Don't Dare a Dame (5 page)

   
“You have bad breath. Where’s my two bucks?”

   
He didn’t cross my outstretched hand with silver as I brushed past him.

***

   
It wasn’t the first time I’d wished cars had phones in them like they did heaters. I needed to call the Vanhorn sisters to tell them Maguire was dead and the cops would most likely come calling. Going back to the office was faster than hunting a pay phone. I played dumb in the face of Isobel’s request for details, knowing the women would come off better in the cops’ assessment if they were genuinely shocked by anything they were told.

   
Once I’d hung up, I went across the street to a postage stamp-sized coffee shop just big enough for eight stools at the counter and a table for two at the back. With a mug of joe to make me smarter, I sat at the table and used a fresh page on the tablet I’d brought over to start a list of what I’d learned so far.

   
The list wasn’t long.

   
– Alf had married a reasonably well-off widow, but to hear her daughters tell it, had lost a big part of her money.

   
– He’d had designs on the woman when she was still married to someone else.

   
– Yesterday her daughters had hired me and told me about an overheard conversation which might indicate he had murdered their father.

   
– Someone had been listening when they told me about that conversation.

   
– Bright and early today, when I’d gone to see Alf, he already was dead — an apparent suicide.

   
Was it guilt because he’d been the eavesdropper yesterday? Possibly. One thing seemed inescapable: Yesterday’s incident had something to do with his death.

   
Despite lingering expectations this case would go anywhere, I returned to my office to type up my notes and start a list of things I wanted to check. The office work would allow extra time for the boys in blue to finish talking to Corrine and Isobel. No sense irking Freeze by getting under his feet twice in one day, even though the first time hadn’t been my fault. I cranked a carbon set into my Remington and was typing away when the telephone rang.

   
“Miss Sullivan?” a crisp voice inquired.

   
“Yes?”

   
“Please hold for Chief Wurstner.”

   
Before I could even contemplate a reply, the phone on the other end clacked down. I sat and tried to breathe slowly. What had I done to attract the attention of the chief of police?

   
The next voice I heard was stern. Uncompromising.

   
“Miss Sullivan? This is Chief Wurstner. You have exactly ten minutes to be in my office and give me very good reasons why I shouldn’t cancel your license.”

Six

   
Private investigators received their authorization to practice solely at the discretion of the chief of police. If Wurstner cancelled my license, I’d be out of a job. Getting hit in the head with a hammer couldn’t have stunned me much more than his phone call.

   
I scarcely noticed buildings or people as I walked the few, not overly long, blocks from my place to the three-story gingerbread structure known as Market House. It was home to several of the police department’s special units as well as the chief’s office, and the closer I got, the more baffled I was. Admittedly, I sometimes didn’t worry as much as I should about stepping on toes. And yes, when getting evidence or information seemed to warrant it, I’d sometimes opened a lock with a crochet hook instead of a key. Since I didn’t remember any toes lately, nor had I indulged in any hanky panky the law might frown on, the threat from the chief was a bolt from the blue.

   
Determined to show more confidence than I felt, I hopped up the stairs to the second floor. Wearing what I hoped was a pleasant expression, I presented myself in the anteroom to the chief’s office.

   
“I’m Maggie Sullivan. The chief wanted to see me.”

   
“I’ll tell him you’re here.” The man in the anteroom was a civilian, and his voice was just as crisp in person. He rose and tapped on the door behind him, stepping through for just a moment before reappearing. “You can go in.”

   
Chief Rudolph Wurstner was a nice-looking man, trim with deceptively mild eyes and the straightest, firmest mouth I’d ever seen. Its faintly downturned corners suggested forbearance as well as stubbornness. He’d probably needed a good supply of both. He’d been chief since I was ten or so, orchestrating everything from raids on bootleg joints to capture of the notorious John Dillinger. His hands were folded on his desk. He didn’t get up. He didn’t move so much as a finger.

   
“Sit down.”

   
It was an order, not an invitation. For once I felt no urge to smart off, whether out of respect for his position or because of something in the man himself. I did as instructed.

   
“I’ve heard good things about you, Miss Sullivan. Unfortunately I’ve also heard you disregard rules at the drop of a hat. Would you care to explain why you’ve been harassing not only a law-abiding citizen, but his grieving family, less than twelve hours after his death?”

   
I filed the twelve hours bit away to think about later.

   
“I have not been harassing anyone,” I said carefully. “I’d like very much to know who claims I have.”

   
The hardening of his expression told me he didn’t like my answer. When it became clear he wasn’t going to tell me who was grousing, I picked my way ahead.

   
“I’m guessing it’s Alf Maguire you’re talking about, since he’s recently dead and I turned up there. There’s not much ground to say I harassed him, though, since we’d never met. I’d never heard of the man until yesterday.”

   
Wurstner frowned. That had caught his attention.

   
“Nor did I know he was dead,” I continued. “I’d come to talk to him. His stepdaughters hired me to look into something involving their late father. Their dad and Maguire were cousins of some sort. I was hoping Maguire could give me names of acquaintances, that kind of thing.

   
“As to harassing his family, I’d never met his son either, until this morning. His stepson Neal and I had a run-in yesterday because Neal was shoving one of his sisters around. When I ask him to quit, he tried to get tough with me, too. I gave him a bloody nose.”

   
Wurstner unfolded his hands and leaned back. The front of his thin lower lip sucked in a little, which I thought might signal amusement. His manner remained stern.

   
“If we check thoroughly, I assume we’ll fine no discrepancy in what you’ve told me?” he said after he’d considered the matter.

   
“You will not.”

   
“And there’s nothing you’ve omitted telling me?”

   
I almost smiled. It was one of my favorite ploys, though he couldn’t be aware of it.

   
“No.”

   
He frowned to himself.

   
“I realize people who hire you do so expecting privacy,” he said slowly. “Nevertheless, in deaths like this we like to make certain the circumstances were exactly as they appear. Can you tell me, in general terms, what his stepdaughters wanted you to look into? Something to do with their father, you said?”

   
Despite his casual words, my interest sharpened. I knew very well the force didn’t automatically investigate every suicide. And what, if anything, did his question have to do with someone kicking up a stink about me?

   
“He disappeared back during the flood. His daughters know the odds are against them, but they want me to see if I can learn anything about what happened.”

   
The chief of police stared at me.

   
“Do you mean the Great Flood?” he asked slowly. “Nineteen-thirteen?”

   
“Yep.”

   
His head shook slowly.

   
“Merciful .... A hundred, maybe a hundred twenty, died that we know of. Swept away. Drowned. I saw. I was in the middle of it. God knows there must have been more, unaccounted for. But after all this time—”

   
“Exactly. I’ve told them they’re most likely wasting their money, but apparently they’ve got it to spend.”

   
His question about whether I’d omitted anything had come earlier. As I saw it, that meant it only applied to things we’d talked about earlier. Since I’d just now given him details of why I was hired, the possibility of Alf’s involvement didn’t count. Even if Alf had been involved, why would anyone make a complaint about me now that he was dead?

   
“That will be all, Miss Sullivan. Thank you for coming in,” Wurstner said in dismissal.

   
I stood.

   
“So what’s my status?” My throat felt tighter than usual.

   
Already reaching for a folder on his desk, he looked up, irritably.

   
“What?”

   
“My license?” I prompted.

   
“Ah.” He didn’t fold his hands again, and he didn’t look quite as put out as when I’d entered. His mouth made a formidable line. “I don’t appreciate people above me pressuring me with no more proof than I’ve received so far. As far as I’m concerned you’re in the clear.” His index finger pointed a warning. “Keep your nose clean, Miss Sullivan.”

***

   
“They were very polite this time,” said Isobel. “Much nicer than the ones who came yesterday.”

   
“Polite!” Corrine’s huff gave her own opinion. “They asked us where we were last night!”

   
The Vanhorn sisters were seated across from me. We each occupied the exact same spots on the needlepoint sofas where we’d been yesterday. I’d gone to their place as soon as I left Chief Wurstner and picked up my car. I wanted to hear what the police had asked them about while it was still fresh in their minds. Noting down bits of information and sifting as I went along would help me regain my focus as well. I’d been more rattled over the close call about my license than I’d been over anything in a long time.

   
“It — their asking about last night — made us think they may not believe Alf committed suicide.” Isobel swallowed. She looked at me, awaiting confirmation.

   
“They always ask questions in something like this,” I hedged. “It’s routine. What did you tell them? About where you were?” I held my breath, braced for them to say they’d been right here. It would mean no alibi if homicide decided to take an interest in this.

   
“We ... went to our music club.” Isobel looked embarrassed. “Down at the Y. We go on the first and third Thursdays. There was a guest pianist scheduled — who wasn’t very good, as it turned out — and I thought - I thought it might be good for us to get out.”

   
Her cheeks were flaming.

   
“Do you think we’re crackpots?” asked Corrine with a trace of her old assertiveness.

   
“Not that. But beyond that, I’m not sure what to think,” I said slowly. “Your stepfather’s death seems awfully convenient, right after you’d told me what you suspected. Who else knew about that? Besides Neal. And who knew you’d hired me?”

   
“Just - just Neal,” said Isobel. “But he never believed ... you saw how angry he was that we’d hired you. He idolized Alf. Thought he could do no wrong. He - he ended up acting more like Alf than he did our own father.”

   
Fishing a handkerchief from her pocket, she dabbed at her welling eyes. She’d taken the day off to be with Corrine so her sister wouldn’t feel the loss of her dog quite so keenly. Good thing, considering how the morning had gone.

   
“Neal could have mentioned it to someone,” I said as she composed herself. “They could have told someone else.”

   
That might reassure her until I had time to pick my way through the briar patch of what at first glance had appeared a family squabble. Except I wasn’t very good at the hand-holding stuff. It made me feel awkward. Nevertheless, Isobel’s face brightened.