The Big Brush-off (8 page)

A Hollywood movie star shopping in town would keep tongues wagging.

The Pinkerton receptionist came to the table as, in the next booth, a broad-shouldered man with an Oliver Hardy mustache and belly lit up a thick cigar. “Thanks for paying for my lunch.” She grabbed the folder and slipped it in her purse.

I nodded. “Thank you for helping.”

She shot the cigar smoker a look. “Put that out. This lady's expecting. You want to make her sick?”

“A little cigar smoke never hurt nobody.”

She stared at him, hands on hips.

“It's not worth arguing over, doll.” The man crushed the cigar into an ashtray and nodded toward me. “Dames. We never should have let them vote.”

The receptionist nodded toward Laura's coffee cup. “When I was expecting, I learned coffee will keep the baby up all night. You won't get a lick of sleep.”

Laura glanced at her cup. “You're right. All of this is so new to me, to me and Jake.”

“You'll do fine.” The receptionist stepped away from the booth then glanced back and smiled. “Best of luck with your baby.”

Since the trip would take at least two hours, we needed a car for the rest of the week. The waitress with the famous painter for a husband directed us to a Ford dealership that rented cars, two blocks from the diner. Her husband had painted the lobby a year earlier.

Laura picked out a blue Ford sedan with a chrome grill, running boards, and a roomy interior. The car was a bit pricy for a week's rental, but it was roomy and comfortable, like my shoes.

I started the car. The engine purred like a house cat curled in a fat lady's lap.

By the time we made it out of Philadelphia, the sun dipped below the horizon. We didn't talk about Katie, or Laura's career. Instead, the conversation drifted to my writing. I handed her my notebook and she read the notes I jotted down on the train.

When she finished, Laura set the notebook beside her. “Let's assume for a moment that Mildred's right, that you've forgotten how to connect with Blackie. When I read a screenplay, I know very little about the character I'm interested in playing, just what's in the script. You have the advantage of knowing Blackie more thoroughly than that. From what I've read, I know he cares about victims of crime and takes it personally because his old man was shot when he was a kid. Blackie drinks too much and refers to women as dames, doll, or dollface. He doesn't like anyone under the age of eighteen and calls them
kid
. He wears a pink carnation in his lapel instead of a white rose like you. Tell me something about the character that hasn't been in any of the books.”

I thought back to notes I made before I wrote my first Blackie Doyle novel. “He has a sister, but she died when they were in high school. He started off as a cop.”

Laura rolled her eyes. “That was in the first chapter of your first book.”

I told her more that I could remember when I created the character. Blackie regretted losing his high-school sweetheart to a football player. The couple now lived in the Bronx with a handful of kids, in an apartment under the subway tracks.

She shifted in the seat and faced me. “Darling, not all actors do this, but when I prepare for a role, I become that character. Before you start over on your novel, consider becoming Blackie.”

“You think that'll help?” I'd never thought of something like that. I based much of the character on my former partner, the late Mickey O'Brien, who often rubbed people the wrong way. I smoothed some of Mickey's rough edges while retaining his compassion toward his clients.

“Becoming the character works for me. You remember my first Hollywood film,
Midnight Wedding.
On the train I became the character I had to play in the film, Faith Chapman, a clever dish from Alabammy way.”

“With a marvelous Southern accent that occasionally cropped up in the most surprising situations.”

Laura blushed and her drawl returned. “Why, Jake Donovan, you scalawag. You're quite the rogue.”

I chuckled.

“Don't become a womanizing, hard-drinking detective when we get to Hanover, but you might want to get inside his head, if you're going to connect the reader with him.”

That was practically what Mildred said. I'd be a fool to dismiss Laura's advice. I valued her opinion far more than just her knowledge of acting. We'd known each other since we were kids. We'd loved each other nearly as long. She was coming to Hanover so she could focus on my career, out of love.

As we drove meandering roads through the countryside dotted by small towns and farms, Laura searched through her purse and found a pen. She opened the notebook. “Do you mind if I write what you mentioned about Blackie's past?”

“Be my guest.” I turned on the car's headlights. I was grateful darkness had set in. I didn't want Laura to see the apprehension I felt. If Mildred rejected my new chapters, I was through at Empire Press and any other New York publisher. Word traveled fast in the publishing business.

While growing up, Gino, Laura, and I dreamed about the future. Gino found his dream: a wife, kids, and a home two blocks from the house he grew up in, with family all around. Laura and I still considered Queens our home, though we hadn't lived there in more than ten years. Where was our home? For now, I guessed it was Hollywood.

We passed a sign on the side of the road that said we were five miles from Hanover, a town I'd never forgotten. The community was so different from New York and Los Angeles and other cities I lived in during my Pinkerton days.

On weekends, families gathered in the town square's well-kept park, with its statue of a Union soldier extending one arm in triumph. Blue spruce and tall Scots pine trees shaded the benches, where old men came to play checkers and chat about the good old days before young girls were murdered in their sleep.

Quaint shops and delis, a hardware store, and cafés surrounded the park. One block south of the square was St. Catherine's, Father Ryan's church, a brownstone with arched stained glass windows and a tall steeple with a bell that summoned parishioners to mass.

A block from the church was the house Katie Caldwell and her mother had lived in. A pleasant tree-lined neighborhood with sidewalks and large trees, some of which spanned the street. Within walking distance of the neighborhood was Hanover High School, where students planted a tree honoring Katie before I arrived.

Across the town square was our immediate destination, the Hanover Inn, where I stayed. I hoped it was still in existence.

I was surprised in my first visit by the friendliness of the town. Folks often stopped to introduce themselves to a stranger like me, until they realized I was trying to expose a murderer among them. Then they clammed up like a cherry pit.

Laura snapped the notebook closed as we passed a
W
ELCOME TO
H
ANOVER
sign.

From the get-go, this was no picture postcard. The dim streetlamps revealed the Depression had hammered the town. At least one house on every street was boarded up. At the center of town, more boards covered businesses. Grass in the town square was dead in places, as were several trees. No one sat on the benches. Only the bronze soldier stood there with streaks on his uniform from the local pigeons, no doubt.

Something new appeared to have been added, a wooden stage with a large blue and white banner that read
F
OUNDER'S
D
AY,
S
ATURDAY,
J
UNE 22
.

Laura touched my arm. “Show me where Katie lived.”

Really? “It's getting dark. We won't be able to see much.”

“I want to anyway.”

I knew sooner or later she'd want to see where Katie had been murdered. Might as well get it over with.

I drove around the town square and passed St. Catherine's. A block later, I stopped across the street from the house Mary and Katie Caldwell lived in, the two-story structure I'd come to know so well. The paint had peeled, a couple of windows were broken, and the lawn hadn't been tended in years.

Laura sucked in her breath. “It looks haunted.”

In a way, it was. The house and the town were haunted by the death of a girl, with a motive no one could figure out. “It didn't always look that way.”

When I first saw the murder scene, I checked with people in the neighborhood. Those willing to talk to an outsider said they wanted to help but didn't hear a sound, didn't see a thing.

They wanted to help but, more important, they wanted to forget. Their eyes told me one never forgot the death of a young girl like Katie.

I wanted to get a closer look, to refresh my memory, but a few people were seated on their front porches and already eyed the strangers in the new Ford.

Blackie Doyle would've driven to a side street, headed down the alley, and climbed the back fence into the old house. He would've gone inside to refresh his memory; maybe ten years away from the case would give him a fresh perspective.

I drove back to the center of town, hoping the hotel manager in New York had made the reservations. I breathed a sigh of relief when the Hanover Inn stood where it always had been. I parked in front.

Laura handed me the notebook, which I stuffed in my suit coat pocket. “This looks like a very comfortable place to stay.”

And a perfect place to resuscitate my writing career.

The moon hung above the tree line behind the inn as Laura and I carried the bags we'd stuffed into the trunk of the Ford up the stone steps to the deck of the two-story Hanover Inn. Like the rest of the town, the inn building could have used a fresh coat of paint.

I recalled the friendly service and the happy owner, a widower, with two redheaded young kids. I couldn't remember the man's name, and I doubted he'd remember me after all these years.

A blue and white banner like the one in the town square hung above the door.
W
ELCOME
F
OUNDER'S
D
AY
V
ISITORS.

A large ceiling fan stirred the air, moving the corner of a newspaper on the lap of an old man dozing in a soft leather chair in the deserted lobby.

We set the bags down at the vacant front desk, where a radio was broadcasting an episode of
Flash Gordon,
the new show based on the comic strip. As I reached to tap a ring-for-service bell, a cigarette-smoking teenager with freckles came out reading a
Terry and the Pirates
comic book. Red hair with the texture of a scrub brush stuck out from beneath a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap.

The kid looked up from the comic and smoke burst from his mouth and nose. He coughed and cupped the Camel and waved a cloud of smoke aside. He crushed the cigarette out in an ashtray on the counter. “I was just holding this for my sister.”

Sure you were. “We have reservations.”

Laura stood beside me. “The hotel manager at the Waldorf-Astoria assured us they'd call and make arrangements.”

The kid let out a low whistle. “Waldorf-Astoria. You won't be happy in a dump like this.” He nodded to the man in the chair. “Even that old man finds the chair more comfortable.”

The place was perfect for our needs. “I stayed here before. Now, the reservations.”

“Oh, yeah.” The kid snatched a torn slip of paper tacked to the wall behind the counter. “You must be Mr. Wilson.”

I swallowed my pride once again. “I'm Jake Donovan.”

He glanced at the paper again. “Guess that makes you Laura Wilson.”

Laura smiled. “That's me.”

The kid wiped a smirk off his mouth as he turned the register book toward us. “Good thing Pop's in his office balancing the books. My old man's kind of a stick in the mud. He usually doesn't let couples with different last names stay in the same room.”

Laura chuckled and squeezed my arm, pressing her body against mine. “Shake a leg, Daddy, I'd like to freshen up.”

I ignored Laura's act and signed the register. “We're married.”

The kid gave Laura the once-over. “Sure you are.”

The owner appeared from a closed door behind the counter and practically shoved the kid aside. “Jake Donovan. You probably don't remember me. Edwin Conrad. I'd just purchased the place the last time I saw you. Guess that would be almost ten years ago.”

I offered my hand. “Of course I remember you. This is my wife, Laura. I was hoping you still owned the place.”

Edwin shook my hand like pumping water from a well. Then, like a proud new father, he shook Laura's hand. “And I'd know your face anywhere, Miss Wilson. I've seen every one of your pictures.”

He sniffed the air then let out a ragged sigh as he glanced at the smoldering ashtray. “Freddy, has anyone been smoking in here?”

Freddy pointed to the man sleeping in the chair. “Old man…I mean, Mr. Winters was.”

“You'd better be telling the truth. Take our guests' bags.”

Freddy shot me a look of gratitude for not ratting him out to his old man.

Laura winked at the kid. “Your son was very helpful.”

I nodded. “He confirmed the reservations and was about to show us to our room.”

Edwin held up one hand and shouted, “Wait.”

The owner dashed into the back room and returned with a Kodak and handed the camera to his son. “If you don't mind, Mr. Donovan, Miss Wilson.”

“We don't mind at all, do we, darling?” She waited for Edwin to come from behind the counter then stood between him and me. “And call us
Jake
and
Laura
.”

Edwin looked nervous, as if we were the most famous people who ever stayed in his inn. Maybe we were.

He ran a finger around his collar and straightened his tie. “No messing around, son. I want a picture for the wall behind the counter. Take two, just in case.”

“Sure, Pop.” The kid stood in front of the counter and aimed the camera. “Say ‘Pittsburgh Pirates.' ” As we chuckled, he snapped the picture then took another.

Edwin shook our hands then took the camera from his son like it might break at any moment. “Thank you so much.”

“Room!” Edwin's face flushed. “You're staying in the honeymoon suite.”

Freddy chuckled as he walked around the counter and grabbed the two bags. “We have a honeymoon suite?”

Edwin grimaced. “The second floor, corner suite.”

“Right, Pop. You mean two oh two?”

Edwin tossed the keys to Freddy and shook his head. “Kids.” He smiled at me. “The suite has a lovely view of the town square.”

Laura smiled. “I'm sure it will be delightful.”

As the son hefted the bags up the stairs, the father set the camera behind the counter. “You were just a gumshoe when you left, and you come back a famous mystery writer with one of the most beautiful and talented women in Hollywood.”