetry and gave her one for her birthday. And he encouraged her to try out for the role of the princess at Founder's Day, but sometimes he made her feel uncomfortable.”

“If you get a chance to meet him, you'll probably feel the same.”

“I borrowed one more thing.” She removed a yellowed booklet from her purse and handed it to me.

The pamphlet was labeled
F
OUNDER'S
D
AY,
S
ATURDAY,
J
UNE 27, 1925
. It listed the events, concluding with the Founder's Day Reenactment. The performance was directed by George Hanson. Until now, I hadn't known her teacher directed her in the Founder's Day event. Princess Teleka, Katie Caldwell. “She was so proud, thanks to Mr. Hanson. The same role Ginger has this Saturday.”

Laura nodded. “Mary described how proud Katie was at being selected for the role of Princess Teleka. She did a fabulous job too. Then, for the first time, she blinked away tears as she told me about finding Katie dead the next morning.”

A smile crossed her face. “So, how did I do?”

“What about Father Ryan?”

She let out a low groan. “His name never came up! You really think a priest could've bashed a girl's brains in?”

“I learned years ago not to exclude a suspect based on his occupation. Draw your own conclusion after you get to know him.”

Laura grabbed my wrist and checked my watch. “Darling, it's ten-thirty. You have a novel to write.”

“Time to go to work. Words don't write themselves.” I'd lost my earlier enthusiasm for restarting my novel, and now I had Laura's safety to worry about.

“Jake Donovan.”

I glanced over my shoulder. I couldn't make out the man's face, backlit by the bright morning sun, but a gun sat in a holster on his hip.

With a confident stride, the officer approached the table.

The first officer on the scene was now in his early thirties. He was just a kid ten years ago. Now he wore a sheriff's badge. I rose and shook his hand. “Edgar Bishop.”

He wore a solemn expression. “We need to talk.”

The officer removed his dark sunglasses, tipped his cap to Laura, and nodded to me. Edgar Bishop, the baby-faced deputy who was the first cop to arrive at the crime scene, had gained a few pounds of muscle since I last saw him. “Never expected to see you in Hanover again, Jake.”

“I never expected to come back.” I introduced him to Laura.

Laura turned the yearbook over and flashed her most charming smile.

With the pleasantries over, Bishop grew serious. “Got a few minutes?”

“Sure.” I liked Bishop; at least I did years ago. Of all the cops I met in Hanover, he was the most professional. He cared about solving Katie's murder and didn't seem to mind the presence of an outsider reviewing the lack of progress by his superiors.

He removed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Excuse me, ma'am. Maybe Jake and I should chat alone.”

Laura's eyes narrowed. “I'm Jake's wife, and I have a right to hear what you have to say.”

“Suit yourself.” He sat across from her at the table.

I remained standing. “What's up?”

“When I heard you'd returned I assumed you came to look into the Katie Caldwell case.”

“My husband is here to work on his novel.”

His eyes shifted between Laura and me, as if he wasn't sure whom to address. “You've written other novels, and I don't recall seeing you here except to investigate the Caldwell murder.”

What was he beating his gums about? “Does getting elected to office cause someone to avoid getting to the point?”

“I'm getting around to it.” Bishop drummed his fingers on the table. “It hasn't been easy on Mary since you left. And the town's gone through hell since the Depression hit. Businesses have closed and people lost their jobs, their pensions.”

I knew how it was. “I didn't expect Hanover would be spared the effects of the country's panic.”

Sheriff Bishop gazed toward the ducks gliding across the pond. “Ten years ago everyone had an opinion about who killed Katie Caldwell. Much of the speculation was unfair to innocent people.”

“You're a cop. You know life isn't fair.”

“Still, I wouldn't want to see old wounds reopened.”

“What?” Maybe old wounds needed to be reopened to get at the truth.

Laura's face reddened. “Sheriff, it sounds like you're warning us about our behavior.”

“Miss Wilson, you and your husband might find people aren't as friendly as Jake might remember them to be. If you've come back to look into Katie's murder, people might not take kindly to your digging into the past.”

Laura flashed me a can-you-believe-this-guy look. “Especially the killer.”

I didn't like the tone in the sheriff's voice. “My editor suggested…insisted that I get away from the city. Hanover was close, quiet, and a place I could concentrate on my writing, something I was about to do before you dropped by.”

Bishop studied my face. “You went to see Mary Caldwell this morning.”

I nodded. “Mary and Father Ryan visited me in New York a couple of days ago. She asked if I'd look into the case. I told her no. If you don't believe me, you might believe a priest. I didn't want Mary, when she heard I was in town, to jump to the same conclusion you have, so I explained how things were.”

“Mary mustn't have been too happy to hear your return had nothing to do with her daughter's death.”

“She wasn't. And she isn't too pleased that your office has given up on her daughter's murder.”

Bishop furrowed his brow. “We never closed the Caldwell murder.”

That didn't mean it was active. “I'm glad to hear that.”

For a moment, none of us spoke.

“Guess I'd better let you get back to your writing.” He nodded toward the yearbook. “Enjoy your reading, Miss Wilson.”

Bishop's attitude toward Katie's murder had changed over the years, and I wasn't sure why.

Now he was probably the last person I'd expect to get to the truth. It had to be more than the badge. “When I left, I thought you were the best chance of discovering Katie's killer.”

Laura and I walked him to the front of the inn.

She didn't like the guy and hadn't tried to hide it. “Thanks for the warning, Sheriff.”

“I wasn't warning you, Miss Wilson, or your husband.” Bishop straightened his hat. “I dropped by to warn you about
the town's
attitude toward outsiders, Miss Wilson.” He slipped on his sunglasses. “I've never given up on finding Katie's killer.”

Laura didn't look convinced. “Mary Caldwell will be glad to hear that.”

Bishop stared at Laura for an uncomfortable second then climbed down the stairs, slipped into his patrol car, and drove away.

Laura watched him go. “What a despicable man.”

“He wasn't always that way.”

She smiled. “Now that you've told Mary and the sheriff you've come to work on your novel, you might want to start.”

When we went inside and headed for the stairs, Edwin held up a slip of paper. “Miss Wilson, Miss Wilson.”

The owner hurried from behind the counter and handed her a phone message. “Another call from Hollywood. Paul again.”

Laura stuffed the message into her pocket. “He's such a nag.”

We climbed the stairs without speaking of the note. Inside our suite, Laura tossed the yearbook on the couch then grabbed my lapels and kissed me on the lips. She checked her look in the wall mirror. “You have a novel to write, and I'm going to stay out of your way. I think I'll go shopping, maybe get my hair styled.”

“In Hanover?”

“Why not?”

“What about Paul?”

Laura flashed a look of irritation. “He can wait.” She went into the bedroom.

I was more than ready to focus on my writing. I closed my eyes and told myself to become Blackie Doyle, like Laura suggested. I took a deep breath, ready to begin the best damn Blackie Doyle novel yet.

In the bedroom, I retrieved my notebook and unzipped the cover to my Underwood. I reached for a pencil and knocked it into the trash can.

The trash can was empty, except for the pencil and a crumpled phone message. A single name was visible. Selznick. Selznick! David O. Selznick, the young Hollywood producer who made a star of Fay Wray in
King Kong
? There wasn't a hotter filmmaker around. That was why her manager kept calling.

I stared at the message. If she wanted me to know its contents, she would have shared it with me.

Reading someone else's phone message was like reading someone's mail, something I'd done as a detective, but I'd never do to Laura. Still, curiosity won out. Feeling guilty, I picked up the message, smoothed the wrinkles, and held it in my hands.

The message from her manager, Paul Sawyer, asked Laura to call him as soon as possible. He'd scheduled a lunch Tuesday with Selznick, who wanted to discuss a movie he was producing,
Tombstone
. A Western. “Holy Toledo!”

I was so happy for Laura, I read the note a second time.

Laura stepped into the room in a simple yellow dress. “How do I look?”

Her eyes went to the message in my hand. “How could you!”

Laura hurried from the room, rushed into the corridor, and slammed the door behind her.

I felt like a real heel. I dropped the message and ran after her. I passed the old man who'd been sleeping in the lobby when we arrived as he poked his head out of his doorway.

I bounded down the stairs and caught up with her in the middle of the lobby. “Laura, I'm sorry.”

Laura spun and glared at me. “Sorry? Well, then, it's okay to read other people's messages.”

I'd never seen her so mad. Behind the counter, Edwin was waiting on a couple. All three were staring at us.

His daughter, Ginger, stared open-mouthed from the dining room as she wiped down a table.

“Darling.” I gently took her arm. “Let's talk about this outside.”

She shook off my grip, marched to the front door, and went onto the deck.

I could feel eyes burrowing into the back of my neck as I followed her outside.

Laura stood at the end of the railing, with her back to me.

I stopped a respectable distance away. “I didn't mean to snoop. I dropped a pencil into the trash can and noticed the message with the name Selznick on it.”

She faced me and folded her arms. “And the message just leaped into your hands. How can I trust you?”

“I saw the name and…Did you really expect me to ignore it?”

“Yes!” she shouted, then looked embarrassed as she saw Ginger and Freddy standing in the doorway.

They ducked back inside as Laura shot them a look I knew all too well.

She dropped into a chair at one of the tables and lowered her voice. “We just behaved like a typical Hollywood couple with such a public display.”

“It's all my fault. I was wrong, I know it. I've never read your mail or messages before, and it'll never happen again but, sweetheart, we need to talk about Selznick.”

Laura looked up and stared at me. “Don't sweetheart me.”

I didn't want my wife to make the same mistake I had when I put her career ahead of mine. “Opportunities like this don't come along very often. Look how many actresses turned down the role of the heiress in
It Happened One Night
.” Myrna Loy, Margaret Sullavan, Constance Bennett, Loretta Young.

“I know, but…”

“At least call Paul.”

“I'll call him, but I won't go back to Hollywood until I know you've written something Mildred will love.”

“Fair enough. I'll get started. You have time. The lunch is Tuesday.”

She let out a low growl. “What, did you memorize the entire message?”

“I read it twice.” I held out my hand.

She ignored the gesture. She stood and glanced toward the front door. “How can I face these people after we made such a public display?”

“You're an actress.”

She shot me that look, then her face softened. She was still angry, but she took my arm and we went inside, where no one appeared to notice our presence.

In our suite, I grabbed the typewriter, notepad, and typing paper.

Laura picked up the phone. “You can stay and listen. The secret's been discovered.”

“No, I have a novel to begin.” With my hands full, I left, kicking the suite door closed.