The Big Brush-off (11 page)

The only way I could convince Laura to return to Hollywood was to produce three or four dynamite chapters in less than a week, something I hadn't produced in the past year. I once wrote four chapters in twenty-four hours, but that was in the past, when I was holed up in my Tampa apartment living off coffee and beer.

Time was running out, and I had to get started.

I carried everything to the lobby, trying to not drop my Underwood.

When Edwin saw me struggle, he rushed from behind the counter and grabbed the typing paper before it fell.

“Thanks.”

We went outside and walked to the end of the deck.

When we reached the side deck, Ginger was smoking a cigarette at the table Laura and I had sat at earlier. I set the typewriter and paper beside her.

Her father's face looked ready to explode. “I thought you were going to quit smoking. A nice girl like you shouldn't smoke. Am I right, Mr. Donovan?”

I held up both hands. I wasn't going to get involved in another public argument.

Ginger jumped to her feet and crushed the cigarette on the deck. “See why I want to blow this town?”

She stomped away, her red hair bouncing as she disappeared around the corner.

Edwin helped me set up the typewriter and paper without speaking. He pulled out the chair. His eyes began to tear. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.

I wasn't the best guy to give advice on kids, but I admired the man. He raised two kids on his own and kept an inn going in a small town during the Depression. “Ginger's still young. Young people make mistakes.”

“Mistakes? This isn't Hollywood, Mr. Donovan. This is Hanover. Nice girls don't smoke!” His eyes widened as he appeared to realize he'd just shouted at a guest. “I'm so sorry.”

“It's all right, really. You've done a terrific job of raising the kids on your own.”

“It's not easy.” He stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“Maybe later.” I sat and rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter.

“Of course, of course.” He backed away and disappeared around the corner.

I hit the return twice then centered the page and typed the two most important words I'd typed in more than a week,
Chapter One
. Again I closed my eyes, trying to become Blackie. I pictured the back alleys of New York, his office above the deli, his secretary typing…

“Excuse me, Mr. Donovan.”

Ginger stood beside the table. “Do you have a moment?”

I tried not to show my irritation. Maybe working outdoors wasn't the best idea. “Of course.”

She sat and began to recite all her grievances against her father, then threw in more about Freddy. She wrapped things up with how there was squat to do in town. When she finished, she stared at her fingers. “I don't even have a boyfriend.”

“When I was young, my old man didn't like the idea of me joining the army and going off to war. When I returned, we argued about everything, especially after I landed a job as a Pinkerton and the company transferred me to Baltimore.”

She let out an impatient moan. “Why are you telling me this?”

“My father and I never patched things up until the very end, after his stroke. Only then did I realize we argued because my sisters moved away and I was all he had. He died a few months later. Don't make the same mistake I did and wait to talk until it's too late.”

“But you did leave!” She ran her fingers through her red hair. “You think becoming an actress is silly, don't you?”

“Absolutely not. If you remember anything I say, it's this. People who don't dream only exist from day to day. Never give up your dreams, Ginger. Never.”

Ginger's eyes gleamed. “You think your wife was serious about helping me with my acting?”

“Of course.”

“Ginger!” Edwin's voice called from the front of the inn.

“Thanks, Mr. Donovan.” She jumped to her feet and kissed my cheek. “Coming, Pop!”

I turned back to my typewriter. At the edge of the clearing, a doe grazed alongside two fawns. The mother resembled the one on the tavern wall in Queens. I forced myself back to the task at hand. When I flexed my fingers, the joints cracked and the deer bolted for the trees.

I hit the carriage return and focused on the novel's opening line.

Laura came around the corner. “Paul sends his regards.”

“I'm sure he does.”

She sat across from me, our earlier spat forgotten, or at least set aside. “I explained how things were with you and your writing.”

Oh, good, now the man had further reason to resent me. “When do you leave?”

Laura shrugged. “That's up to you.”

As if my own career hanging by a thread wasn't enough, I had to produce a pile of pages full of brilliant writing in time for Laura to leave and get back to Hollywood.

“Paul already checked. There's a flight out of Philadelphia on Monday. I'd arrive in time for the lunch with Mr. Selznick.”

I gestured toward the typewriter. “As you can see, I'm working.”

She got up and looked at the page with just the two words. She smiled. “It's a start.”

“I'm getting to it.”

Laura studied my face and pulled a hankie from her purse. “You have lipstick on your cheek. That would explain why you've only typed two words.” She rubbed the side of my face with the cloth, perhaps a bit too harshly. “To whom do you owe the pleasure?”

“Ginger.”

Laura lightly kissed my lips. “Lipstick's less noticeable here, where it belongs.”

She stuffed the hankie back in her purse and left.

Again I welcomed the solitude of my favorite spot. I concentrated on becoming Blackie Doyle, trying to recapture the enthusiasm I felt when I first woke up. For the first time in months, I felt a commitment to my craft. Still I stared at the blank page for several minutes. Something was wrong.

I rose and walked toward the back of the inn. I set my hands on the deck railing. Behind the inn was a one-story house with a well-tended flower garden out front.

A screen door banged from the back of the inn. Edwin walked toward the house with what looked like a book ledger under one arm, eating a sandwich. How did he do it? How did he juggle his career and his responsibility toward his children?

He reached the house, bent down, plucked a weed from the garden, and tossed it onto the lawn. He took a bite of the sandwich and went inside.

I returned to the table and sat. I stared at the page in my Underwood. Laura meant well, but what worked for her wasn't working for me. I wasn't Blackie Doyle. I was a mystery writer and a former detective. Unlike my fictional character, I actually had walked the back alleys of New York and other cities and towns around the country. I'd dealt with tough guys and solved cases that would stump others. I knew what it was like to put one's life on the line and to hold a client's hope in the palm of one's hand.

I began to type a scene with Blackie organizing his office. A knock sounded. He opened the door to reveal a redheaded dame in a tight yellow dress. He felt like a sap when he choked on his words of greeting. She asked if she could come in.

The dish was in big trouble, as if there was any other kind. She needed Blackie's help finding her husband. She handed him an advance and asked if it was enough. He assured her he'd do whatever he could, much like my assurance to Mary Caldwell ten years ago. I finished the scene with Blackie stuffing a hundred-dollar advance in his pocket. The client had something few of his did: looks, plenty of dough, and a hard-luck story.

The decision to write as Jake Donovan worked. An hour after I started, I finished my opening scene. I read it twice. The writing was good, damn good, crisp and fresh: what readers had come to expect from my novels. Laura would love the beginning and so would Mildred.

Satisfied, I went straight to the second scene in Blackie's favorite bar, where he paid off his outstanding tab to Butch Lewinsky, the one-armed bartender.

Before I finished the second scene, Edwin came out with a serving tray of cold lemonade and turkey sandwiches. “You've been at it so long, I thought you could use a snack.”

What time was it? I grimaced and checked my watch: 2:30. “My wife back yet?”

“She hasn't returned.” Edwin looked startled by my abrupt response. “I hope the sandwiches and lemonade are okay.”

I didn't mind this kind of interruption. With the tray in front of me, I suddenly realized how hungry I was. I took a bite of the sandwich. “Very tasty. Give your daughter my compliments.”

“Definitely.” He cleared his throat. “About earlier, I never should've talked about my family problems.”

“Nonsense. We're friends. We go back almost ten years.”

Edwin smiled. “Will there be anything else?”

I took another bite and shook my head.

I finished the meal, enjoying the relatively cool June day as the shadows gradually disappeared across the deck.

I moved the table, hoping to take advantage of at least another hour of shade.

With two scenes finished, I read the nine pages from beginning to end and was pleased with the effort.

I stood and stretched, my back popping like dice in a tumbler. With no sign of Laura, I sat and inserted another page into the typewriter. One more scene and I'd have the first chapter finished before Laura returned.

An hour later, I finished chapter one of
Blackie Doyle's Revenge
. I read the pages and felt like celebrating. I couldn't wait for Laura to read the chapter. I gathered the pages and carried the paper and typewriter upstairs.

If I was near Gino's or The Yankee Club, I'd have had a drink. When in Rome.

I went downstairs and headed for the town square. As I reached the park, a man in a tan suit was talking to the workers. He noticed me and waved. “Jake Donovan.”

The man approached and extended his hand.

Reluctantly, I shook it. “George Hanson.”

George Hanson, Katie Caldwell's English teacher, had the clear-eyed appearance of someone who slept well at night because he had a steady job, plenty of dough, and a roof over his head.

I didn't begrudge him the look. I'd seen the same expression in my mirror, but I wasn't as smug about my good fortune as Hanson appeared to be.

He showed me around the town square, describing the preparations for Founder's Day, as if I'd dropped by for a tour. We stopped beside the statue of the Civil War hero. Like the teacher he'd been, he gave me the history of Colonel Harrison, a native of Hanover and hero of the Battle of Shiloh. I was learning a lot about Hanover but next to nothing about a key suspect in Katie's murder.

“I don't know about you, Mr. Donovan, but I could use a drink.”

He was the last person I wanted to share a drink with, but five minutes later we sat in a booth at Palmer's Pub. The Kentucky bourbon tasted smooth and Hanson bought, so I made myself comfortable.

Hanson seemed to be among friends, as people passed by and clapped him on the back or joked with him. Ten years ago he was in his early thirties and single. His dark hair and white teeth gave him movie star looks, the kind of man pretty teachers and young girls might go for. Now he wore a wedding band on his left hand. He'd married since my last visit.

He'd aged more than ten years, but being a murder suspect might do that, whether he murdered Katie or not. Wrinkles creased his forehead and around the eyes, but his chin was as weak as ever.

Like a lot of teachers, Hanson enjoyed talking, but unlike teachers I remembered, this guy liked to talk about himself. Within minutes of his life story, the bourbon lost its charm, as if the glass had been sitting on the table for days.

He sipped his bourbon. “I'm sure you've noticed Hanover has changed since you were last here.”

“The whole country has.”

“Sad but true. One of the bright changes, though, is the repeal of Prohibition and the return of the neighborhood bar.” He raised the glass. “To the repeal of Prohibition.”

I raised mine.

He studied me like he might a new student. “Rumor around town says you're here to reopen the Katie Caldwell case. Most folks in Hanover would rather the case never surface again, especially business owners and my friends on the city council.”

I braced myself for his pitch that I leave well enough alone.

He folded his hands in front of him. “I'd like nothing better than for Katie's killer to finally be brought to justice. How can I help?”

The last thing I expected from a suspect in Katie's murder was a plea to reopen the case. Maybe he was innocent, but I wasn't convinced. A bum like Hanson talking about justice made about as much sense as Babe Ruth preaching about the sins of booze.

“I'm not here to investigate Katie's murder.”

He stared at me a moment before finishing his drink. “Someone needs to. I don't have confidence our new sheriff is interested in opening old wounds.”

Old wounds. Bishop used the same phrase.

Hanson smiled. “Of course, who expects Katie's murder to be reopened by one of the chief suspects?”

What? “Bishop?”

Hanson chuckled. “That's right, the business about Bishop surfaced after you left.”

Neither Mary nor Father Ryan had said a word about Sheriff Bishop.

“Would you like another?”

Had Bishop tried to discourage us from looking into Katie's murder because he killed the girl? “Bishop told me the case was still open. What's this business about him?”

Hanson signaled the bartender for a second bourbon. “Bishop drove Katie home from the Founder's Day celebration. If he wasn't the killer, he was the last person to see her alive. Of course, he failed to mention that for almost a year.”

“I didn't know that.” Still, there had to be more than that to make people suspect Bishop would kill a sixteen-year-old girl. “What's the possible motive?”

Hanson looked around to make sure no one was listening. “I'm not one to spread rumors, especially about Katie's murder. Rumors almost ruined me.”

But he was going to spread one nonetheless. “But…”

“But ten years ago Bishop was twenty-two and Katie a mature-looking girl about to turn seventeen. Folks say he'd been drinking that night and, well, Katie was a beautiful young woman.”

Bishop was also a dedicated law officer. I could spot them a mile away. Guilty men always tried to point the fingers at others. Maybe that was what Hanson was doing.

He sipped the bourbon. “Half the town thinks you're here to find Katie's killer. The other half says you're here to work on a novel. Couldn't you find a better place to work than Hanover?”

Maybe I should stand in the middle of the town square and shout that I'd come here to work on my novel. I was tired of being questioned about our presence in Hanover.

Hanson might be hedging his bets if he suspected I couldn't resist looking into Katie's murder. Who was this guy? A dedicated educator determined to lead Hanover out of the Depression or a killer who bashed Katie's brains in?

He finished his second drink. “I started a novel a few years back. I guess all English teachers do eventually. Mine's in a closet somewhere collecting dust.”

My experience taught me masters of grammar and syntax wrote perfect novels—perfectly boring. “Timing is everything. Maybe you weren't ready.”

“I set aside my literary ambitions and focused on helping this town. I do what I can, but what we need is jobs, good dependable jobs where people can get their dignity back.” Spoken like a sociology teacher.

The bartender held up a bottle of bourbon, signaling Hanson. Did he want another? He shook his head. Oh, the man wanted another, that was clear, but George Hanson was someone who could control his urges, wasn't he?

“I'm the principal now, but I assist my wife in directing the school play each fall and, of course, the Founder's Day presentation.”

“Starring Ginger Conrad as Princess Teleka.”

A smile swept across his face. “Oh, yes, she's a lovely girl.”

I don't think he meant to say “lovely girl” with such enthusiasm to someone who suspected he might've killed a sixteen-year-old, but he'd had a couple drinks. “I'm sure my wife would help with your pageant.”

He sputtered in response. “Laura Wilson? My wife and I would be thrilled! Rehearsal is every weekday afternoon in the high-school auditorium.”

“I'll be sure to mention that to her.” I finished my drink and stood. I shook his hand. “Thanks for the drink.”

He walked me to the door. We stood outside and observed the work going on in the town square.

He watched the workers like a proud father. “It's good to see people working again, even if it's only temporary. Founder's Day has always been a big event in this town, but since the economy hit the skids, merchants depend on people from all around coming to town, spending what little money they have.”

I should've paid for the drinks.

“You did well for yourself, Donovan. You've become a successful writer married to a famous movie star.”

If I had two bits for every time I'd heard that, I could have bought drinks for the whole town. “I'm a lucky guy.”

He nodded to a couple passing by. “You weren't very nice to me ten years ago.”

“I get like that when I'm involved in a case like Katie Caldwell's. Someone wasn't nice to her, just so you know.”

He leaned closer and whispered, “I didn't kill Katie Caldwell, and we weren't having an affair.” His voice trembled. “You don't know what it's like being an innocent suspect in a murder case.”

Actually I did, but I'd put those days in Los Angeles behind me.

“Even now, after all this time, some folks glance at me and whisper as they walk by.”

For a moment I almost felt sorry for him. “You must have plenty of friends if you were elected to the town council.”

“I work every day to demonstrate my innocence and my value to the community.”

Maybe Hanson was a swell guy. Maybe he didn't kill Katie. Maybe he helped the citizens of Hanover out of the goodness of his heart, but I wasn't buying any of what he was peddling.

I stepped aside as a construction worker staggered past and entered the bar. “People will probably speculate about all the suspects until the real killer is found.”

Hanson sounded desperate. “That's why I want you to uncover Katie's killer.”

Down the sidewalk, Laura was approaching. She'd done more than shop. Her hair was…frizzy. What would her Hollywood stylist say?

She stopped beside us and looked at the Palmer's Pub sign. I knew what she was thinking before she said it. “I thought you were working on your novel.”

I didn't want to explain in front of Hanson. I introduced them. They talked about the Founder's Day pageant and other chitchat, but I couldn't wait for her to read my first chapter and tell her about Hanson's information on Sheriff Bishop.

I shook his hand and led Laura toward the inn.

Her face reddened, drawing further attention to her hair. “Why did we have to leave so soon? I wanted to get to know Katie's teacher.”

“Relax, sweetheart, you'll have plenty of time to get to know him over the next couple days.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I told him you'd help them put on the Founder's Day pageant.”

Laura relaxed. “That's not a bad idea.”

“I'll tell you what I learned about him. Then when we get to the inn, you can read my first chapter.”

She grabbed my arm. “You wrote a chapter? A whole damn chapter?”

I couldn't help staring at her hair. “What do you think I was doing, getting my hair done?”

Laura gave me a playful shove. “I'll tell you about my afternoon at the beauty parlor after I read your chapter. Is it good? Wait, I don't want to know anything about it until I read it. Jake, I'm so happy.”

I ignored her new look and told her about my encounter with George Hanson and the song and dance he gave me about wanting Katie's murder investigated and his suspicion about Sheriff Bishop.

When we reached the inn, Freddy sat sulking on the front steps, holding a first baseman's mitt and a baseball. He didn't notice when I walked past him.

Laura pulled me aside and whispered, “Something's wrong. Say something to the boy.”

“We're from New York, the mind-your-own-business capital of the world.”

“Jake.”

I cleared my throat. “How's it going, Freddy?”

He shrugged. I'd tried.

Laura waved for me to give it another shot.

“Anything I can help with?”

Freddy glanced at me, then his eyes went to Laura. “Maybe. It's about girls.”

“I really should be working on my novel.” Talking to an adolescent boy about girls was the last thing I wanted to do. “When it comes to females, I'm still learning. Perhaps you should talk to your old man.”

“Pop?” Freddy laughed until he snorted. “What would he know? He hasn't been interested in a dame since Ma died!”

I doubted whether Freddy's old man, with all his responsibilities, had time for women.

Laura opened the screen door. “Go ahead, darling. I'm sure you won't be long if you're going to share what you know about women.”

As she went inside, I sat beside the kid. “So, what's bothering you?”

“Okay, there's this girl. We've been friends forever, but lately she's been acting goofy.”

“If she's your age, that's about the time girls start acting goofy. It lasts a lifetime.”

He waited until a woman climbed the steps and went inside. “I think she likes me.”

“In a non-platonic way?”

“What's Plato got to do with anything?”

“It's a long story. This girl, she likes you in the I-want-to-hold-your-hand kind of way?”

Freddy nodded.

“Have you held hands?”

“Once.”

“Kissed?”

“Once. Wait, it was either one long kiss or a bunch of little ones. I'm not sure.”

Two kids with baseball gloves came up the sidewalk.

One of them was a pretty blonde with a ponytail sticking out the back of her baseball cap. She yelled at Freddy. “Hey, Slim, you comin' to the park or not?”

Freddy scrambled to his feet. He threw the ball to the girl, who speared it with a leaping grab.

“Is that her?”

“No…yes. She's a hell of a second baseman and cusses like a sailor. You got something against a girl playing ball?”

I stifled a smile. “Maybe she likes playing with boys.”

His voice rose with irritation. “She
likes
playing second base.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Second base, huh?”

Freddy blushed until I could barely see his freckles.

“If you're both fourteen, you're too young for either of you to be getting to second base.”

“Don't tell my old man.”

I watched her throw the ball to the other boy. “I do believe under that hat, she's quite a looker.”

“A looker!” Freddy lowered his voice. “She's not supposed to be a looker.”

“Hey, Freddy, you playing ball or not?” The girl fired the ball in our direction.

Freddy speared the ball with his mitt. “Just a second!”

He nodded toward the town square. “I saw you and Mr. Hanson earlier. Tell me you're not friends.”

“We're not friends.”

He blew a sigh of relief. “He's always flirting with pretty teachers and students. He married one, you know.”

“He married a student?”

“No, a teacher, a widow lady about ten years younger than him and loaded. Wait till you see her, a real looker. Ring-a-ding-ding. You get where I'm coming from?”

“He likes young girls?”