The Formula for Murder (6 page)

“She wasn’t depressed. She was excited … even secretive.”

“About what?”

“Don’t know. But she acted like any of these reporters act when they think they have a big scoop. They go around like they’re holding their breath. They’re dying to tell someone, but don’t dare even give a hint.”

“When did you last see Hailey?”

“Two days before the police say she killed herself.”

“Two days. Were there other times when she didn’t come to the office for days at a time?”

“Not that I recall.”

“And she didn’t appear depressed?”

“No. I’m telling you she was secretive.”

“As if she was onto a big story?”

“Yes. I’d swear by it. It was like she wanted to blurt something out but couldn’t.” He gave me a long hard look. “What do you think, Miss Bly? Why did she do it? Why did she throw herself into the river and—”

“Everyone is different,” is all I can manage before I flee out the door.

10

Never have my feet moved so fast to remove myself from a building and I keep walking fast once I hit the street—very fast. I’m not hurrying somewhere, but fleeing the suspicions of the love-stricken James.

Holy mackerel!
And I thought my paranoia runs rampant.

I hadn’t seen Hailey during the days leading up to her death, but James had and his impression of Hailey’s mood—that clamming up by a reporter on a hot lead, but dying to share—is exactly how I act and exactly how I would expect Hailey to have conducted herself.

Face it,
I tell myself.
You just don’t think Hailey killed herself. And James inflamed your suspicions.

What if Hailey’s excitement wasn’t about a scoop? What if her excitement was about the fact that she had found out she was pregnant? And the man she believed loved her lied and told her he would marry her? And killed her instead?

Nonsense? But I don’t know. My paranoia gone wild? Maybe. But James had added not just his own impressions and feelings about Hailey, but a couple of curious facts: Hailey had not been around the office for two days before she killed herself. And the last time he saw her she had been in an elated mood.

I chew on the information because it is so inconsistent with the way I, like James, imagine the character of a suicidal person to be. While it is a given that her mood could have changed radically over a period of forty-eight hours, the state of her office adds another puzzling dimension: The office had been cleaned out. That is the only way I can characterize it in my own thoughts. Cleaned out as if someone was not planning to return to it.

While some people might be tidy about their possessions even when their head is full of killing themselves, James told me that Hailey had been in a very high mood the last time he saw her, two days before she died.

If that were the case, then Hailey would have cleaned out the office at a time when she appeared to a coworker as having a pleasant—even elated—disposition.

I shake my head. The contradictions are rattling my brain. If it isn’t likely she would have cleaned out the office when she was in a good mood, then someone else came afterward and did it. My prime candidate for the mysterious someone would be the lover fearing scandal.

As far as getting access to the building without James noting him, that could have been accomplished any number of ways. In fact, I should have asked him if any strangers had been inside the building or if anyone else had obtained access to Hailey’s office besides myself.

The brown study I’m in about Hailey almost makes me miss the trolley James told me to take. It’s crowded and I’m pushed into a woman next to me as the rail car sets off with a jerk. She pushes back and then nudges me.

“Look at that foolish man.”

A man with a bowler hat is running frantically to catch the trolley. He grabs a handrail at the rear corner of the car and nearly slips under as he loses his footing but hangs on and pulls himself up to get footing on the step.

“He’s going to get himself killed one day. I saw it once with my own eyes. A man tried to do the same thing, running after the trolley and jumping on while it’s moving. Only he wasn’t as lucky. Raining like today; the poles were slippery. He lost hold and he went under. It was awful. He was crushed to death by the wheels.” She shakes her head. “Mark my words, one day
he’ll
end up with the same fate.”

She’s right; he had been foolish. I just hope that whatever his hurry is, it’s worth risking his life for.

11

Four other passengers get off at my stop, including the man in the bowler hat who had defied death to get aboard. He had ignored the verbal jabs of other passengers about his feat and seems a surly type.

Even though the rain has basically stopped, the air still feels wet, as if it has soaked into my clothing. With Hailey’s boardinghouse a long block up the street, I’m glad I took the umbrella.

The neighborhood of row houses reminds me of the large brownstones in Manhattan, except these are older and were more presentable decades past. A bit drab and blackened by the coal soot that is the bane of modern living, most of the houses need tender loving care. Many have been turned into boarding homes.

I’m puzzling over what to say to Hailey’s landlady and mentally kick myself for not getting a note from the inspector giving me permission to examine her room and dispose of her effects.

I was so distraught over Hailey’s suicide note it slipped my mind. Saying I’m a coworker probably wouldn’t be the best approach.

I’m still wondering what to say when the door is answered by a young maid.

“I’m Hailey McGuire’s sister from America,” I tell her. The lie flows naturally off my tongue. I did think of her as a sister. “I’ve come to collect some of her belongings. Would you kindly take me to her room?”

This is not a complete lie, I do need to select clothing for Hailey’s funeral, but I also want to go through her things and see if I can unravel the puzzle of her last days.

She appears hesitant and I fear my bluff isn’t going to work.

“Mrs. Franklin isn’t here right now.”

“I promised the funeral director I would get clothes for him today.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. She’ll be back shortly.”

“I’ll wait for her.” As soon as I am in the foyer, I add, “In Hailey’s room, if you don’t mind.”

I find the foyer a surprise. It is a little more pleasant than I imagined; nothing fancy, just well kept, though still boardinghouse impersonal. A large grandfather clock is to the left of the stairway to the second floor. A parlor is off to the right and the dining room to the far left. It’s much the same as the boardinghouses I’d lived in before I could afford an apartment; all were a little drab and lacking in the warmth a personal touch brings. A simple vase of flowers and brighter furnishings would give the place a more cheerful and homey look.

As we go up the stairs I ask the maid, “Did you and Hailey chat much?”

“We’re not allowed to mingle with the residents.” She gives me a look. “Your sister was a very nice person. She always said hello to me and would ask me how my day was. She didn’t treat me as a servant.”

“Yes, that’s Hailey.”

“I will need to stay with you,” she says as she fumbles with a skeleton key as she opens Hailey’s door. “Mrs. Franklin has very strict rules.”

“Please … I need a few moments alone.” I hate putting her in a spot, but I can’t have her watching as I make a thorough search of the room. “Tell Mrs. Franklin that I insisted. I’ll leave the door open.”

“I suppose it’s all right, you being her sister and all. I’ll be just down the hallway cleaning.”

Hailey’s room is small. She has a window that looks out onto a garden area that has suffered the blistering of winterkill, but I can see how it must be pretty in the spring and summer months. Hailey was lucky to have a window. It makes the room feel more open.

She would have been able to look out when she was relaxing on her bed because the bed is on the wall opposite the window. Under the window is a small desk with a round, forest green cloth stool to sit on; to the left of the bed is an armoire that holds clothes and other personal belongings. To the right of the bed and across from the armoire is a washstand with a mirror and a little vanity table that has a lipstick, blush, comb—all laid out as if she is coming back.

The washstand has a small, white porcelain basin. On the floor underneath are two bowls: one has cat food and the other, water. No cat is around. I hope they found a good home for it.

I sit on her bed and look through her nightstand. In the drawer is a little notepad that has a rubber band around it holding a pencil tight. A quick peek tells me it’s her expense accounting for rent, food, and the like. There are no notations for several days before her death, but I want to examine it more at length, so I shove it in my purse and continue going through her dresser. There is nothing out of the ordinary. Whatever stories she had been working on, she apparently hadn’t brought them home. Yet she would have been working on a number of them at any one time.

Why can’t I find any notes and clippings she was working on? She cabled articles every day to New York, most often not original stories she wrote, but just a rehash of news she found in London papers that she felt would interest New York readers. Yet nothing is at her office or in her room. Which begs a question: Why would she—or someone else—get rid of them?

Either Hailey was being overly tidy before she killed herself—and she was not a slave to being orderly with her work materials—or someone had cleaned out everything, to ensure that nothing would be found.

I do find a pretty brooch that I know she liked and stick it in my pocket as a memento.

“Where, Hailey?” I look around the room talking; maybe Hailey’s ghost is lingering about. “Where did you hide the name of the man you were involved with?”

It has to be someplace very secretive, but where? I peek under her mattress, under the bed … nothing. I rummage through her armoire … nothing. I shove a bunch of hangers over to one side and one drops. When it hits the bottom of the armoire, it makes a dull
thud
sound.

Kneeling down I take out shoes and a hatbox, and tap the wood. It sounds hollow. In the far left inside corner is a tiny hole, barely enough to put my finger in. I lift off the false bottom and inside the recessed area is a book—
a diary.

“Jackpot!” I go straight to the very last entry. She has a cryptic note: “I’m going on a journey further in spirit than my feet will carry me.”

“Oh no…” barely comes from me as I sink to the floor. Anyone reading this would interpret it as an admission to suicide. There is
nothing
about bad love or being pregnant … nothing. Maybe in her previous entries …

“She told me she’s her sister…”

I jump up, almost losing my balance. The maid’s voice is pleading with someone.

“You know the rules!”

That has to be the landlady; her voice reeks with authority.

I slip the diary into the pocket of my coat.

When the Queen of Hearts walks in, I’m hanging up a blouse, not looking happy that she’s out of the rabbit hole.

“
What are you doing in here?
”

Without waiting for an answer she grabs the blouse from my hand as if I had snatched the crown jewels.

“You might fool my foolish maid, but I will tell you the same thing I said when her so-called
brother
came, nothing goes out ’til I confirm it with the police.”

“Her brother?” I’m baffled by her proclamation about a brother, but it doesn’t last long. The nasty woman reminds me of Nurse Grupe, who I encountered during my ten days in a madhouse on Blackwell’s Island and I hated that woman. If she thinks she’s going to bully me, she’s got another thing coming. “She—we don’t have a brother.”

“I know she didn’t have
any
family.”

“I’m her adopted sister and her supervisor at the newspaper we work for. I’m Nellie Bly.”

“I don’t care if you’re the Queen of Sheba, nothing is leaving this room. I’m owed rent and this stuff will be sold to cover it as soon as the police are finished with their investigation. And it won’t be enough to cover it, let me tell you.”

Ah … I see, her heart is beating with that eternal rhythm that has driven human beings since the dawn of time—greed.

“How much is owed? My publisher will make good the full amount of rent.” I glance around. “And, of course, other than the clothes I will need to have sent over to the funeral home, you can dispose of the rest of the items as you wish.”

The woman’s face softens to the texture of paving stones. “Well, there’s many a charity in need, I always say.”

I am sure that in her case, charity begins and stays at home.

“Tell me about this man who claimed to be her brother.”

“He was British. He told me that they were estranged and I told him all the more reason he couldn’t look through her stuff. Estranged in my books means you are no longer family.”

“What did he look like?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t planning to draw his picture. He was medium built, long dark hair. Blue eyes. Don’t really remember anything else, nor care. As I told you, makes no difference who comes and who says what, nothing goes out until I get me rent. I’m tired of people coming in here like it was a public place, first that Abberline copper, then the one yesterday that made a fine mess going through everything, now you doing only the lord knows what. Nothing leaves here ’til I get me money.”

“Very good policy. I only left the officer in charge of the investigation, Inspector Abberline, a short time ago. I have one other question. What was Hailey’s mood in those last few days before she died?”

“How would I know? I leave my boarders to themselves. As long as they pay their rent on time, have no shenanigans in their rooms, and be here before I lock the doors at night, I don’t care what their moods are or what they do. I keep my nose out of their lives.”