Midnight Rain: A Detective Jack Dunning Novel (9 page)

CHAPTER 15

Jim and I take separate cars to the Geiger’s. We introduce ourselves and settle on the flowered sofa in the front room. Kenny’s mother, Kay, brings us coffee and cookies.

“My special coconut macaroons,” she says.

“Thank you, Mrs. Geiger. That’s very thoughtful,” says Jim.

“They’ll stick in your teeth,” says Harry, who sits in a broken down easy chair with cigar ashes, magazines and newspapers scattered at his feet. It’s the only untidy place in the otherwise orderly room.

“It didn’t keep
you
from wolfing down the first dozen,” Kay teases. She sits across from me in a rocking chair. “I imagine this is about Georgie. Mr. and Mrs. Allen were here earlier. Have you found the boy yet?”

“The boy is dead, Mrs. Geiger. He was found in a ditch alongside the highway,” I say.

“Oh my god!” she says. “Is this about that drunk driver everyone is talking about?”

“That’s one of the possibilities we’re looking into.”

“What other possibilities could there be?” says Harry

“What’s your line of work, Mr. Geiger?” asks Jim.

Geiger’s chest puffs up. “I’m with Cooley Sand and Gravel. I make sure the trucks get out on schedule and nobody cheats the time clock.”

“Tote that barge. Lift that bale.”

“That’s right,” says Harry, cheerfully. “It’s a thankless job, but someone’s got to do it.”

“Harry married into the family business,” says Kay. “I’m Wild Bill Cooley’s daughter.” She pats her unruly bushel of light brown hair. “You can always spot a Cooley. None of us ever had a good hair day.”

“It’s a lucky man has a job in these hard times,” says Jim, playing the diplomat. We know what the men at Cooley’s must think of him, riding into management on his father-in-law’s coat tails, lording it over more capable and experienced men.

“When exactly did Georgie die?” asks Kay.

“The coroner thinks it was mid to late afternoon on Friday,” I say.

“Well, I guess that’s no surprise, given he never made it here. It’s tragic, just tragic.”

“If Kenny’s here, we’d like to have a word with him.”

“He’s dozing in his room. He’s come down with an ear ailment of, some kind.”

“You don’t think
he
done it, do you?” laughs Harry.

“Shut up, Harry!” says Kay. “You never know when to keep your big mouth shut.” She looks at me with a worry line between her eyebrows. “You won’t upset him, will you?”

‘I’ll tread lightly, I promise.”

She leaves the room and returns with a feverish little boy in flannel pajamas printed with cowboys and bucking broncos. Kay sits back in her chair and makes room for Kenny who rests his head against her side. “Kenny, this is Officer Jack and that’s Officer Jim.”

“Hello,” he says. “Did you find Georgie?”

“We’re making progress in the investigation,” I tell him. “Can you help us by answering a few questions?”

“Sure.”

“Tell me the very last time you laid eyes on Georgie and what you two were doing at the time.”

“It was when school let out for the weekend. We were running along the road.”

“Toward your house?”

“Yes. A car came down the highway. A real junker. The tail pipe was dragging on the ground. Georgie and I ran into the orchard near the school. We were laughing our heads off. We hid in the trees in case it jumped the ditch. When the car was gone, I turned around and Georgie was gone too. I thought he was goofing around.”

“And you didn’t see him after that, in the orchard or walking along the road?”

“No, I looked. His mom even gave him a nickel so we could go to the movies. It’s all we talked about all week.”

“Let’s say it like it is,” says Harry, lighting a cigar. “The kid comes here for a warm meal and a clean bed. You know what it’s like with their kind.”

“A warm meal and a clean bed is a nice thing to have, Harry,” says Kay.

Jim and I exchange a glance and ignore him. “And that’s the last time you saw or heard from him?”

“The very last,” says Kenny.

“Was anybody else in the orchard that day?”

“A few of the other kids.”

“How about adults?”

“No.”

“Tell me, Kenny, does anyone at school pick on your friend? Was he afraid of anyone? Has he ever been ganged up on, or roughed up?”

“Mostly everyone stays away from him. He talks funny cuzz of where he’s from, like you, but different. He has to wear a cap in school and sit at the back of the room cuzz of his cooties.”

“It’s,
because,
Kenny, not cuzz,” says Kay.

“You mean due to his head lice?” I ask.

“Yes, becuzz of that. Some people think he’s dumb, but he’s just shy and don’t talk much. He’s smarter when you get to know him.”

“I bet he is. Are you in the same grade?”

“Just the same age. I’m in second. Georgie’s repeating first.”

“What do you think happened to Georgie?”

“I don’t know. When I see him, I’ll ask him and let you know.”

I look at Kay. “I understand the teacher lives in town. Do you know where?”

“No. I thought she was boarding with the Smallwoods, like Miss Brown did.”

Thank you for talking with us,” I say. “Here’s my card. Call us if you think of anything else. I hope you’re feeling better soon, Kenny. Is there anything else you’d like to add before we go?”

“Yes. Can I hold your badge?”

* * * *

Jim and I walk to our cars.

“They don’t seem to be hiding anything,” says Jim.

“Something happened in that orchard,” I say.

“Could be. I promised Curley I’d stop by his house today.”

“I got him some bubblegum and auto magazines. Hang on and I’ll get them out of the car.”

After Jim leaves I spend the next half hour walking the orchard where Georgie was last seen. It’s on the opposite side of the road from where his body was found. More puzzling is the fact his body lay south of the school. Whoever dumped him, made it look like he was struck walking home, when in fact, he was headed in the opposite direction toward the Geiger’s.

I stand in the cold, hunched into the collar of my jacket in the middle of a fruitless orchard. Between the rows of bare apple trees the schoolhouse is visible from a great distance to the south. To the north the rows converge at the vanishing point. I search the ground for clues and find none. I wait for an epiphany that doesn’t come. I believe the blood of the innocent cries from the ground like it says in the Bible. It’s my job to listen for it.

CHAPTER 16

Mittie knocks lightly and enters Frances’s bedroom carrying a breakfast tray and the Sunday paper. She sets it on the bed stand and raises the window shade, letting in a painful stiletto of light.

Frances moans and turns away from the window.

“Oh, must you? It’s the middle of the night.”

It’s eleven A. M. Mrs. D. Time to rise and shine.”

Mittie is cute and vivacious and far too cheerful in the morning.

“I thought I fired you until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is my regular day off and I plan to take it. My fiancé just passed the bar and we’re going to celebrate. Besides, you’ve had plenty of time to get over your snit about the lamp.”

Frances reaches for her cigarettes.

“I suppose I have. I never should have hired you. Pretty girls either get married or end up in bed with my husband.”

“The latter never occurred to me, ma’am.”

Mittie is used to this kind of banter. In fact, she likes Frances.

“There was a big fire last night,” says Mittie. “If you lived in town you would have heard all the sirens.”

“Really? Do you know what burned?”

“The radio says Temple Beth Shalom. Reporters from the Star were there, so it should be in the paper. It was a complete loss from what I hear. They were lucky it didn’t spread to St. Finnbar’s with all the wind we had last night.”

Mittie sets the breakfast tray in front of her. “His royal highness made it home last night. His car was in the garage when I got here this morning.” Singleton always lets her know when Leland is on his way to the house. Fran wonders if she slept through his call.

“Well let’s make the best of it.”

Mittie withdraws an envelope from her apron pocket and hands it to Frances. No one picked up the mail yesterday. This was still in the box.”

“Thank you, Mittie.”

“Do you want me to bring Mr. D. a tray?”

“I wouldn’t bother unless he asks. Go dust something while I finish waking up.”

After Mittie leaves, Frances sips her morning coffee, has a second cigarette and reads about the fire. When she’s through she rips open the bank statement. She’s stunned to see a dramatic decline in their joint checking balance. One large check had been written and the rest of the money drawn out in cash at the teller’s window. Frances is livid and breaks into a painful coughing spell. This is one more thing she needs to discuss with Darrell Singleton.

* * * *

Leland never felt fear like he had last night, the kind that rocks your core and seeps into the marrow of your bones like a malignancy. Sure, he’d been rattled by Fu Gang’s bullets, but he’d had so much adrenaline coursing through his blood that he didn’t have time to think until the danger had passed.

But, last night, everything that could go wrong, did. What he’d intended as a simple arson got complicated. He’d first noticed the black DeSoto a few days before. It’s a small town. No big deal. The second time seemed coincidental, but when the same vehicle followed him onto St. Finnbar Street, he felt spider legs on the back of his neck.

He’d most likely been hired by Frances to document “unhusbandly” behavior, but if this was about Red, he could as easily been the target of a hit. The chase had been brief but exhausting and Leland would have lost if his bullet hadn’t been faster than the man could run.

A pat-down had produced a P.I. license. The man was Darrell Singleton, Pinkerton Investigator out of San Francisco, not a hit man after all. Oh well, so there’s one less snoop in the world. He’d wanted to put the body in the Dodge and leave it near the town dump beside a couple junked cars, but he couldn’t find the key to Singleton’s car. After checking the man’s pockets and turning the interior of the vehicle upside down, he figured it had been lost in the chase. And what about Singleton’s notes? P.I.’s were known to document every sneeze and burb and Dietrich couldn’t as much as find a scribble on the back of a grocery receipt.

With his options limited, he dragged the body to the back porch of the synagogue. He was shaking so badly he splashed gasoline on his clothes and almost set himself on fire when he dropped the match. If he was lucky the body would go undetected for days. If he was luckier, it would be unidentifiable when it was found among the ashes.

His bad luck seemed to start with that little hooker from Cork Street, the one with the long memory and smoldering grudge. Maybe, she’d made good her threat and stirred things up with Frances. Worse yet, when he imagined her giving graphic testimony in front of a grand jury in all her wounded, blue-eyed innocence, he actually trembled with fear.

* * * *

After a sleepless night Leland goes down the stairs to the kitchen where Mittie is polishing silver.

“Good morning, Mr. D.” she says. “Would you like me to fix you something?”

“Just coffee. I’ll get it myself.” He pours a cup from the pot on the burner and sits at the end of the kitchen nook. His hair is uncombed and there’s a day’s growth of bristle on his jaws.

“Have you collected the mail this morning?” he asks.

“Yes sir.”

“Anything from the bank?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir.”

“When the statement arrives, I want you to bring it directly to me.”

“Yes, Mr. D.”

When he turns his back she sticks out her tongue at his retreating form.

CHAPTER 17

Jim and I pull up to the school at 7:30 the next morning. The teacher stands by the door preparing to call the children in from the playground. An elegant grey Studebaker Dictator is parked off to the side.

The teacher doesn’t match the car. She’s not
un
attractive, just buckboard plain…long skirt… broach at her high collared, long-sleeved blouse.

“Miss Hanover?” I say, as we approach.

“Yes. Good morning,” she says, her smile slightly tentative.

“I’m Officer Jack Dunning and this is my partner, Jim Tunney.”

“Pleased to meet you both, I’m sure. If the Wheeler’s cow has wandered off again, she hasn’t come this way.”

“We’re here on a more serious matter. We need to talk in private.”

“Now?” She glances behind her at the clock on the classroom wall. “Class commences in five minutes.”

“Let them play a while,” says Jim.

“Please come out of the cold, gentlemen.” We step over the threshold. The interior is slightly smoky, the woodstove grinding out heat. “What can I do for you? We have tests scheduled so I’m a little pressed for time.”

“We just have a question or two,” I say.

“Is this about the reckless driver? He almost ended up in the ditch out front.”

“We’re here in regard to a student.”

“Oh dear, I hope none of my children are in trouble.”

“One of your students is dead, Miss Hanover,” I say. “His body was found in the ditch down the highway on Saturday. He’d been lying there since late Friday.”

There’s a stunned silence broken by an impassioned, “Who?”

“Georgie Allen.”

“Oh my God! Poor child. A hit and run?”

“The cause is under investigation.”

“What else could it possibly be?”

“When did you see him last?”

“He was in attendance on Friday.”

“Did he have a problem with anyone. Ever see him bullied or ganged up on?”

“Of course not. I’d never tolerate such a thing.”

“Did he have any enemies?”

“Children do not have enemies. He was a quiet little boy who kept to himself.”

“When did you last lay eyes on him?

“What do you mean?”

“Did you actually see him go through the door after school? Did you see which way he went?”

“No. I had my back turned. I was erasing the math problems from the blackboard as the children left. Then I got in my car and drove home.”

“And where would that be?” I ask.

“Home you mean? Stella Bloch’s boarding house, 287 Cleveland Street.”

“So, you don’t board with a student like Miss Brown did?”

“I like my privacy. When you live with a family their problems become your problems.” She glances at the clock. There’s something a little off about Miss Hanover, but I can’t put my finger on it.

“Cleveland is a pretty rundown area.”

“I was new in town and only had a few days to get settled before school started. I took the first place I looked at.”

“Georgie’s parents tell us you set him back a grade,” says Jim.

“Yes, that’s correct. If a student doesn’t grasp the essentials we can’t keep kicking the can down the road. Certainly you see the logic in that.”

“And the school board was in compliance?” asks Jim.

“The schoolboard.” She rolls her eyes. “How shall I put this? There are three members, a retired fireman, a berry farmer and a filling station owner…not an educator among them…so I took it on myself to make that decision.”

“What post did you hold before you came here?” I ask.

“You’re confusing me with these irrelevant questions. What does this have to do with the hit and run?”

“The Manner of Death hasn’t been established yet.”

“This is all very puzzling,” she says. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I haven’t forgotten my question, Miss Hanover.”

“I taught at Saguaro Correctional out in the Mohave if you must know.”

“That’s the girl’s reformatory,” says Jim.

“Yes, it was an opportunity to make a difference in the girl’s lives.”

“But?” I say.

“It’s a little embarrassing. I’d planned to remain longer but the isolation was too much for me. Believe me officers, if you’ve seen one cactus you’ve seen them all.”

“That your Dictator parked outside?”

“Oh, heaven’s no,” she says, “It’s on temporary loan from a family friend.”

I ask her for a list of the students and she complies.

“Please, bring the children in.”

When they’re seated, I ask if anyone saw Georgie after class on Friday. A few saw him walking with Kenny but that was it. Rebecca Smallwood sits silently with arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes flick toward the teacher then back to me and I wonder if she’s conveying a tacit communication. It’s obvious that her relationship with Miss Hanover is strained, so it’s not the right time to single her out for questioning.

“We may need to speak with you again, Miss Hanover,” I say. “If you recall anything further please give us a call.”

I fold the list of student’s names and addresses and slip them in my notebook. I turn to Miss Hanover and nod toward the blackboard. “I’m just a cop Ma’am, not an educator like yourself, but I believe you misspelled misspell.”

Her mouth opens and her head swivels toward the blackboard. I wink at Rebecca Smallwood on my way out the door and she hides a smile behind her hand.

Jim and I walk up to the Dictator. It has an impressive vertical grill, crank windshield, sloped trunk, graceful hood ornament and art deco instrument panel. “What do you think something like this costs?” asks Jim.

“Don’t ask me. I can’t count that high.” I open the car door and check out the registration strapped to the plastic sleeve on the steering column. “It belongs to Ludwig Gerhard von Buchholz.”

“That’s a mouthful,” says Jim.

“Know who he is?”

“Never heard of him. What’s his address?”

“Five Twenty, Upper Cork.”

“That’s the St. Ambrose Hotel. Pretty fancy digs. By the way, she’s watching us from the window.”

* * * *

On our drive back to town Jim glances over at me.

“You got something on your mind?” I ask.

“You were hard on her, Jack.”

“I know. Angel tried to enroll Albie Sherman in Orchard School. Hanover made up some phony excuse and turned him away. He’s a good little kid, Jim. Truth is he wasn’t white enough to suit her.”

“Listen, why don’t I call my Uncle Pete and take him out to lunch. He’s the retired fireman on the school board. I’d like his take on the new school teacher.”

“Good idea.”

“But, just because you don’t like her doesn’t mean she’s done anything wrong.”