Don't Dare a Dame (22 page)

   
He’d jerked away as if I had a disease.

   
“I already told you. I don’t remember. I was in back, on the attic stairs, hauling stuff up as fast as my father handed it to me. That’s—” His blink told me his brain had just now registered something bewildering. “Little girl? What little girl?”

   
I waited.

   
“Did you say something about a dummy? What are you talking about?”

   
“Actually, she called it a ‘store dolly’,” I said carefully.

   
A customer came in. Emily, bless her, scurried to greet them. Marsh seemed unaware of it. He frowned in confusion.

   
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

   
If the little girl’s family had been forced to relocate after the flood, it was possible no one on Percy had heard her story except for the cop on the beat, I realized slowly.

   
“There was a little girl who told people she saw men put a dummy out in the rain.”

   
I was watching his eyes. They flared with curiosity.

   
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell Cy that you talked to me,” I said before he could speak. “You won’t get kicked out of this building, or that men’s group you’re both in.”

   
The part about the men’s group was a guess, but something in what I’d just said made Marsh redden.

   
“How dare you suggest Cy Warren is - is coercing me!” He gave his vest an affronted tug. “I don’t have time to waste on greedy relatives trying to stir up a lawsuit over a building I barely remember. I can’t even recall if we were still here moving things when it caught fire.”

   
So that was how Cy had explained my questions on Percy Street; greedy relatives.

   
“I’ll tell you something else.” Marsh took a leather-bound ledger from under the counter and smacked it down, preparing to work. “Cy’s a good man to know. He has influence.”

***

   
My parking spot in the shade of a building had kept the big bag of grapes I’d left in my car reasonably cool. When I left the dime store, I retrieved them. Then I opened the trunk and took out a pair of shoes I kept for emergencies. The leather on the back of them was scarred and scraped from when I’d been dragged behind a car. I kept them handy in case I needed to change a flat or walk through muck. With the bag of grapes in one hand and shoes in the other. I walked back to the cobbler’s shop.

   
The wiry old guy who owned the place was tapping away on a bench in back when I came in. Still holding a hammer, he got up and came toward me. His eyes narrowed. He remembered me. And I remembered he’d told me if I wasn’t a customer, he didn’t have time for my questions.

   
I set my battered shoes firmly on the counter between us.

   
“I have shoes that need fixing.”

Twenty-seven

   
“You’re that woman was sticking her nose in asking questions,” he said, ignoring my shoes. “Put people’s backs up.”

   
“Gee, the only ones who seemed to mind my questions were you and Marsh at the five-and-dime,” I said with a grin. “You said you were busy and only had time for paying customers. I’m kind of hoping you might have a little more time today.”

   
I set the bag of grapes on the counter. These weren’t your thick-skinned blue-black Concords. These skins were more pink than purple, and the globes were big and sweet.

   
“Happened to be in the produce market on my way here,” I said. These looked so nice, I thought you might enjoy a sack.”

   
He grunted.

   
“Still don’t have time for lollygagging.” He eyed the grapes. “Closing for lunch so I can go in back and relax, open the door a crack for some air.” He gave me a hard look. “Go on. Clear out.”

   
He came around the counter with energy enough to make me think he intended to shove me out if he had to. I retreated. Had he been sending me a message or was he merely closing for lunch? With a shooing motion he herded me out the door.

   
It slammed behind me so quickly I wondered if the hem of my skirt would be trapped. I heard the sound of a key. By the time I turned, a placard that read CLOSED FOR LUNCH was swinging back and forth in the window next to the door. The surly old codger was hotfooting toward a partition in back.

   
For a good thirty seconds I stood staring, still unsure whether his talk about going in back had been a cue. It didn’t require much pretending to act peeved. I crossed my arms. Finally I stalked up the street to my car.

   
I drove away, vaguely toward downtown. It gave me time to think. If I was right, the cobbler didn’t want to be seen talking to me, which meant he was willing to talk, but was wary of some kind of consequences if he did. I doubled back to a residential street a block behind his shop.

   
The alley behind the shop was deserted when I got there, and the door of the shop was ajar. I walked quickly. The cobbler sat facing the door. His feet were propped comfortably on a footstool and he was eating a sandwich. The bag of grapes sat on an unused bench next to his elbow.

   
“Whose back was it that I put up?” I asked without preliminaries. I didn’t figure he was one for small talk, just as I’d figured dangling money wouldn’t loosen his tongue.

   
He sniffed, dismissing the question.

   
“Grow my own grapes,” he said. “In the back yard.”

   
He was letting me know he couldn’t be softened up with a bag of grapes, but I also thought the contrary old coot might reward me with a tidbit or two if I passed some sort of test.

   
“Grow your own, huh? Concords?”

   
He nodded. I looked around and found a wooden stool that wobbled when I sat on it.

   
“Can’t beat a Concord,” I said. “But these aren’t bad either. Anyway, I got a bag for myself, and since I was coming here, I thought you might enjoy some for the vitamins and that. You not being a believer in pills and doctors.”

   
He took a single grape and chewed it. He grunted.

   
“Guess they’re okay. What makes you so interested in Dillon’s Drugs?”

   
“A man named John Vanhorn was headed there the day it burned. He never was seen again.”

   
The cobbler shrugged. He shoved three grapes into his mouth and talked around them.

   
“Lots of people got swept away in the water. Name’s not familiar.”

   
“Anybody question whether the body they found in the store was really the owner?”

   
“It was him alright. We were clearing debris when we found him. Burned down to nearly a skeleton. I saw the crooked bone in his leg. Got broke when he was a kid and wasn’t set right. Gave him an awful limp. Had to lift what was left of some steel shelves to get to what was left of him.”

   
He popped more grapes in his mouth and followed them with a bite of sandwich.

   
“Any other bodies turn up?”

   
“Any others?” He looked startled. “Not around here. Why?”

   
“A little girl who lived around here told a policeman she’d seen two men carry a clothing dummy outside and leave it just before the fire started.”

   
He chewed complacently.

   
“All kinds of gossip. Rumors. Me, I don’t listen. Mind my own business.”

   
His helpful streak was running out. I stood up.

   
“You never said whose back I’d put up asking questions.”

   
“No point. Like I told you, I mind my own business.”

   
“And since Cy Warren’s your landlord, he could kick you out if you got on his bad side.”

   
That won me a truculent look.

   
“I don’t kowtow like some.”

   
“Like Marsh at the dime store?” When he didn’t respond, I switched tactics. “The other day you told me you’d owned your place across the street.”

   
“I did. And when Warren and Maguire were crazy to buy up lots around here, I saw a chance to make a smart deal.” The old codger cackled. “Saved what I would have spent on rebuilding. Money in the bank drawing interest for my old age, and a lifetime lease.”

   
“If you crossed him, though, he could double your rent.”

   
“Nope. Can’t raise it more than two percent a year, written into the contract.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Cy Warren wasn’t as smart about real estate then as he is now.”

   
A man’s vanity regarding his cleverness yields information questions won’t. So does giving him an opportunity to correct you.

   
“Huh,” I said. “The way I heard it, Alf Maguire was the smart one.”

   
He snorted.

   
“About as full of brains as he was ambition. Cy’s the one who called the tunes.” His mouth clamped shut, not because he’d told me anything unwise, but because he’d been more helpful — or maybe agreeable — than was his habit. “Now clear out,” he said, my gift of grapes forgotten. “Come in the front in fifteen minutes and pick up your shoes.”

***

   
When I came in the front, my shoes were no longer on the counter where I’d left them. The cobbler wore his leather apron again, and was standing at some sort of machine. He left it whining as he came to help me.

   
“Shoes weren’t worth fixing,” he said, slamming them on the counter.

   
I don’t know if he intended for me to stalk out in a huff, but I did.

***

   
I found a pay phone and called to make sure Corrine was okay. I had lunch, then caught up at the office. Well before quitting time, I was parked where I could watch men leave the factory where Neal had worked. His pal with the coal black hair was half a head taller than most of the others, making him easy to spot. I got out of my car and started toward him with a wave.

   
One of his buddies saw me first and gave him a nudge. The big guy dodged a couple of cars as he crossed the street. His steps slowed as he drew near.

   
“You still hunting Neal?” he asked awkwardly. He was leery of being the bearer of bad news.

   
“Yeah, I am. And I already know he hasn’t been in all week, and that he got fired.”

   
He frowned.

   
“Why are you here then?”

   
I gave him a card. He read it slowly, his lips working silently over the word ‘investigator’. Finally he looked up.

   
“You’re a cop.”

   
“Detective. Private. Not a cop.”

   
His handsome head was starting to shake.

   
“I don’t rat. Don’t know any more than what I’ve already told you anyway.”

   
“Listen. Neal’s family’s been having some trouble. I’m worried about him. A week ago he talked as if he was glad to have this job. Doesn’t seem like he’d just up and vanish.”

   
The big guy talking to me wiped a hand across his mouth, thinking.

   
“It’s Friday,” I coaxed. “End of the week. I’ve got a thirst for a beer. I’d buy you one too.”

   
The high-voltage grin split his face

   
“Can’t say other girls haven’t been eager enough for my company they did the inviting, but I never expected an offer from a classy tomato like you.”

   
I put out my hand. “You know my name from the card. What’s yours?”

   
“Donnie. Donnie Williams.” He started to shake the hand I’d offered, then hesitated. “I guess you made that up, what you said when I first met you? That you had a disease?”