Murder on the Thirteenth (6 page)

King Chauncey squeezed life into his accordion as a signal for the start of a new dance set. The lights dimmed.
Chairs scraped back. The level of conversation rose expectantly as the men chose partners.

“Addie?” Jake stood up. “Would you care to…” he pointed at the dance floor.

“Certainly.” Addie brushed past Tretheway. “Shouldn't you ask someone?”

“Eh?” Tretheway was pouring a drink.

“To dance,” Addie said. “Just to be sociable.”

“Well…” Tretheway stood up. The only lady at the table was Zoë Plunkitt. And it was obvious to Tretheway that Beezul and Gum weren't interested in dancing.

“Zoë?” Tretheway asked. “Would you care to dance?”

“I'd be delighted.” With a slightly disapproving glance at the other two men, Zoë walked ahead of Tretheway to the already crowded dance floor.

When pushed, Tretheway had to admit that he enjoyed music. He liked to sing, listen to marches and some operas, didn't care for jazz but could be moved by a sentimental wartime ballad such as the one the band was now playing.

As one of King Chauncey's Knights warbled the lyrics of “When the Lights Go On Again All Over the World,” Tretheway and Zoë Plunkitt began their spin around the floor. Although Zoë felt doll-like in Tretheway's terpsi-chorean embrace, her grip and manner said otherwise. Her coordination, coupled with Tretheway's peculiar grace— a grace that sometimes accompanies obesity— made the pair a pleasure to watch. Leather shoes slid rhythmically over the powdered hardwood floor. The slowly rotating mirrored chandelier spun diamonds of moving light over the fox-trotting couples, suggesting an aura of hypnotic fantasy. The war seemed far away, or at least romanticized into acceptability.

However, the next number was fast—“G.I. Jive.” Tretheway suggested they sit down. On their way back
through the crowd, Tretheway noticed that Zoë Plunkitt bumped into a couple of chairs, one of them at the Mayor's table. “What the hell,” he thought. “It's a party.”

“Tretheway.” The Mayor waved.

“Mr. Mayor.” Tretheway waved back.

“Would you and Miss Plunkitt care to wet your whistle?”

“Maybe later, your Honour.” Zoë shook her head politely.

Joseph L. Pennylegion had worked his way up through the Fort York political system as a volunteer, alderman, and senior controller to his present post of mayor. As sometimes happens, his talents expanded with each succeeding office to more than fill the job. He was more or less thrown into competence.

His early history was obscure. He had appeared suddenly in the bewildering area of North American Prohibition as someone with money and influence. “Transportation,” he would say if asked by reporters where his wealth came from, which was probably partly true. He was loyal to the Runyonesque friends who had shared his beginnings and now shared his table. They had names like Quick Roy, Fingers, and Worm. When the Mayor rode in his official limousine, they always followed him in a large black private sedan. In the world of municipalities he had the reputation of running a “tight” city.

Mrs. Pennylegion,too, had grown with her husband's career. Neither had much formal education but they were street-wise and possessed a blunt, sometimes vulgar, honesty that could be refreshing or shocking, depending on your viewpoint. She was overdressed; he was overweight and loud. His carrot-coloured hair, showing no grey, clashed violently with his flushed complexion. And they both used too much perfume or cologne, although now much more expensive brands than in the old days.

“Fine,” Mayor Pennylegion shouted. “Come back later. I got champagne.”

When they reached the table, Zoë Plunkitt took her matching sequined purse and left to powder her nose. Tretheway noticed that Mary Dearlove joined her on the way. The Zulps had finally arrived and were chatting with Bartholomew Gum and Beezul. Jake and Addie were still dancing.

Tretheway glanced at the next table. Garth Dingle was already wearing one of the party hats and amusing Patricia Sprong and the Squire. The Squire's refreshment bag sat on his lap. Tremaine Warbucks danced with Cynthia Moon and even from a distance could be seen talking without pause. Nooner and Wan Ho were still not in their seats. Mary Dearlove came back from the ladies' room and seemed to be visiting everyone. She danced with Dingle and Warbucks, shared rum with the Squire, soda water with Patricia Sprong and scribbled notes on an interview with Cynthia Moon. At one point, she even spent time walking around the perimeter of the dance floor, talking animatedly, arm in arm with Luke, the wandering doorman. At about ten o'clock, it was Tretheway's turn.

“Time for our dance, Inspector.” Mary leaned over Tretheway's shoulder from behind. Addie pretended not to notice. A heady mixture of expensive perfume, freshly permed hair and mixed drinks wafted around Tretheway.

“My pleasure.” He rose politely.

On the dance floor she performed well. But not quite as well as Zoë Plunkitt, Tretheway thought.

“Any juicy gossip for the column?” he asked, more for conversation than for interest.

“You'd be surprised.” Mary Dearlove's words were ever so slightly slurred. And the look on her face reminded Tretheway of the look on Fat Rollo's face last summer when he was discovered holding a live baby bird between his paws.

“Oh?”

'I've come across a very interesting item.”

“like two ladies wearing the same dress?” Tretheway tried to keep it light.

“More than that. A secret. A deep, dark secret.”

“You're serious, aren't you?”

“This could be my big story.”

“At the Policeman's Ball?”

“It's more of a police story.”

“You're not getting in over your head?”

“I can handle it.”

“Well, if you need help….”

The music stopped.

“As a matter of fact, I might need your help. Tonight.”

Mary Dearlove spotted Zulp approaching.

“When?”

“Later.” Fat Rollo's expression appeared on her face again.

“Where?”

The music started up again.

“Come, come, Tretheway,” Zulp blurted. “You can't hog all the beautiful women.”

Mary Dearlove blushed as coyly as a middle-aged woman could.

“The Missus is waiting.” Zulp looked at Tretheway.

“What?”

“Mrs. Zulp.” Zulp jerked his head backwards, at his table. “Back at the table.”

“Right.” Tretheway had forgotten his annual must-dance with his superior's wife. Zulp and Mary twirled away.

Tretheway didn't remember much about dancing with Mrs. Zulp. He couldn't stop thinking of Mary Dearlove; about her clandestine manner, and about some of the puzzling comments she had made. What deep, dark secret, he thought. And what could he do to help?

Mrs. Zulp had stopped talking. She stared intently at Tretheway managing to focus on a spot some distance
behind his head. Tretheway realized she was waiting for an answer.

“I see.” He nodded his head and smiled. It appeared to satisfy her. She continued her thick-tongued monologue which gave Tretheway more time to reach back into his memory. One phrase nagged more at his worried subconscious than any other; two words that he turned over and over in his mind as he whirled perfunctorily around the floor—“witching hour.”

“Thank you very much, Inspector.” Mrs Zulp clapped her hands together decorously.

Tretheway jerked back to the present. The dance was over. “My pleasure, Mrs. Zulp.” He joined in the applause. From Mrs. Zulp's benign expression Tretheway concluded that he must have nodded and smiled in all the right places during their conversation. He followed her on her unsteady passage back to the table.

The evening gained social momentum. Everybody wore a party hat except Tretheway. Addie's and Jake's matched, but only Addie's was becoming. Mrs. Zulp's hat twisted over one eye while the Chief, in metallic gold and purple, still managed to look intimidating. Beezul and Gum sported tasteful but festive models. Zoë Plunkitt had found a fuchsia, conical one with a sequined floppy brim that matched her dress.

“Albert, you don't have a hat,” Addie said.

Tretheway shrugged.

“We'll find you one.” She began to look around.

“Addie.” Tretheway caught his sister's eye. “Don't worry about it.”

Addie stopped looking.

By now, all attempts to hide the refreshments had gone by the board. Bottles, no longer full to the top, stood in the centre of every table for all to see, with white gloves abandoned beside them.

Tretheway overheard Garth Dingle tell a loud joke to Patricia Sprang—who had switched to white wine—and Cynthia Moon. They both laughed well before the punch line. He watched the Squire close his eyes gradually as he listened to a list of Warbucks's statistics. Mary Dearlove sat down for less than a minute before she disappeared into the crowd again. Doc Nooner and Wan Ho exchanged old anecdotes. Horns tooted tentatively all over the ballroom, rehearsing for the midnight release of balloons from the ceiling. The general noise level increased.

The drums rolled. “Ladies and gentlemen.” King Chauncey announced as though introducing a prize fight, “The Paul Jones!”

Before the balloons were released from their nets, before the short speeches form the Mayor and Chief Zulp and before the final toast to the King that officially wrapped up the 1943 Ball, the highlight of the evening was the Paul Jones. A local hybrid dance, part grand march, part fast fox trot, part polka, but mostly square dance, it was the pinnacle of sweat-producing physical activity during the ball. Everybody took part.

Tretheway danced first with Patricia Sprang. She felt strong and capable, but not unfeminine, in his arms.

“I just love a Paul Jones,” she said in anticipation.

“Gets the blood moving,” Tretheway said.

“Good for the soul.” She whirled Tretheway around exuberantly, or at least as much as anyone could whirl a two-hundred-eighty pound partner.

“Gentlemen, dance with the lady behind,” King Chauncey chanted.

Tretheway released the Major, who began to whirl Beezul around. He, in turn, was claimed by Cynthia Moon. The music increased in tempo.

“Good party,” Cynthia Moon shouted over the noise of her jangling costume jewelry.

They bumped into more couples now but nobody seemed to mind. Through the rising smoke and glittering reflections on the spinning revelers, Tretheway caught sight of Mary Dearlove dancing with Mayor Pennylegion. He remembered the cryptic message.

“Join in fours. Make a circle.”

Tretheway and Cynthia obediently joined hands with Doc Nooner and Zoë Plunkitt.

“Skip to the right.”

It was almost impossible to carry on a conversation during such wild activity. Tretheway lost sight of Mary Dearlove in the frenzied circling. Zoë Plunkitt squeezed Tretheway's hand as she smiled widely and skipped around the imaginary circle in time to the music. Cynthia Moon was just as restrained. Doc Nooner wheezed dangerously but still smiled.

“Everybody reverse.”

Tretheway noticed with concern the bulging eyes and florid face of Doc Nooner as they all skipped in the opposite direction.

“You okay?” Tretheway shouted.

All Doc Nooner could manage was a weak smile. He continued to sweat and skip.

“Gentlemen, dance with the opposite lady.”

Tretheway enjoyed the respite of the slower fox trot and he was sure Doc Nooner appreciated it even more.

“The good doctor's not in good shape,” Zoë Plunkitt said.

“I know,” Tretheway said.

“And he's so overweight.”

Tretheway didn't answer.

“I mean, some men can carry it. Big men. With big frames. And still be in good shape.”

“I suppose.” Tretheway tried to hide his shortness of breath.

“It can be very attractive.”

Tretheway noticed how effortlessly Zoë danced—she was as sprightly as she had been at the beginning of the evening. The diamonds of light flitted over her face and hair as they moved in time to King Chauncey's rhythm. But it was her eyes that Tretheway noticed more than anything; how they stared at him, unblinking, luminous, deep, bordered by dark makeup. He had seen that look before at an animal farm, in a soft rain, when a deer had wandered too close to the barricade—a doe, a wet-eyed doe…

“Grand March,” King Chauncey shouted. “In fours.”

Tretheway shook himself. Zoë Plunkitt began to blink. The music changed to fast martial. They joined the nearest couple—Addie and Garth Dingle.

“Great party.” Garth spoke in his normal voice, which was loud enough to be heard above the din. He still had his party hat on. Addie smiled happily and squeezed her brother's arm.

“Now in eights.”

Another foursome joined them, making eight abreast. Tretheway looked across the rank to see the Squire with Mrs. Pennylegion. An unusual pairing, he thought, but in a Paul Jones, anything's possible. Tremaine Warbucks and Mary Dearlove completed the eightsome. Mary winked at Tretheway.

“Make a big circle.”

The ballroom immediately filled with rings of eight people, facing inward, hands joined, feet stomping in time to the music. Garth Dingle let out a yell he had heard in the latest Gene Autry movie. Mrs. Pennylegion screamed with glee. Others joined in. The music became louder.

“Now who…” King Chauncey looked around the room at the expectant faces during his dramatic pause.

“Who is…the birdie in the cage?”

This was the signal for the boisterous merrymakers to choose one of their eight to be in the centre of the circle—
their birdie—for the frenzied finale of the Paul Jones. In Tretheway's circle, he was picked.

“To the centre!” Chauncey and his group picked up their tempo and volume.

The remaining seven of each circle joined hands again and rushed toward the centre to form a cage of sorts over the hapless birdie, raising their arms and voices in a crescendo of squeals and shrieks. They repeated this several times at the command of King Chauncey.