Come Hell or Highball (27 page)

True. “Go on—Bruno was a taxi dancer. When was this?”

“He ended his dancing career about a year ago.”

“Then he must've worked at Philippe's right up until he started making motion pictures.”

“Precisely. What is more, the story of Mr. Luciano's background that one reads about in the movie magazines is, like Sadie Street's, utterly fabricated.”

“You mean his Italian
contessa
mother, and his horse polo hero father, and the orphanage, and—”

“Goodness me. Did you believe that claptrap for a second?”

I supposed I had.

“I obtained a description of Mr. Luciano's mother's tobacco shop on Mulberry Street,” Berta said. “The shop has two painted wooden Indians standing in front. Mr. Luciano was reared above this shop. My source believes that Mrs. Luciano still runs it.”

“Bruno is from Little Italy? Here in New York?
Where
did you say you got all this information?”

“From a source.”

“Not from Mr. Ant?”

Berta laid a palm over her bosom. “I know many people, Mrs. Woodby. Long ago, before I worked for you, I was employed in a household in Annandale-on-Hudson, upstate. I became dear friends with the housekeeper there, and her cousin Paul's wife's brother's uncle is employed at Philippe's. As a doorman.”

I couldn't crack that puzzle. Not tonight. “Okay. I hope that's not a fib. Because we're business partners, right? So we've got to be square with each other.”

“Of course.” Berta snapped the radio back on.

I trudged off to bed.

*   *   *

The next morning, my gritty eyes were greeted by a plate of bacon, a pan of cinnamon buns, and a bubbling percolator of coffee. Oh yes, and blaring across the front page of the newspaper on the kitchen table,

SECOND HIGH SOCIETY MURDER:
Society Matron Lola Woodby questioned in murders of Tinned Foods Tycoon and Family Nurserymaid

Below was a grainy photograph of me. Bundled in a towel, wet hair mortared to my skull, holding a highball. My mouth in a crooked
O,
two front teeth showing like a rabid woodchuck's, squinty eyes.

“Not the most flattering likeness,” Berta said, placing a cup of coffee before me.

“That nasty Ida Shanks! This is her way of getting the last word after our little bargain yesterday.”

“She will always get the last word, will she not? Miss Shanks's words are printed in thousands of newspapers.”

Didn't I know it.

“There are some interesting facts pertaining to Miss Potter in the second column,” Berta said. “I would avoid the column about yourself.”

I had to chomp through three slices of bacon to work up enough nerve to look at the newspaper again.

Naturally, I started with the column about myself.

I was a “possible suspect” who had disappeared without a trace.

“Without a trace?” I said. “Bruno saw me leaving Dune House with you and Ralph. So did Miss Shanks.”

“Then she is a lady of honor,” Berta said.

“Honor? Are we talking about the same Miss Shanks?”

I returned to the newspaper. I was wanted for further questioning, according to Inspector Digton of Hare's Hollow. There was also a choice quote from Dr. Chisholm Woodby: “The possible suspect is erratic, but not dangerous,” he'd told the reporter. “She has suffered great nervous strain as the result of her husband's recent demise, and as a natural result of her barren condition. I have diagnosed her as a clinical hysteric, and any information regarding her whereabouts would be most appreciated.”

“Hysteric?” I yelled. “Clinical
hysteric
?” I crumpled the entire newspaper into a large ball.

Berta smoothed out the newspaper. “I told you not to read the article about yourself.” She tapped a fingertip on the paper. “Read this one. About Miss Potter.”

What I really wanted to do was climb into a boxing ring with Chisholm and sock him in the jaw. I was sure I could take him down. I ate bacon. He ate turtle food.

The gist of the second article was, Vera Potter had indeed been an actress. First in vaudeville—her parents were actors, too—and then as a bit-part player in the motion pictures. She wasn't cut out for the job, though, and around October of last year, she had put together a bundle of phony references and managed to get a job as nurserymaid in the Arbuckle household.

“I smell a rat,” I said.

Berta nodded. “Thad Parker always says, one coincidence is one coincidence too many. It does not sit well, for me, at least, that Vera Potter starred in a film set in Horace Arbuckle's factory, and then just so happened to find employment in Arbuckle's house.”

The doorbell buzzed.

I headed to the foyer.

“Ask the landlord to give us another week,” Berta called after me.

When I opened the front door, I sighed in relief. It wasn't the landlord; it was a boy in a courier's uniform. He held a parcel wrapped in brown paper. “Mrs. Woodby?”

“Yes?”

“Delivery for you. From a secret admirer.” He thrust the parcel in my hands, tipped his cap, and skittered away down the stairs.

I carried the parcel to the kitchen and placed it on the table. It was tied up with twine, but it had no labels or markings. I shook it. It rattled dully, as though there were rocks inside. I found scissors and cut the twine.

Berta fluttered beside me.

I tore off the brown paper, revealing a jumbo floral box with golden lettering and curlicues all over. It read,
MCALLISTER'S ASSORTED CHOCOLATE CREAMS
.

“Mr. Oliver certainly knows the way to your heart,” Berta said.

I stared down at the box. “Really? You think he … admires me?”

“He appears to hold you in high regard. He was beside himself with worry when you went missing from the Foghorn.”

“He was?” I couldn't picture Ralph being beside himself about
anything
. I opened the box.

The doorbell buzzed again.

“I'll get it,” Berta said, and went to the door.

I heard voices, and rapid footsteps.

I rustled through the pink waxed paper and selected a nice, plump milk chocolate cream.

Berta burst into the kitchen, Ralph behind her, just as I bit into the chocolate.

“Stop!” Berta cried.

“Spit it out,” Ralph said.

I stared, but spit out the bite of chocolate into my palm.

“Rinse your mouth with water,” Ralph said.

“Mind telling me why?”

“I didn't send those.”

“Oh.” I went over to the sink and rinsed my mouth under the tap. Then I threw the chocolate into the dustbin.

“These have been tampered with.” Ralph was examining the bottom of one of the chocolates. “Look.”

“I see a hole in the bottom. What of it?”

Ralph inspected the entire top layer. Each and every chocolate had a puncture in it, and a couple of the holes had traces of white powder. “I'd put my money on arsenic,” he said.

Berta squawked.

“What?”
I said. I sank into a chair.

“Lola,” Ralph said, “come on—are you really surprised? Someone has already tried to kill you with a falling gargoyle.”

“
Maybe
tried to kill me,” I said. But I knew how naïve I sounded.

“And now,” Ralph said, “they're giving it another try. What's surprising to me is that you'd eat chocolates sent by a person unknown.”

“The delivery boy said they were from a secret admirer.” I felt myself blush.

Ralph grinned. “And you thought it was me?”

“Maybe.”

“Aw.” He leaned over and chucked me lightly on the chin. “That's kinda sweet.”

“We must report this to the police,” Berta said.

“I'm not so sure about that,” Ralph said. “Lola is wanted by the police for murder, and this won't convince them of anything. Heck, they might even say she poisoned the chocolates herself to create a distraction. But it's up to Lola.”

Berta and Ralph looked at me.

“We'll keep the chocolates as evidence—put them up high in a closet where Cedric can't reach them,” I said. “And we'll keep mum.”

 

30

Berta, Ralph, and I discussed our next moves over a fresh pot of coffee.

I'd decided to stay quiet on the question of why Ralph was still hanging around. After all, he had just saved my life.

“You say Luciano's past is a bundle of lies?” Ralph said. He was putting away his third cinnamon roll. “It might be worthwhile to check up on his background a little more, then. I could go down to Mulberry Street and see if I can learn anything else about him. See if I can dig up some kind of motive for murder.”

He was muscling in on my investigation. Again. “
We'll
go to Mulberry Street,” I said.

“No way, kid. I saw the papers this morning. One false step, and it's into the slammer for you.”

“I'm going to Mulberry Street,” I said. “Why would
you
go? I'm the one whose life could be on the line.”

But I knew why Ralph wanted to go to Mulberry Street, and it wasn't out of the kindness of his heart. He was a private investigator. In an infamous case like this one, plastered across all the newspapers, fame and fortune were at stake. Berta had been right.

“Do you know how to get to Mulberry Street, Mrs. Woodby?” Berta asked.

“Of course,” I lied.

“She doesn't know,” Berta said to Ralph.

Ralph grinned.

I glared.

“You'll need a disguise,” Ralph said. “A good one.”

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later, I was disguised, in brief, as Berta: I wore her dumpy Edwardian hat, no makeup, my low-heeled spectator shoes, woolen stockings, and one of Berta's floral-print dresses under her rubberized raincoat.

“Well, now,” Berta said, “you
do
cut quite the figure of a lady, Mrs. Woodby.”

Secretly, I was depressed. I was filling out Berta's clothes far better than I'd anticipated. And, although Berta somehow pulled off the calico-and-dimity look with aplomb, on me it was just plain dowdy.

Ralph looked me up and down. “Nice,” he said, and winked.

I treated him to the Double-O.

Berta stayed behind, in order to telephone household staffing agencies and attempt to track down the Japanese butler the Arbuckles had fired. Ralph and I walked the several blocks to Mulberry.

Mulberry Street was the thumping heart of Little Italy. Brick buildings jutted with balconies, fluttering awnings, and fire escapes. Shabby men pushed carts piled high with rainbow-hued fruits and vegetables. Women chattered in Italian, wicker baskets on their arms. Children darted about at their games. Horse carts outnumbered motorcars, and I smelled garlic, incense, toasting nuts, and sweat.

“Never been down here?” Ralph asked as we walked along, searching for the tobacconist's shop. “You look a little dazed.”

“It's Berta's raincoat,” I said. “It's hot. Besides, why would I come here? People say it's dangerous.” It didn't actually feel dangerous. Only a little motley. But then, many gangsters were Italian.

“Immigrant neighborhoods can be dangerous,” Ralph said. “Lots of desperate people. I grew up in one myself.”

He'd never mentioned his childhood before. “Where?” I asked.

“South Boston. Irish. My dad worked in the shipyards.”

He clammed up again.

Halfway down the second block, we found a tobacconist's with a door flanked by cigar-store Indians. The shop's display windows were stacked high with Italian newspapers and colorful boxes of cigarettes, cigars, and sweets.

“This must be it,” I said.

We went inside. A scowling, leather-faced man puffed a cigarette on a stool behind the counter.

“Mr. Luciano?” I said. “I am Lola Woodby.”

Ralph gave me an
Are you off your rocker?
glance.

Right. I supposed private investigators didn't give out their names willy-nilly.

“Eh?” the old man said.

“Are you Mr. Luciano?” I asked.

“Luciano? No. Signora Luciano gone.” The old man made shooing motions. “I buy shop. This my shop. You wanta cigarette? Cigar?” He made a sweeping gesture along the display counter.

The counter held packets of different kinds of gaspers, and some bright candies in little glassine bags. I pointed at those.

“Business expense,” I whispered to Ralph. “We've got to sweeten him up.”

Ralph dug out three pennies from his baggy pocket. “More like sweeten
you
up.” He plopped the pennies on the counter. “I'm keeping track, you know.”

“Sure,” I said. I winked.

Ralph scratched his temple.

Oh. I'd nearly forgotten. I was disguised as a rubberized chintz ottoman.

The old man pulled out one of the glassine bags and slid it to me over the counter.

“When did you buy this shop?” Ralph asked the man.

“Che?”

“Which month?”

“Ah, month.
Sì
.
Agosto
.”

I almost choked on a cherry lozenge. “August?”

Ralph gave me a slap on the back.

“August is when Arbuckle started writing those big checks,” I whispered.

Ralph gave me a
shut your trap
look, and turned back to the man. “You purchased the shop from Signora Luciano?”

“Sì.”
The old man gusted smoke from hairy nostrils. “She sold to me for very good price. She old lady. She said her son take care of her now, she needa not work no more.”

“Where does Signora Luciano live?” Ralph asked.

“In fancy house now, my wife say.
Mia moglie
—my wife—say Signora Luciano wear fur coat to Mass! Say she too—” He waved his cigarette. “—how you say, too big for britches now. Rich lady now.”