Murder She Encountered Page 6

  * * *

  —

  It was still raining on Monday morning. The humidity was even more oppressive and the heavy clouds made it look like the end of the day instead of the beginning.

  Elizabeth stepped outside, quickly put up her umbrella, and began briskly walking. She had to skirt ever-widening puddles at nearly every intersection. There were splotches of water on her skirt and her stockings were spattered with mud by the time she reached the subway.

  She put a hand to her hair. She had set it in pin curls the night before and was grateful that her slight natural curl had kept it from going completely limp. By the time she reached the Chemical Bank and Trust Company where Earl Miller, Flo’s boyfriend, was a teller, there was a halo of curling hairs around her forehead.

  The bank was housed in an imposing building as befitted such an august institution. Elizabeth had seen it before—her father’s office building was next door.

  The bank lobby was even more impressive with vast gold-veined marble floors and gilt cages where the tellers took deposits and cashed checks. At the far end, a massive iron door yawned open, revealing the interior of a vault lined with safe-deposit boxes.

  Kaminsky was leaning against a counter that housed deposit and withdrawal slips in glass-topped slots.

  He pushed away from the edge when he saw Elizabeth coming.

  “I’m not late, am I?” she said breathlessly as she removed her hat and shook off the raindrops. She ran a hand over her hair to smooth it then plopped her straw Panama back on her head.

  Kaminsky glanced at the large ornate clock on the wall.

  “Nope. I just got here myself, and you’ve got two minutes to spare.”

  “Have you figured out which of the tellers is Earl Miller?”

  “Not yet. How about I start at that end.” Kaminsky pointed to the teller on the right. “And you start at that end.” He pointed to the left. “Wave to me if you find him first.”

  “Okay.” Elizabeth straightened her hat—which was already perfectly straight—and began to walk toward the line of tellers.

  Each of them had a brass nameplate prominently displayed. There was one woman—a Miss Gertrude Hoogerwerf—and the rest were men. Earl Miller turned out to be the third from the end. Elizabeth waved to Kaminsky.

  Earl Miller was a nice-looking young man with slicked-back dark red hair, fair skin, and blue eyes. He had a pencil-thin mustache that reminded Elizabeth of William Powell on whom she had developed a bit of a crush after seeing him in After the Thin Man. Earl was slender and of medium height but with broad shoulders that suggested a certain amount of strength.

  He was wearing a slightly too loud pin-striped suit, a silver tie with a bold Art Deco design, and had a rubber fingertip on his index finger. He was waiting on an elderly woman in a black hat who was leaning heavily on a cane. Her face was thick with powder and a cloud of Guerlain’s L’Heure Bleue wafted toward Elizabeth. The scent reminded her of her grandmother Nellie who always had a bottle of that particular perfume on her dressing table.

  “What’s taking the old bag so long?” Kaminsky said when he joined Elizabeth at Earl’s station.

  “I think she’s almost finished.”

  They watched as Earl thanked the woman and handed her an envelope.

  The woman opened the envelope, pulled out a stack of bills, and began to count them. Kaminsky sighed loudly.

  Finally the woman put the money back in the envelope, turned around, gave Kaminsky a sharp look, and moved away.

  “How can I help you?” Earl said when Elizabeth and Kaminsky approached the counter.

  “Earl Miller?” Kaminsky said.

  Earl tapped his brass nameplate. “Says so right here.” A look of apprehension crossed his face, and he glanced behind him as if assessing an escape route. “Say, what is this about?” he said, his voice full of false bravado.

  Kaminsky flashed his press pass. “Daily Trumpet. We wanted to offer our condolences on the death of your girlfriend, Florence Grimm.”

  Earl’s smile disappeared. “I’ve already talked to the cops. They came around here while I was working. Mr. Baker—he’s my boss—didn’t like it one bit. If he sees you here—”

  Earl’s hands began to shake, and he knocked over a bottle of ink. A slick black puddle spread across the marble counter. Earl yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and used it to staunch the flow.

  Kaminsky gestured toward the bottle. “Good thing that wasn’t full. It would have made a worse mess. Still, it’s a shame about your handkerchief.”

  Earl looked around and finally dropped his sopping handkerchief into a waste can.

  “It’s your fault. You startled me.”

  “Sorry,” Kaminsky said, not sounding sorry at all. “I wanted to ask you a couple questions. Won’t take more than a few minutes.”

  Earl looked around as if he was waiting to be rescued, but when help didn’t appear, he sighed, his shoulders sagging.

  “All right. I’m due for a break. I’ll meet you outside.” Before Kaminsky could say anything else, he snapped the shade down over his window.

  It was still drizzling slightly when they went outside, although pale rays of sun were attempting to peek through a break in the clouds.

  The three of them huddled under the awning of the building next door. Kaminsky took a moment to pull out his cigarettes. He offered the pack to Earl, but Earl shook his head.

  “I have to stay in shape. I’m training for a boxing match.” He gave a few jabs with his right hand as he bounced from one foot to the other.

  “So you’re a boxer?” Kaminsky blew out a stream of smoke.

  “It’s only a hobby, but I’m actually pretty good.”

  “Good enough to go up against Joe Lewis?”

  Earl laughed. “Certainly not. I’d get killed.”

  “Speaking of killing,” Kaminsky said, “do you have any idea who would want your girlfriend Flo dead? Assuming it wasn’t you.”

  “Say, you’re not trying to imply I did it, are you? I was in love with Flo. We were going to get married as soon as I’d saved enough money.”

  “You don’t seem too broken up about her death.”

  “Life goes on, doesn’t it? It won’t do me any good to sit around crying and wringing my hands.”

  “Sure, sure.” Kaminsky rubbed the back of his neck. “Tell us about Flo. What was she like?”

  Earl’s eyes lit up. “She was a swell gal and pretty as a picture.”

  “She didn’t look so pretty after they’d hauled her out of the water,” Kaminsky said.

  Earl clenched his hands. “What’s this all about? Are you trying to goad me into saying something I’ll regret?”

  Kaminsky held up both hands. “No. Listen, buddy, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. No hard feelings, okay?” He clapped Earl on the shoulder.

  Earl’s posture relaxed slightly. “Sure, sure.”

  “How long had you and Flo been seeing each other?” Elizabeth interjected, hoping the question would calm the waters that had been stirred up by Kaminsky’s remark.

  “Going on for a year now,” Earl said. “We met at the Savoy during a Lindy Hop contest. Flo was a crackerjack dancer. She could really move those gorgeous gams of hers.”

  Earl’s eyes filled with tears and he swiped at them impatiently.

  “It must have made you jealous when Flo’s boss took such an interest in her.”

  “What do you mean?” Earl’s fists clenched again.

  “Some of the girls were talking, and—”

  “They’re lying. Flo didn’t want nothing to do with Lou. She thought he was a real greaseball.”

  “So you and Lou never went a couple rounds over his attentions to Flo?”

  “Of course not.” Earl’s face flushed red.

  “You’re a boxer, you said. Did you give Lou that black eye? Maybe he got out of line? Said something about Flo that you didn’t like.”

  Earl’s eyes widened. “I already told you. I wasn’t jealous. Why should I have been? Flo was my gal. We were going to get hitched real soon.”

  “Okay, okay. Keep your shirt on.”

  “I’ve got to get back to work,” Earl said, and he turned on his heel and headed back inside.

  “Touchy, isn’t he?” Kaminsky said.

  “But do you think he’s guilty?”

  “What do you think?” Kaminsky turned to Elizabeth.

  “I think there was something he wasn’t telling us.”

  “So do I. Now we just have to find out what that something was.”

  * * *

  —

  “Where are we going?” Elizabeth said as she followed Kaminsky down the steps to the subway.

  “I think it’s time we paid a call on Flo’s mother. She might be able to tell us something. Apparently she’s remarried—her name’s Viola Fowler now.”

  “Where does she live?”

  “The aptly named Hell’s Kitchen. Thirty-ninth Street between Ninth and Tenth Avenues.”

  The skies had cleared even more by the time Elizabeth and Kaminsky got off the train and started walking west. The air was still heavy with humidity though, and Elizabeth felt her blouse sticking to her back.

  The buildings along Thirty-ninth Street were low-rise—five or six stories each—with crumbling stoops, windows thick with grime, and overflowing garbage cans out front. The street itself was awash with water that lapped at the curbs and threatened to overflow them.

  “Where did all this water come from?” Elizabeth said as she picked her way around a puddle.

  Kaminsky shrugged. “Water main break, maybe? I hope we can get through. We might have to walk over to Thirty-eighth Street and go around.”

  As they neared Ninth Avenue, they heard children shouting, and as they got closer, they could see that they had opened a fire hydrant and were splashing gleefully in the water gushing out.

  A shadow fell over the street. The excited shouts of the children were drowned out, and the street felt as if it were shaking. Suddenly the Ninth Avenue El rattled past on the tracks suspended high overhead.

  “How’d you like to listen to that a hundred times a day?” Kaminsky said as the train retreated into the distance. He took Elizabeth’s elbow. “I think we’d better cross the street.” He pointed ahead of them to where the open fire hydrant was spraying water onto the sidewalk.

  They had to stop for the light on the corner of Ninth Avenue and Thirty-ninth Street and as they waited, another elevated train thundered by overhead. It made Elizabeth feel as if her very teeth were rattling. She could imagine what it must be like in the apartments nearby—dishes clattering in the cupboards and paintings knocked askew on the walls.

  The light changed and they crossed the street. Kaminsky began scanning the building numbers. He halted in front of one of them.

  “This is it.”

  The building was five stories tall with an iron fire escape zigzagging across the front like a jagged scar. The stoop was crumbling, and when Elizabeth touched the railing, it swayed back and forth.

  “She’s on the fourth floor,” Kaminsky said as he pushed open the front door.

  The linoleum in the foyer was so worn and cracked that the pattern was no longer discernible. Large black footprints led across the floor, fading as they got closer to the stairs.

  Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. The air was heavy with the odor of boiled cabbage, fried onions, and burnt toast. There was a sickly sweet undertone to the scents, which she realized suddenly was the smell of urine. She had to fight back the urge to gag.

  They climbed the sagging stairs to the fourth floor. Elizabeth was about to head down the hall when Kaminsky put his hand on her arm.

  He was breathing heavily and his face had an unhealthy pallor.

  “Is everything okay?” Elizabeth said, the concern evident in her voice.

  “I just need to catch my breath.” Kaminsky began to cough. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face.

  “Do you think you should see a doctor?”

  “Nah. I’ll be fine. I guess I’m out of shape.”

  Elizabeth wasn’t convinced, but she followed Kaminsky down the hall and waited while he knocked on the door of apartment 4B. Various noises came from behind it—a radio playing, shouts that must have been coming through an open window, and finally the sound of someone shuffling toward the door.

  “Yeah?”

  A woman stood in the doorway. She was probably in her forties, but looked older. Her shoulder-length blond hair was matted as if she hadn’t combed it in weeks, and there was an inch of gray at the roots.

  She was wearing a stained housecoat and a pair of high-heeled mules. The smell of liquor wafted toward them when she opened her mouth.

  “Mrs. Viola Fowler?” Kaminsky said, doffing his hat.

  “Yeah. What do you want? Because if you’re selling something, forget it. I don’t got any money.”

  “We’re from the Daily Trumpet,” Kaminsky said.

  “The paper? Clyde brings it to me every afternoon. Clyde’s my husband.” She opened the door wider. “Come in.”

  There was no foyer. The door opened directly into a tiny living room filled with mismatched furniture. A Stewart Warner cathedral-style radio held pride of place on an oak buffet. Kay Kyser’s “Three Little Fishes” was playing.

  All the other rooms in the apartment were partially visible from the living room. The kitchen had a table shoved against one wall with three chairs around it. A bottle of Fleischmann’s gin sat out on the counter.

  The mattress in the master bedroom was sagging, and a spread had been thrown haphazardly over it. Elizabeth assumed the second bedroom was Flo’s. A pretty but cheap lacy pink bedspread was arranged neatly over the bed, and there was a poster of actor Paul Muni on the wall over it.

  “Have a seat,” Viola said gruffly.

  She picked a copy of Motion Picture magazine, with a photograph of Carole Lombard on the cover, off the seat of one of the armchairs and sank into the comfy chair. A cigarette was burning in an ashtray on the end table next to it. She must have been sitting there when they rang the bell.

  Elizabeth perched on the sofa. There was a large cigarette burn on the arm and the slipcover was stained and sagging.

  “We want to offer you our condolences on the loss of your daughter,” Kaminsky said, his voice grave. He had his notepad balanced on his knee.

  Viola dabbed at her eyes, but they looked dry to Elizabeth.

  The radio was still playing—a Tommy Dorsey tune this time.

  “Do you mind if I turn down the radio?” Elizabeth said.

  Viola waved toward it. “Please yourself. I only had it on because Clyde was listening to it.”

  “Clyde?” Elizabeth said.

  “My husband. Second husband. Flo’s father took off when she was a baby. He never did come back.”

  “Is Flo your only child?” Elizabeth said, after turning down the radio.

  “Yes. No,” Viola said. “I mean, Flo’s my only living child.”

  She clapped a hand over her mouth as if she’d suddenly realized what she’d said.

  “I had a boy a long time ago. He was only a year old when he died from polio.”

  “I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said, and she meant it. “I had polio myself, but I was lucky. And now President Roosevelt has started the March of Dimes, so hopefully there will be a cure someday.”

  “Yeah, well, it will be too late for my little Roy, won’t it?” Viola said. “His father never got over the loss. When we learned I was carrying another baby, he was thrilled. He even had a name picked out—Stanley. He thought it sounded real classy. But then it turned out to be a girl. He was that disappointed.”

  Viola put her arms around herself and rocked back and forth in her chair.

  “And now my poor Flo is gone, too. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “Tell us about Flo,” Elizabeth said softly.

  “My Flo had dreams,” Viola said. “She got herself a good job working at that fair.” She tapped her head with her index finger. “She was smart. And she was pretty, too. Found herself a nice boy in that Earl. He’d occasionally bring me a pack of Lucky Strikes or a pint of Fleischmann’s.” Viola plucked at a loose thread on her housecoat. “He has a real good job at that bank. They were going to have things. Not like me.” She waved a hand around the apartment.

  And you were going to hitch your wagon to their star, Elizabeth thought. She had the feeling that Viola was the sort to charge her daughter room and board. She didn’t appear to have any sort of job herself.

  “So everything was peaches and cream between Earl and your daughter,” Kaminsky said.

  Viola drew back. “I wouldn’t say that. They had their fights like most young couples. It’s only normal.”

  “What did they fight about?” Kaminsky said.

  Viola pursed her lips. “This and that. They had a big fight the night before my Flo died. She came home early, ran into her bedroom, and slammed the door. I could hear her crying through the wall.” She gestured toward her own bedroom.

  “But you don’t know what it was about?”

  “Nah. Flo wasn’t one for confidences. Although she might have talked to that friend of hers—Lena Hoffman. She lives downstairs in three B.”

  “How did you get along with your daughter, Mrs. Fowler?” Elizabeth said.

  Viola looked confused. “The usual, I’d say. We had our moments, but Flo was a good girl. I tried to steer her right.”

  “And her stepfather?” Kaminsky said. “She get along with him, too?”