Don't Dare a Dame (11 page)

Twelve

   
It wasn’t something I’d expected, but it didn’t surprise me. Maguire’s sudden death before I could uncover this connection had just become all the more interesting. In my head I was dancing around like Shirley Temple, except without the ruffles and dimples. John Vanhorn’s disappearance was, without a doubt, in some way related to Dillon’s Drugs and to something that happened there the day the store fell victim to both flood and fire.

   
“How did they become partners?” I asked. “You told me Dillon didn’t have any relatives.”

   
“I think that’s why he took Alf on,” Theda said, thinking. “Not for mixing prescriptions; Alf didn’t have any training in that. But Tom was getting older and I suppose he wanted some help. Someone who could learn the whole business — ordering, insurance, all the pieces. The two clerks he had — one was just part-time, filled in now and then — they were lovely with customers and had very good heads for ringing up sales, but there’s a great deal more to running a business than that.”

   
She spoke the last with the firmness of one who knew from experience.

   
“I don’t suppose either of those clerks is still around?”

   
“Oh, goodness no. Married.” Her fingers flicked to indicated that was the way of things. “I don’t believe I ever knew their last names as it was.”

   
She halted the conversation to help a customer. I looked at my watch. Nearly one o’clock. I needed to finish up soon in case the store owner came back sooner than expected. I didn’t mind tangling with him, but I didn’t want Theda to get into trouble for talking with me. Why her boss would object was a puzzle, but given how quickly he’d brushed me off when I brought up the flood, I felt sure he would.

   
“Why didn’t he rebuild?” I asked when we were alone again.

   
Theda sniffed. “Too eager to make a quick dollar, if you ask me.” She looked immediately abashed. “Oh, that’s not fair, I guess. Plenty of others didn’t rebuild either.”

   
I glanced at my watch again to make sure time remained for a few more questions, and also to hide my interest in Theda’s comment about a fast dollar. The store was momentarily free of customers. I beckoned Emily over and gave her some money and told her to pick out some nail polish for me and ring it up. I’d use it, and another sale would show their boss that they’d kept busy.

   
“How did he make a fast buck?” I asked.

   
Embarrassed, Theda tried to wave her comment away.

   
“Oh, I don’t know that he did. It’s just that I didn’t like him. He and a friend of his always strutted around like they were such young blades. Looked down their noses at the rest of us, is how I saw it.” She drew herself up like an enraged bantam. “They made fun of my younger son because he stuttered.”

   
The nice old lady wasn’t exactly impartial. I’d need to keep it in mind concerning the information I was gleaning about Maguire.

   
“Not that it’s held my boy back. Not a bit. He’s in charge of a laboratory over at Purdue University....”

   
Aware of time running out, I cut in.

   
“This friend of Alf’s — did he work around here?”

   
“Cyrus? Oh, yes. His father had a menswear store next to Dillon’s. Nothing fancy, but not overalls either. Just the clothing ordinary people need. It nearly killed his father, seeing the store destroyed after all the years he’d put into it. He didn’t have the heart to start over.” She sighed. “Life just doesn’t make sense sometimes, does it? How fickle it is? Take those two boys. One dead now, and the other a big-time politician.”

***

   
It was twenty till two when I got back to my borrowed car. I wanted to sit while I absorbed the import of what I’d learned from Theda. Instead, to eliminate risk of passing Marsh as I left the area, and having him recognize me, I put the car in gear and headed up Wayne with information bursting in my brain and my stomach growling. I could settle both of them down at a new place on East Third called Wympee.

   
The diner let you park up close, and the food came fast. Outside, its walls were curving, sleek-looking white ceramic tiles. Inside there was one long counter with stainless steel stools upholstered in green. The menu on the wall was short, but it stretched to a hamburger deluxe with extra pickles and a vanilla malted. Since the lunch crowd was gone, I had the place just about to myself as I worked my way through the food and what I’d learned at the five-and-dime.

   
The name of the friend young Alf Maguire had palled around with at the time of the flood was Cyrus Warren, though strictly speaking, the two of them hadn’t been that young. Maguire had been in his late twenties and Warren half a dozen years younger, according to Theda.

   
Cy Warren’s name had been vaguely familiar, though I couldn’t recall what I’d read or heard about him. From what Theda said, he was clearly in politics, though maybe not quite as ‘big-time’ as she’d let on. I hadn’t wanted to press her about him, because I knew I could find out plenty on my own.

   
I had no idea how, or if, he might be connected to John Vanhorn’s disappearance.

   
I had no idea how, or if, he might be connected to Alf Maguire’s death.

   
The idea I did have was that somebody mucking around in politics could be connected enough at City Hall to raise a stink about me and threaten my license.

   
“Everything okay with the food?” the man behind the counter asked nervously.

   
Likely as not I’d been scowling.

   
“Yes. Thank you.” I smiled. “Just wondering if I should have a cup of coffee, and I think I will.”

   
He brought the coffee. Two salesmen came in and sat at the opposite end of the counter, drawing his attention and leaving me to my thoughts.

   
Someone in politics would certainly be leery of anything coming to light about them that could queer things with voters, I reflected. Could it be as innocuous as a long-ago friendship with someone like Alf Maguire, who had rough edges and made bad investments and kept a floozie while his wife was dying? I couldn’t buy that. Men were too willing to chuckle at transgressions by their own gender.

   
Could it be that Cy Warren had been mixed up in something shady with his pal Maguire? Maybe in the past, or even currently?

   
The only way to find out was to wear out some shoe leather.

Thirteen

   
I spent most of the next morning at the library, reading up on Cyrus Warren. There was plenty to read. He’d served one term on City Council eight years back but hadn’t run for re-election. Since then he’d served on a couple of civic committees and the state real estate board. His face showed up in photographs alongside big-wigs including the mayor, two county commissioners, the state superintendent of education and a state senator. It appeared he was gearing up to run for a seat in the Ohio House.

   
Warren’s business was real estate. He had an office downtown, which was going to be handy for me. His wife, who’d been photographed with him at a shindig or two, was a dreamy-eyed little thing at least a dozen years his junior. In all the photographs I came across, she gazed up at him so adoringly I needed Pepto Bismol.

   
This time nobody followed me when I left the library. Maybe the dust-up I’d had in the parking lot had discouraged whoever it was. I trotted on over to the county recorder’s office to find out when Alf Maguire had become a co-owner of Dillon’s Drugs and who’d bought the property after the flood. I left in under an hour, feeling frustrated.

   
Not surprisingly, property records from the time of the flood were jumbled and missing.

   
Lunch improved my spirits over the spotty records. There were other places I could poke, and one occurred to me that I hadn’t thought of before. It would take some nerve, and I might get turned down, but the chance of success was enough to send me back to the office. My feet were tired, so I kicked off my shoes as I dialed.

   
“This is Maggie Sullivan,” I said. “Could I please speak to Chief Wurstner?”

   
Somewhat to my surprise, he came on.

   
“Yes?” he said cautiously.

   
Since he hadn’t used my name, I wondered if he had someone in the office with him.

   
“I have some questions about the Great Flood that other cops working then haven’t been able to answer. I was wondering if you—”

   
“It is not the business of the police to do the job for private detectives,” he said brusquely.

   
I didn’t get a chance for a polite good-by.

   
He was right, of course. And I hadn’t exactly been truthful when I told him no one else could answer the questions, since I hadn’t even asked Seamus and Billy. I knew the beats they’d walked then, though, and they hadn’t come close to the neighborhood where Dillon’s Drugs had stood. Still, they might surprise me by knowing who’d worked there. I’d try them tonight; maybe stop by Finn’s.

   
Meanwhile, I was going to pay a visit to Cyrus Warren. How could a politician pass up a chance to win a constituent’s vote?

***

   
My first stop was the corner a block and a half away where I could usually find a tow-headed newsboy called Heebs.

   
“Hey, sis, I already sold you a paper. You stop back to see if I’d be your sweetheart?” he asked with a grin.

   
He wasn’t old enough to shave yet. The sides of his shoes were coming apart, and his ragged jacket wasn’t warm enough for the nights we had now, let alone when the snow started flying.

   
“I stopped by to see if you wanted to sell all those papers and make another four bits besides.”

   
His eyes sparked with eagerness. “Want me to be your assistant again? Dress up in a vest and such?”

   
“I need your help, so yeah, I guess that makes you my assistant.”

   
He was cocky enough as it was, but I figured most of that was bravado and he probably didn’t get many chances to feel important. I was pretty sure he had no family and slept on the street.

   
“No vest this time,” I said. “You’ll just be yourself. But there’s a pair of shoes in it for you, too, once we’re finished. And there’s two-bits for another newsie if he’ll trade corners with you for the rest of the afternoon.”

   
“Have to pick up the evening edition at four-thirty. Settle up on these.” He indicated the copies of the early edition still in his bag.”

   
“Okay. You’ll be done at four then.”

   
I explained to him what I had in mind.

***

   
Cy Warren’s political office was on Perry Street not far from the bus station. At the front desk a girl in a tight sweater was pecking dubiously at a typewriter.

   
“Hi,” she said looking up. “Are you here to volunteer?”

   
Across from her three tables were lined up. One held tall stacks of paper. A map on the wall wore red crayon lines carving it into chunks. On the wall by the secretary a swag of bunting adorned an oversized photograph of the current governor. Surrounding it was a virtual gallery showing Cy Warren glad handing him and other luminaries.

   
I tried my best to look bashful.

   
“Actually, I’m here to see Cy.”

   
“Oh.”

   
The girl frowned. Her gaze slid to an open door in the wall behind her. On the other side of it I could hear men jawing at each other, and the snick-thump of a card game.

   
“Um, if you’ll tell me your name I’ll see whether he can come out. He’s in a meeting.”

   
“That’s okay. I’ll just go on back,” I said, sailing past her.