Don't Dare a Dame

Don’t Dare

a Dame

M. Ruth Myers

(Maggie Sullivan mystery #3)

   © 2013 Mary Ruth Myers

   All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Contact
www.mruthmyers.com.

   
Published by Tuesday House

   
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

   
Cover design by Alan Raney

Acknowledgment

I would like to thank Jack Barstow for generously sharing family photographs and memories of his grandfather, Rudolph F. Wurstner. Chief Wurstner served as Dayton’s chief of police throughout the Maggie Sullivan era and was the nation’s longest serving chief of police. He was an innovator and an amazing individual. He’s also the only “real” person to appear in the Maggie Sullivan mysteries.

One

   
Two old maids who wanted to hire me had asked me to tea, so I’d treated my nails to a fresh coat of raspberry pink and put on a hat that matched and a Smith & Wesson that didn’t.

   
Usually clients came to my office, but this afternoon I was glad to escape downtown Dayton. People had gone nuts over the 1939 World Series, crowding around the
Daily News
building to wait for the wire service boys to lower a sheet displaying the latest score out a window. Ten minutes away, the tree-lined street where I’d parked my DeSoto was lazy with autumn. I went up the steps to a square red brick house and turned the doorbell.

   
“Listen, you dope, you need to come back later,” the woman who yanked the door open said in a rush.

   
“Gee, people usually get to know me before they call me a dope.”

   
Her hand went to her throat. Her cheeks blossomed. She was tall, maybe five-foot-eight, with black hair cut in a bob. I’d seen nuns gussied up more.

   
“Oh! I’m so—. You must be the - the private investigator. Miss Sullivan.”

   
“Maggie. Please.”

   
“I do apologize. There’s ... a neighbor boy who’s a pest. Won’t you come in? I’m Corrine Vanhorn.”

   
 The tension in her manner seemed excessive for a pesky kid, and her gaze was fixed beyond my right shoulder. As I stepped inside I took a quick glance back. All I saw was a street so quiet I caught the thump of a black walnut falling.

   
Inside, a shorter woman with permed brown hair hurried to meet us with hand outstretched.

   
“Miss Sullivan, do forgive me. I had a phone call. Work. I’m Isobel, the one who spoke to you this morning.”

   
The parlor she ushered me into made it obvious the Vanhorn sisters didn’t have to pinch pennies. It didn’t shout wealth, but it conveyed substantiality. An upright piano in one corner glowed with polish. In front of a spotless fireplace, matching needlepoint sofas and a couple of chairs surrounded a low table. The other furnishings were arranged somewhat severely around the perimeter. To my way of thinking, it made the room feel uncomfortably large. Then again, I lived in a rented room and the only stick of furniture I owned was my dad’s armchair.

   
By the time I’d settled on one of the needlepoint couches and Isobel on the other, Corrine returned with a large silver tea tray. I was struck by the gracefulness of her movements. It wasn’t just the ease with which she carried the heavy load. She seemed to glide, back straight and head aloft, without glancing left or right. As she set the tray on the table between us, it was clear she owned this room. This was her domain. Like other pairs of spinsters, she was the sister who stayed home and kept house while the other one went out to work.

   
This pair was younger than I’d expected. Corrine was probably nearing forty and Isobel looked several years younger. When Isobel contacted me, she’d told me she kept the books at a furniture store where she got off at noon on Thursdays, but I doubted they’d come by a place like this on a bookkeeper’s salary.

   
“You may think it a bit odd, what we want you to do for us,” Isobel began hesitantly. “Some may even think harshly—”

   
The doorbell rang. The sisters looked at each other.

   
“You
know
who it must be,” Corrine said, struggling to hide her displeasure.

   
“You didn’t reschedule a student—?”

   
“Of course not.”

   
“Well, I’ll get rid of him.” Isobel sprang up.

   
Corrine set down a teacup she’d been about to fill. From the hall came the sound of an opening door, then Isobel’s voice, filled with irritation.

   
“What are you doing here? We told you this afternoon wasn’t convenient.”

   
“Convenient or not, I’m here to get Alf’s things. It’s bad enough you two threw him out of his own home—”

   
“His
home?
This place wasn’t fine enough for him, remember? He had to build that big monstrosity. Don’t expect me to feel sorry now that he’s lost it with more of his bad investments. We’re busy—”

   
“Too bad.”

   
“We have a guest. Neal, you can’t come in now! Let go of me!”

   
Corrine sprang to her feet. I was ahead of her. When we reached the hall, a struggling Isobel was kicking ineffectually at a good-sized man who held her by both wrists. She appeared more angry than scared, but she was a little of both.

   
“The lady asked you to clear out,” I said sharply. “I think you should.”

   
The man’s head jerked up. He was in his early forties with thin features. His eyes ran over me. They lingered more than they needed to in places.

   
“Yeah? Who’s going to make me?”

   
“Me, if I need to.”

   
“She’s a private investigator, Neal. A detective.”

   
Isobel fired the words with satisfaction. She used his stunned immobility to yank herself free. I watched comprehension seep into his eyes, followed by anger.

   
“You spiteful little harpies! You really did it.” He rounded on Corrine, who was moving protectively toward her sister. “This is your doing, filling her head with nonsense all her life — all because you couldn’t be Daddy’s spoiled little favorite any more, you pathetic old hag!”

   
Her mouth crumpled once at his final words, but her chin lifted.

   
“Get out, Neal. You can come back anytime this weekend to get Alf’s things. Or he can come himself.”

   
“I’m here now — and I’m sick of your run-arounds.”

   
He started toward the stairs that rose along the left wall of the hall. I stepped in front of him.

   
“The ladies asked you to leave.”

   
Lots of men sneered inwardly at the idea of a woman who stood five-foot-two posing any kind of threat. Neal was more open.

   
“Keep your nose out, toots, or it might get hurt.”

   
I hated to persuade him, but Neal seemed like one of those guys who needed taking down a peg or two. I gave him a quick little kitten jab in the snoot. Not enough to break it, just enough to start blood gushing down to his chin and get his attention. He howled like I’d attacked the family jewels, and clutched his nose.

   
I balanced on my toes in case I hadn’t convinced him.

   
“Don’t drip on the rug on your way out,” I said.

   
Neal decided not to test whether I could punch any harder. With a furious look he called me a name that wasn’t polite and sulked out, slamming the door.

Two

   
The corners of Corrine’s mouth gave an odd upward jerk that suggested delight.

   
“That was magnificent!” she said.

   
“He wouldn’t have hurt us.” Isobel’s voice wavered. “Neal’s our brother.”

   
Both Vanhorn sisters looked white as skimmed milk.

   
“Why don’t we go sit down so you can explain why you asked me here,” I suggested.

   
Corrine poured tea and we sipped it in silence. She moved a stack of small china plates from the tray to the table.

   
“It - it has to do with when we were children,” Isobel resumed. “Corrine was twelve and I was eight.”

   
I nodded and waited. The Vanhorn sisters needed time to recover. Corrine began to slice a fancy little cake she’d brought in with the tea, pivoting her knife at the center to make each piece precise.

   
“As I’d started to say when Neal interrupted, others may think our interest odd, or - or wrong. But it matters a great deal to us.”

   
Her sister handed the cake around on the china plates.

   
“What Isobel is trying to tell you is, we want you to investigate our father’s disappearance. It was during the flood. We think — we’ve believed for a long time — that he was murdered.”

   
“The flood?” I couldn’t remember anything that qualified as a flood. Then it registered. “The flood of
1913
?”

   
I set aside the plate I’d just received, too stunned for politeness.

   
“By the man who became our stepfather,” said Isobel. “Alf Maguire.”

   
My mind staggered. The Great Dayton Flood of 1913 had happened the year before I was born. I didn’t even qualify as one of the ‘flood babies’ born nine months later. These two women were talking to me about looking into something that had happened a quarter of a century ago. Moreover, they believed a man who apparently had lived in this house until recently was somehow involved.

   
“You say he disappeared?” I was struggling to process it. “From what I’ve heard, a lot of people disappeared, swept away by the waters.”

   
“We’re aware of that,” Corrine said primly.

   
I drank some tea.