This Dame for Hire (17 page)

“No. I’m sure it isn’t.”

“It was May twenty-seventh, nineteen aught one.”

“Mrs. Duryea, that’s forty-two years ago.”

“That’s correct. Jimmy was just a baby. I was about your age. Mr. Duryea was an older man. He was forty-five.”

“Then he’d be . . . he’d be eighty-six now.”

“Good at math, aren’t you?”

“Here you are, Mother.” Jim handed her the sherry. “And one for you, Faye. I’ll just go get mine.”

“The reason I mentioned his age,” I said, “is because he might be dead by now.”

“That’s what you can find out.”

Jim came back and sat on the opposite end of the sofa. I wondered if he knew just how much he clashed with it.

“So what are you two talking about, hmmm?” he asked.

I started to answer, but Mrs. Duryea cut me off with a firm “Nothing.”

“I heard your voices. It must have been something.”

My lips stayed zipped.

“We were just making pleasantries, Jimmy, that’s all.”

“Oh, I see.”

Mrs. Duryea said, “How do you feel about Mr. Roosevelt, Faye?”

I wondered if this was a trick question and gave Jim a gander, but he was no help cause he was staring at Mother. I decided to tell the truth. Who was she, anyway?

“I like the president very much,” I said.

“Good. Think he’ll win this war?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“So glad Jimmy was too old to go.”

“I’m sure ya are.” I looked at Jim, who seemed uncomfortable and was squirming in his seat. Maybe he thought I didn’t know his age.

“Anybody getting hungry?” he asked.

“We’re having cocktail hour, Jimmy.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Now, Faye,” she said. “I hope you’re not going to hurt my Jimmy.”

“Mother, please.”

“That last one did.”

I felt for him. I was sure he didn’t wanna be talking about this. “Do
you
think the president will help us win the war?” I asked, trying to change the subject of Jim’s love life or whatever it was.

“We’re finished with that topic, Faye. Pay attention.”

I looked to Jim for some help, but he wasn’t about to give me any.

“Jimmy’s a sensitive boy, and a girl like you has to take special care not to hurt his feelings. That last one just did him in. What was her name, Jimmy?”

“Mother, I told you, she wasn’t a girlfriend.”

“I know you said she was a customer, but that didn’t fool me.”

I realized then that I had no idea what Jim did for a living. So I asked.

“I have an antique shop.”

“And that’s where you met her, but she was more than a customer. I could tell when you talked about her. You had a twinkle in your eye. Can’t fool a mother, you know. Now what was her name?”

“Oh, Mother.”

“Come on, tell me.”

“Claudette,” he said.

That gave me a turn to say the least. “Claudette?”

“A snooty name if you ask me,” Mrs. Duryea said.

“She couldn’t help what her name was, Mother.”

“Well, whatever her name was, she broke your heart.”

“That’s not true. Don’t listen to her, Faye. I hardly knew the girl. And as I said, she was a customer.”

I had to get the full skinny on this. “What was her last name, Jim?”

“West,” he said. “I think she must have moved away because I haven’t seen her in months.”

How many Claudette Wests could there be? And was Jim ignorant of what had happened to her? How could he be? It was plastered all over the papers. I had to start easy.

“I’m afraid she stopped caring for you, Jimmy.”

“Mother, our association was strictly business. I’m sure Faye doesn’t want to hear about this.” He turned and looked at me.

“I’d be tickled pink to hear about Claudette,” I said.

“There’s not much to hear. She was quite young. Very refined. You could tell she came from good stock. Anyway, she was a customer.”

“What did she buy?”

“Jewelry. A bracelet, cuff links, a pendant. Small things. No furniture.”

“Cuff links?”

“Yes. She said they were for someone special.”

“That should have been a signal right then,” Mrs. Duryea said.

“Mother, please. They could’ve been for a family member for all I knew.”

Did Porter or Wayne wear cuff links? I knew Cotten didn’t, but maybe Leon did.

“One day I asked her to have lunch with me. It was that hour. And she did.”

“Where’d you go?” I asked.

“To the Algonquin. It was a pleasant two hours, and that’s all there was to it. I never saw her again, actually.” He looked as though this was the first time he’d made that connection.

“You must’ve been
some
lunch companion,” Mrs. Duryea said.

Jim blushed, clashing with both his jacket and the sofa. “We had a perfectly nice time. I’m going to put the finishing touches on dinner,” he said.

I grabbed his arm. “Jim, don’t ya know what happened to Claudette West?”

“What do you mean,
happened
?”

“Don’t ya read the newspapers?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t.”

“Listen to the radio?”

“Music,” he said. “The opera on Saturdays with Milton Cross.”

“No news?”

“I hate news. It’s never good.”

“He barely knows who Mr. Roosevelt is,” Mrs. Duryea said.

“That’s how you raised me, Mother. You always said nothing good could come from reading newspapers or listening to news.”

I couldn’t believe I’d found another one who didn’t read papers or listen to the radio.

“And I believe it to this day,” she said.

“Jim, when did Claudette West stop coming to your store?”

He closed his eyes while he noodled the question around.

“As if he doesn’t know the exact day and minute,” Mrs. D. said.

His eyes flew open, and the look he turned on Mother was burned up. I hadn’t seen this side of him before. He was way past simmer, but not a muscle moved. He coulda been set in concrete.

I wanted to break this up. “Jim, ya remember when ya took her to lunch?”

“It was in January. There was snow on the ground.” He kept staring at his mother.

“I hate to be the one to tell ya this, but Claudette is dead, Jim.”

“What?”

“She was murdered.”

Jim popped up as though the sofa spring beneath him had sprung.

“Murdered?”

“You do it, Jimmy?” Mother asked.

“Murdered.” He brought his hands to his face, one on each cheek. It made me think of Cuddles Sakall.

“Fraid so,” I said.

“It’s impossible,” he said.

“It happened in January. Probably around the time ya last saw her. Would ya describe her to me so we can be sure?”

In a wistful voice he said, “She was beautiful. Her skin was so soft. Looked soft. Her eyes were a cinnamon brown. She was tall for a girl, maybe five seven, and she couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds or so.”

“I think it’s the same one, Jim.”

“Who would hurt her? Who did it?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“We?”

“I’m investigatin this case.”

“That’s too much, Faye.”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“How could we both be involved with Claudette?”

“Thought you weren’t
involved
with the girl, Jimmy?”

“We live in the same building,” he said, ignoring his mother. “It’s all so strange.”

“I have to admit it’s a coincidence, which I basically don’t believe in. Coincidences, that is.” Could he have done it? I wondered. “But there’s one big difference. You knew her before she died, and I got involved after she died.”

“After she died,” Jim said.

“So she didn’t jilt you, after all, Jimmy.”

A goofy smile creased his face. “No. No, she didn’t.”

It wasn’t surprising that Jim was a queer duck, I’d already known that. And now that I’d gotten a load of Mother, let’s just say my impression was confirmed. But it was as plain as his smoking jacket that all Jim’s thoughts of Claudette had not been platonic.

“You cared for her, didn’t ya, Jim?”

“She was very kind to me. And always so polite, refined, a lady. She was interested in the arts, opera, dance, you know. I’d planned to ask her to go with me to the opera the next time she came into the store. But I never saw her again.”

“You didn’t have her phone number or address?”

“Oh, no. I thought it was too forward to ask, and she never offered. I was sure I’d see her again. But now I never will.”

I wasn’t gonna ask him if he killed her cause what murderer was gonna say yes? But I was sure gonna follow up on this.

“I hope you’ll excuse me, Faye. I don’t think I can go on with our plans.”

“That’s copacetic, Jim.”

I got up and started toward the door. Jim behind me.

“Nice to meet you, too,” Mother said.

“Thanks.”

“Please forgive me, Faye. I’m so shocked.”

“I don’t blame ya. If there’s anythin you can think of that might help me, you’ll let me know, won’t ya?”

“Of course,” he said. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

I nodded and took my leave. I wanted to get to my phone to call Marty. Maybe he could find out something about one James Duryea, antique dealer and liar.

NINETEEN

Marty wasn’t at the precinct or at home, and I didn’t feel like going uptown to his usual gin mill. So I gave Smitty’s a jingle and got the night bartender, Coburn.

“Is Marty Mitchum there?”

“Who wants to know?” He had a voice like a meat grinder.

I knew Coburn was protecting Marty from his wife. Or maybe his girlfriend.

“Tell him it’s Faye Quick.”

“I’m not sure he’s here.”

“Could ya see?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He put the phone on the bar while he pretended to look. Coburn knew Marty was there, but he had to nail it down that I was okay first. A minute later Marty was on the horn.

“Hey, Faye. What’s goin on?”

“I need ya to check somebody out, Marty. It’s important or I wouldn’t call ya there.”

“That’s jake. Who’s the party?”

“Name’s James Duryea or Jim Duryea.”

“It might take a while. Skeleton shift is on.”

“That’s okay.”

“Ya home?”

“Yeah. But I’m goin out for a bit.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll catch ya later.”

We hung up.

I grabbed a jacket and my pocketbook and left the apartment. Outside I headed toward Blondell’s, which was an eatery I could afford. I was damn hungry and in seventh heaven I didn’t have to eat a rabbit.

But that was the only thing I was glad about. This case was under my skin and getting more wacky all the time.

I turned right on Grove and left on Barrow toward West Fourth. Right near Jones Street I happened to look at a window of a first-floor apartment. I stopped. Hanging in it was a small rectangular flag with a red border and a gold star in the middle on a field of white. I didn’t see them often in the Village, but when I did my stomach did a yo-yo.

I wondered how old he’d been and if he was their only child. I wondered if he’d ever passed me by or smiled at me, tipped his hat. I wondered how he’d died and hoped it wasn’t too painful.

Then I thought of Woody. How would I feel if he was killed in action? This wasn’t the first time I’d thought about that. Any war death led me there. In his letters he was always being Woody, cutting up, saying everything was fine except the lousy food. Last letter he said if he ate one more piece of SPAM, his skin was gonna turn pink. Whenever I had the time, I tried to bake and send him cookies, and though he was always grateful, I knew they weren’t very good. Still, I guess they were better than SPAM. All he could think about, he wrote, was a juicy porterhouse, and a big baked potato. When he came home, I planned to take him to the Blue Mill Tavern, where steaks were the specialty.

I pulled myself together and went on. I didn’t look up at any more windows just in case.

When I got to Blondell’s, it was empty. This wasn’t a place where dining started at nine o’clock. I said hello to Skip Ireland, one of the owners.

Skip said, “Sit anywhere ya like, Scrumptious Susan, the place is yours.” He laughed like
haw-haw,
and his big face got redder than a stoplight.

“Thanks,” I said, and took a booth.

“What can I do ya?”

Skip knew I didn’t need a menu.

“A bowl of vegetable soup and a cup a joe.”

“Comin right up, my Prairie Princess.”

He always called me something different, and I asked him why one time, and he said he liked the metaphors. I knew he meant alliteration.

I lit a cig and waited for my meal. Why did Jim Duryea lie about Claudette West? It was no coincidence that we were both involved with her, and he just found that out. It was coincidence enough that we lived in the same building. He had to know I was on the case and that was why he’d invited me to dinner. It had nothing to do with his mother.

And what was Dragon Lady all about? Had Jim prepped her to bring up Claudette? Or wasn’t that part of the plan?

“Here you are, Delicious Doll. One bowl of homemade vegetable soup, a roll with margarine, and one cup a joe. Ya look kinda tired tonight, my Little Ladybug.”

It was doubly funny that Skip used these terms because he was such a big palooka. He stood about six feet and must’ve weighed over two hundred pounds. He wore his raven black hair in a military cut, and his eyes were black, too, iris and pupil the same. His nose was long and crooked from being broken in too many fights, and a deep scar ran the length of his left cheek. I’d always wanted to know what that was from but had an inkling I shouldn’t ask.

“I guess I am tired, Skip. Rough week.”

“Yeah, me too. Me, too. But we got it lucky and shouldn’t be cryin the blues. Think if we were over there with them Krauts. My brother’s in the thick of it, ya know.”

I did know. Skip told me every time I came in. But I nodded cause I knew he was proud of Fred, and it made him feel better that one of his family could be fighting for our country. Skip’s club foot had kept him home.

“Yeah, he’s on the front lines, makin us all proud of him. But you and me, my Candied Cassandra, we’re here and eatin bowls a good soup an havin lemon meringue pie for dessert.” He flashed me a toothy grin.