been invited to the cast party.”
“So have we!”
“Wonderful.”
“Dorothy will be so pleased.”
“Until then.” I wasn’t interested in Dorothy or her mother but the man Mickey had no doubt called, Oliver Greenwoody. I thanked her and hung up.
I leaned back in the chair. “I don’t recall meeting the Greenwoodys at previous castpartys.”
“Things change in two years. Spencer likes to associate with powerful people—celebrities, politicians, war heroes. He introduced me to the Greenwoodys the night you were shot.” She sat on the edge of the desk, showing more leg than an engaged woman should. “How do you know them?”
“We shared coffee on the train. Dorothy thinks I’m really Blackie Doyle.”
I drummed my fingers on the desk next to her bare knee and tried to focus on the ashtray.
Smiling, Laura hopped off the desk. “Behind those big black glasses, Dorothy’s a real looker.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“You noticed.” She resumed filling the box with personal items from the desk.
I thought back to Mickey’s final words— the key … it’s … in the ashtray … in the ashtray . I turned over the empty ashtray. Green felt covered the bottom to keep it from sliding on the wood desktop. With a letter opener, I removed the felt. A tarnished brass key fell out.
“The key was in the ashtray.” Laura leaned closer and laughed at the engraved number on the end of the key—B36. “Bingo.”
I rose from the desk and grabbed my cane. “I need to catch a cab. Can I drop you somewhere?”
“I can take you. That’s my Packard out front.”
Laura had come a long way from our old neighborhood. She worked hard for what she’d accomplished and deserved Dalrymple’s money. He didn’t deserve her.
She carried the box to the door. “You need my help, or did you forget you’re recovering from a gunshot wound?”
Before she became a big-time actress, Laura often helped me with criminal investigations. She was good at it. Her acting came in handy, but she mostly worked two-bit cases. This case got me shot and Mickey killed.
I grabbed the cane, limped toward her, and snatched my hat from the coatrack.
She nodded toward the key in my hand and chuckled. “B36. Where are we going? A bingo parlor?”
“The bus station.”
I’d never ridden in a more luxurious automobile than Laura’s Packard. While she drove toward the bus station, I rubbed my throbbing leg. I reflected on what I’d learned and two questions I couldn’t answer. Was Mickey investigating one of the nation’s greatest heroes? Why had Mickey been killed?
A couple of blocks after we left, I glanced in the side mirror. A Model T I felt certain hadbeen parked across the street from Mickey’s office followed behind. By the time we reached the bus station, I knew we’d been followed, but I didn’t want to alarm Laura.
I climbed out and followed her to the front door then risked a quick glance back. The black car had parked across the street. I didn’t get a look at the driver. A cop following me, or someone more sinister?
The lockers along the far wall stood next to a shoe-shine stand. Laura had been in lots of bus stations, but her stylish clothes brought plenty of stares.
On a row of benches, waiting for a bus, a mother tried to control four hungry-looking children: a baby, two twin boys, and an older girl, all ten or younger.
Since the Depression spread, I struggled with guilt over my success. I learned to ignore the poverty all around. What could one person do?
I limped to the lockers. I just wanted to get what Mickey had hidden in the locker of the bus station then decide on the next move.
Laura tore her eyes from the family and followed me. She pointed to B36 on the second row from the bottom. I bent down, ignored a cry of protest from my throbbing leg, and inserted the key. I lifted the handle and the door swung open.
Laura’s face dropped. “It’s empty.”
The locker certainly appeared empty, but
“So have we!”
“Wonderful.”
“Dorothy will be so pleased.”
“Until then.” I wasn’t interested in Dorothy or her mother but the man Mickey had no doubt called, Oliver Greenwoody. I thanked her and hung up.
I leaned back in the chair. “I don’t recall meeting the Greenwoodys at previous castpartys.”
“Things change in two years. Spencer likes to associate with powerful people—celebrities, politicians, war heroes. He introduced me to the Greenwoodys the night you were shot.” She sat on the edge of the desk, showing more leg than an engaged woman should. “How do you know them?”
“We shared coffee on the train. Dorothy thinks I’m really Blackie Doyle.”
I drummed my fingers on the desk next to her bare knee and tried to focus on the ashtray.
Smiling, Laura hopped off the desk. “Behind those big black glasses, Dorothy’s a real looker.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“You noticed.” She resumed filling the box with personal items from the desk.
I thought back to Mickey’s final words— the key … it’s … in the ashtray … in the ashtray . I turned over the empty ashtray. Green felt covered the bottom to keep it from sliding on the wood desktop. With a letter opener, I removed the felt. A tarnished brass key fell out.
“The key was in the ashtray.” Laura leaned closer and laughed at the engraved number on the end of the key—B36. “Bingo.”
I rose from the desk and grabbed my cane. “I need to catch a cab. Can I drop you somewhere?”
“I can take you. That’s my Packard out front.”
Laura had come a long way from our old neighborhood. She worked hard for what she’d accomplished and deserved Dalrymple’s money. He didn’t deserve her.
She carried the box to the door. “You need my help, or did you forget you’re recovering from a gunshot wound?”
Before she became a big-time actress, Laura often helped me with criminal investigations. She was good at it. Her acting came in handy, but she mostly worked two-bit cases. This case got me shot and Mickey killed.
I grabbed the cane, limped toward her, and snatched my hat from the coatrack.
She nodded toward the key in my hand and chuckled. “B36. Where are we going? A bingo parlor?”
“The bus station.”
I’d never ridden in a more luxurious automobile than Laura’s Packard. While she drove toward the bus station, I rubbed my throbbing leg. I reflected on what I’d learned and two questions I couldn’t answer. Was Mickey investigating one of the nation’s greatest heroes? Why had Mickey been killed?
A couple of blocks after we left, I glanced in the side mirror. A Model T I felt certain hadbeen parked across the street from Mickey’s office followed behind. By the time we reached the bus station, I knew we’d been followed, but I didn’t want to alarm Laura.
I climbed out and followed her to the front door then risked a quick glance back. The black car had parked across the street. I didn’t get a look at the driver. A cop following me, or someone more sinister?
The lockers along the far wall stood next to a shoe-shine stand. Laura had been in lots of bus stations, but her stylish clothes brought plenty of stares.
On a row of benches, waiting for a bus, a mother tried to control four hungry-looking children: a baby, two twin boys, and an older girl, all ten or younger.
Since the Depression spread, I struggled with guilt over my success. I learned to ignore the poverty all around. What could one person do?
I limped to the lockers. I just wanted to get what Mickey had hidden in the locker of the bus station then decide on the next move.
Laura tore her eyes from the family and followed me. She pointed to B36 on the second row from the bottom. I bent down, ignored a cry of protest from my throbbing leg, and inserted the key. I lifted the handle and the door swung open.
Laura’s face dropped. “It’s empty.”
The locker certainly appeared empty, but
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