Read Birdie's Nest Online

Authors: Linda LaRoque

Tags: #time travel romance

Birdie's Nest (27 page)

Lloyd nodded. “A pretty high profile list. We’ll have to be very careful how we conduct ourselves in this or there will be repercussions.”

“How long does it usually take to get search warrants?”

“Less than a day. We should be able to start searching first thing in the morning.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Mrs. Wallace’s maid answered the door. Her eyes widened at the sight of Detective Ethan, Birdie, dressed as Officer Jenkins, and the three officers waiting on the street behind them. One man drove the small 4-wheel carriage to carry any evidence they collected while another went around the house to watch the rear exit.

“Yes, sir. May I help you?”

“I’m Detective Ethan.” He handed her a card. “I’m here on official police business and need to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Wallace. Are they in?”

She glanced at the card and then up at Ethan. “Let me check. I’ll be right back.” Flustered, hesitant to leave the entry open, and with a smile resembling a grimace, she closed the door. They could see her through the glass insets as she bustled down the hall.

Ethan glanced at Birdie. “I don’t think we’re welcome.”

“I expect not. Can’t say I blame them. It’s not everyday the police show up on your doorstep in this neighborhood.”

Out of breath, the maid returned and opened the door and gasped out, “Mrs. Wallace will see you in the parlor.”

They waited while she closed the door and then followed her into the room where Birdie had taken tea with the society woman and the other mothers of her students.

Perched on the sofa like a queen holding court, Mrs. Wallace nodded to them. Her gaze probed Birdie’s features and uniform. Lordy, Birdie hoped she didn’t recognize her. The older woman lost interest and turned her attention to Ethan. “Would you gentlemen care to have a seat while you tell me what your visit is about?” She smiled, dropping her chin slightly in a nod. “I expect you’re collecting money for the policeman’s ball or some such event.”

“No, ma’am. We’re here with a search warrant.” He removed the document from his breast pocket, strode forward and handed her the paper.

Mrs. Wallace opened the document and started to read. With each word her face deepened in hue, from a slight pink to almost purple. For a moment Birdie feared she’d have a heart attack. This must be what they call apoplexy.

“This is preposterous!” She stood and waved the search warrant at Ethan. “I’ll have your job for this, detective.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He walked to the door and called the other officers in. They avoided looking at the irate woman as she threw verbal insults at them. Ethan turned to Birdie and the others. “We’ll work in teams of two. You know what we’re looking for. Be thorough, but don’t leave Mrs. Wallace’s home in a mess.”

“Yes, sir.”

They started upstairs. Birdie went through the chifferobe in the Wallace’s bedroom. A gray wool suit hung far to the back. She lifted it to her nose and sniffed. No stale cigarette smoke odor. That was a good sign. She examined the buttons to see if one had been replaced recently. The fabric was close enough to their clues, so they bagged the garment to inspect more closely at the station. Before closing the wardrobe door, she went through every pocket—suit coat, vest, and trousers. Either Jim Wallace kept his wardrobe neat or his wife did it for him.

The front door banged open. She heard Mr. Wallace’s roar. “What in thunderation is going on here, Rachel?”

“You will lower your voice in my home, Jim.” She must have pulled him into the parlor and closed the door. A few minutes later he bounded up the stairs.

“Ethan, this is preposterous. Take your thugs and get out of my house now.”

“Sorry, Mr. Wallace. You can either submit to our search peacefully or we’ll do it the hard way. We’re trying to keep it quiet so no one will know what’s going on. You raise a ruckus and the neighbors will be peeking out their windows. Plus, I’ll have to arrest you.”

She heard paper rattle as Wallace sputtered, “How can you begin to think I committed crimes like those described in the warrant?”

“We have several pieces of evidence found at the scene that could incriminate you. Truthfully, I don’t think you hurt those women, but every possible suspect must be scrutinized carefully.”

Forceful footsteps descended the stairs but they were measured and controlled.

Birdie studied the shaving items below the mirror on the chifferobe. A bottle of Fougere Royal sat on top of a scarf with embroidered edges. Beside it lay a comb and brush. She took the cologne, ensured the cap was on tight, and placed it in a separate bag. It’d be a shame to spill some of the expensive stuff, not as bad as having to wear it on your person, though.

She rifled through the drawers of the chest looking for a knife. Most men of this era wore or carried one—if not in their boot, then in their pocket. But Jim Wallace wasn’t a boot wearing man. They’d have to question Wallace.

She and the other policeman moved on to the other bedrooms, but came out empty handed. Ethan and his helper exited the attic, shutting the door behind them. They carried a couple of large bags.

He nodded to the three policemen. “I want you to go out the back door and search the stable and any other outbuildings on the property.”

Downstairs Birdie and Ethan joined the Wallaces in the parlor and Ethan closed the door behind them. Mouth in a grim line, Mr. Wallace sat on the sofa with his arm around his distraught wife. Birdie had to give her credit. She was obviously upset but not weeping and wailing like some women do.

Ethan waved at a chair. “May we sit down? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Jim nodded. Birdie sat in a chair opposite Ethan’s and watched the body language of the suspect. “Do you own a knife, Mr. Wallace?”

“Of course I do.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife measuring probably four inches, folded, and tossed it to Ethan.

The detective opened it and tested the edge on the blade. “Not very sharp. What do you use it for?”

“Cleaning and trimming my nails, cleaning the dirt off my shoes…” He shrugged. “Stuff like that.”

“You don’t have any other knives—a hunting knife or something bigger than this?” He tossed the blade to Birdie. She caught it and placed it in a separate bag.

“I have a penknife at the bank but rarely use it anymore.” He shook his head. “No hunting knives. Never developed a taste for the activity.”

Ethan stood. “All right then. That’s all for now. We’ll take very good care of the items we’ve taken from your home.” He started for the door and then turned back. “By the way, do you happen to smoke cigarettes?”

“No. I do enjoy a good cigar on occasion.”

“I’m sorry to have upset your day. If your neighbors ask questions about us taking so many bags out of your house, feel free to tell them you offered to donate clothes for the needy, a special project instigated by the department this year. We won’t contradict you.”

* * *

Ted Bankston’s palatial, corner lot home sat atop a berm comprised of two five-foot thick, back-filled cement walls where steps leading up to the sidewalk provided access to the high porch. The lawn was groomed to perfection. It might be winter, but the shrubs around the building gave it a distinguishing air, as did the white Grecian columns across the front. Birdie gazed across the property as they stood on the front porch and waited for someone to open the door. A large gazebo graced the sprawling yard on the left side of the house and from what she could tell, the home boasted a stable as well as a barn.

The door opened. On the threshold stood an extremely attractive middle-aged man. “Yes, officers. May I help you?”

“May we come in, Mr. Bankston?”

“I can’t imagine whatever for, but please do.” He stood back and after he shut the door crossed the shiny wood floors to what appeared to be the men’s parlor. “Have a seat.” He sat in a wingback chair near the fireplace.

“Thank you, but first, I have this for you.” Ethan handed Bankston the search warrant and then sat in a chair beside Birdie.

The older man read for a moment before in eyebrows rose in disbelief. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“I don’t believe so, but in truth, that’s for you to say. The warrant says we are to go through everything in your home and outbuildings looking for evidence which might incriminate you.”

Bankston’s outer demeanor appeared calm, but fury burned inside him. His eyes narrowed and he pinched his mouth closed. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled and then barked, “Well, get on with it then. If anything is damaged the Waco Police Department will be held responsible.”

“Understood, Mr. Bankston. Now, a few questions first. Do you smoke cigarettes?”

“On occasion, yes.”

“A specific brand?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Duke of Durham.”

“Do you own any knives?”

“Of course I do. I have an entire collection.” He stood, crossed the room and unlocked a mahogany cabinet. “I have to keep this locked because my niece and nephew are rather precocious, and their mother doesn’t keep them in line.” He stepped back out of their way so they could get a good look.

Probably more than a dozen knives lay in velvet pockets designed for their exact size. “They are—” Hearing her own voice, Birdie shut up, then cleared her throat and added in a rasp—“beautiful”

“My good man, do you need a touch of brandy to ease your throat?”

Ethan covered for her. “My partner lost his voice with the flu last week and is just now getting it back.”

“Nasty, stuff, that flu.”

“Where did you acquire your collection, Mr. Braxton?”

“They were passed down to me by my grandfather. He collected them while serving in Her Majesty’s Navy.” He rocked back on his heels. “We’re rather proud of them in the family.”

Birdie lifted one from its velvet bed and ran the blade down her finger. Blood welled on the skin. “Watch it!” Bankston said. “They’re extremely sharp.” She hadn’t felt the blade slice into her. The cut now began to sting. Mr. Bankston rushed to a teacart by his desk and grabbed a napkin, which he handed her. She wrapped it tightly around her finger until the bleeding stopped.

“Sir, is your collection intact?” Ethan inquired. “Are any pieces missing?”

He made a cursory check and then shook his head. “All are accounted for.”

“Well, then, we’ll be making our way through your home. Any items we take will be returned to you in due time—if you’re not guilty.”

They left with a bottle of the expensive cologne, a suit coat, and little else.

* * *

John Samuelson lived on Seventeenth and Washington in a beautiful brick home similar to Frank Lloyd Wright’s Prairie Style. Birdie liked it immediately, especially the stained glass window in the front door. When Samuelson opened the door, his gaze moved from Ethan to Birdie and then to the three officers at the street.

“What’s going on here, Detective Ethan?”

“May we come in? We need to speak with you.”

“No you may not. I’m busy right now and about to leave for a church meeting.” He tried to shut the door but Lloyd’s foot kept it open. He shoved his way in. “Now see here. This is a violation of my rights. I demand an explanation.”

“You’ll get one, John, as soon as you cool down and sit down. You don’t want what I have to say aired on your front porch for your neighbors to see and hear.”

Samuelson peered left and right, and then nodded to the men at the curb. “Bring those men in also. I don’t want people seeing them stopped in front of my house. No telling what kind of lies they’d make up.” He plopped his stocky frame down on the sofa.

Ethan gestured to two of the officers to come in, the other remained in the buggy to protect the evidence previously collected. “Where is Mrs. Samuelson, sir?”

“She’s already at the church, no doubt wondering where I am.” He made to rise but Ethan placed a hand at his chest and eased the man back down.

“Hold on, John. This is a warrant to search every room in your home and all your out buildings.”

Color rose in the older man’s face. Shaking a fist, he yelled, “Over my dead body!” Like a raging bull he jumped from the sofa and lunged at Ethan. His efforts were to no avail. Ethan popped him in the chin, stunning him. Before he landed on the sofa again, the two officers had him cuffed and on his way to the buggy.

Before they left the Samuelson home, they’d run across the smoking gun—a receipt with one corner torn off. The following day, Samuelson was arraigned. He entered a plea of not guilty and the court set a trial date of August 1, 1891.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Birdie, a vision in white, appeared in the narthex on Joseph Hellman’s arm. Bethany and Maggie blocked Tad’s view somewhat, but what he could see of his bride stole his breath. Radiant in her simple, off the shoulder gown with a slimmer skirt than was fashionable, she glowed. The veil trailed past her shoulders and framed her hair and face. How had he gotten so lucky? She could have married anyone, but chose him. His throat clogged and moisture blurred his vision.

James poked him and whispered, “Close your mouth, you’re drooling.” Tad chuckled. The comment was just what he needed to distract his emotions and ease the tension.

Tad knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he couldn’t help it. He tried to catch her eye, but she stood chewing her bottom lip, glancing quickly, nervously, around the room. He hoped she wasn’t looking for an escape route. No doubt she’d rather face a gang of cattle rustlers than stand before this large crowd in her wedding finery. If it’d been up to her, they’d have had a small, at-home wedding but she’d conceded to make Mother happy. At last her gaze lifted to him. He winked. She beamed, her features relaxing.

The music began, and Bethany started down the aisle, then Mrs. Hellman, several paces behind. Shock hit him as he studied his sister in the rose colored dress, one designed for a woman, not a child. She’d grown up while he’d been preoccupied with Birdie and the ranch. Dang, it wouldn’t be many years until he’d be giving her away to some man. His tie threatened to choke him, and he tugged at his collar. Panic gripped him. He didn’t know anyone worthy of his sister.
Relax, Tad. She may look like a woman, but she’s still a girl.

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