On the Rocks: A Willa Cather and Edith Lewis Mystery (19 page)

“Good day, ladies,” Daggett called out. Little John, a few paces behind, nodded at them.

“Hello,” Willa rose. Sabra Jane was already on her feet.

“Don’t disturb yourselves, ladies, please,” Daggett waved with his free hand.

Edith sank back. Willa and Sabra Jane, already up, started across the lawn to retrieve more chairs. At a stern glance from Daggett, Little John joined them but managed to maintain his distance from Sabra Jane.

“I’ve brought something to show you,” Daggett raised the pillowcase toward Edith. When the chairs were in place, Daggett still stood. He held the bag forward.

“Show us,” Willa commanded.

Daggett took his time with the unveiling, scrunching the pillowcase to bring the object to the surface yet keeping cloth between his fingers and the object inside.

It turned out to be the largest flashlight Willa and Edith had ever seen. The light itself was at least eight inches in diameter, possibly ten, Edith guessed. And its handle must hold a dozen batteries, easily a dozen. It must weigh a great deal, she reached out to touch it.

“Sorry,” Daggett swung the bag away, “I can’t let you do that. Possible prints. But I simply couldn’t wait to show you,” he confessed.

“Wonderful,” Willa leaned forward. “It looks like it must be the flashlight, all right. But where on earth did you find it?”

“That’s the wonderful part,” Daggett’s laugh was self-conscious, “I can’t say that I did.” He placed the pillowcase on the ground at his feet and sat down. “It simply appeared on the seat of my car.”

“I beg your pardon?” Willa asked.

“There it was when I came out after dinner. Could have been there all day,” Daggett opened his hand and pointed toward the light again. “There it was, large as life, sitting by itself on the passenger’s side.”

“But who? Why?” Willa puzzled.

“I have no idea.”

“No idea?” It was Sabra Jane’s turn to express surprise.

“That’s right, none,” Daggett eyes met Sabra Jane’s.

Willa interrupted, “Where were you when it happened?”

“At home, eating dinner. First real meal Elizabeth and I have had in some time,” Daggett mused. “Sat down at noon and probably didn’t finish until shortly before two.” He glanced at Edith, “I’m sure the person who put the torch there wiped off any finger prints, but you just can’t be too careful about things like that. I have to check it out.”

“Of course,” Edith smiled, “it was thoughtless of me to try to touch it. I’ve read Agatha Christie, after all.”

Daggett laughed, and Little John, whose silence had become notable, finally asked, “Who’s Christie?”

Daggett laughed again. “I was on my way after dinner to pay visits to Rob Feeney and young James, but when I opened my car door, there was this torch. It took me a minute to realize what it was.”

They sat in silence, everyone looking at the bag with the torch. Daggett accepted a cookie from the dish but shook his head at lemonade. Little John helped himself to both, ignoring for the moment that it was Sabra Jane who passed the cookies.

“I checked for footprints, of course,” Daggett chewed for a moment then shrugged. “Nothing there. Gravel driveway must have obscured them,” he swung his foot across the grass as though covering his tracks. “Elizabeth saw no one, and Jennifer was gone. So I retrieved an old pillowcase and got ready to take the torch into the office. But I wanted you to see it first. Then I remembered that young James might actually be here. And then Little John flagged me. And then, well, here we are.”

“Yes, well,” Little John moved his body toward the front of his chair.

All three women turned to look at him.

“You do think this might be the torch you saw last night?” Daggett’s question recaptured their attention.

“It certainly looks like it could be,” Edith responded.

“I agree,” Willa nodded.

“Perhaps if we saw it lit at night,” Edith glanced over at Seven Days Work, “we would be certain.”

“Yes. Good idea,” Willa shifted toward the front of her chair.

“Only a few fellows use a torch like this,” Daggett advised, “almost all of them on their boats.”

“Wonderful,” Sabra Jane cried out, “you’ll get him now.”

Daggett gave his full attention to Sabra Jane for the first time that afternoon.

“I didn’t expect to find you here,” Daggett’s smile remained pleasant. “When did you arrive?”

“T
HANKS AGAIN FOR
the vote of confidence,” Sabra Jane hugged them both and slid behind the wheel of her Reo, “and for the lemonade, as well.”

“Think nothing of it. It’s we who owe you,” Willa swept her hand toward the partial wall where sprigs of sedum and herbs already rode jauntily among the rocks, their roots taking hold.

Willa and Edith watched as the Reo followed Roy Sharkey’s wagon, then swung around it and disappeared into the trees. Sharkey had promised that he and young James would deliver the final loads the next afternoon. Daggett’s Chevrolet, bearing the flashlight and Little John Winslow, had already driven off.

From the Red Trail

“That putrid, puffed-up pouch of foul air,” Willa growled on the way back to their chairs.

Edith picked up the lemonade jug and several glasses. Willa retrieved the tray.

“Why Constable Daggett ever allows Little John Winslow to tag along, I’ll never understand.”

Edith held her peace. Willa had been in and out of sorts all afternoon. She was out again, Edith surmised. And sympathized. Little John Winslow was an impossible man.

“Detective Winslow, reporting for duty,” Willa tut-tutted and pulled herself to attention, adding a mock salute. Then she glared at the chair in which Sabra Jane Briggs had been sitting, “You. You with the red hair. You’re the guilty party. Must be. No one else here with red hair, is there.”

Edith laughed.

“Logic, deduction. That’s the ticket,” Willa harrumphed and grabbed Edith’s arm. “I demand you arrest this red-haired heathen, Constable,” Willa pointed to the empty chair and shook Edith’s arm. “Well, sir, what are you waiting for?”

“Exactly like,” Edith applauded Willa’s performance.

“It’s nice to know such intellect is on the loose,” Willa began to chuckle, “don’t you think?”

“We should always be so safe,” Edith felt almost like giggling.

D
AGGETT
found it mildly amusing that Little John’s mustache made several violent leaps, almost as if his lips had gone into spasm.

“Why ask me where I was?” Little John’s mustache made another leap. He placed great emphasis on the
I
.

Daggett pressed his foot on the accelerator.

“Why don’t you ask the witch where she was?” Little John squared his shoulders against the seat. “Or James where he was? Young James has one of those shirts, I heard you say so.”

Daggett looked forward to the moment he could drop Little John off at Tinsley’s Pharmacy.

“Well?”

“I will ask James, you needn’t worry,” Daggett spoke with just enough volume to carry over the noise of the Chevrolet’s engine. “But I’m asking you now. Routine, remember? Means we ask everyone everything.”

Daggett momentarily considered going into Tinsley’s himself to purchase some aspirin. He should never have given Little John a ride in the first place. Daggett patted his pocket for the reassuring pipe. Little John seemed so contrite, almost remorseful when Daggett stopped the car. He said he wanted to go along, he didn’t care where, he wanted someone to talk to.

Then Little John got in and said nothing. Daggett shook his head. Nothing at all. Except that nonsense he spouted before the ladies. Daggett’s hand reached again for his pipe. Perhaps the aspirin could wait. He should waste no time checking out Jackson’s Drygoods and the Boat Supply at Seal Cove. One of them must sell oversized torches. And he still had to drop by Rob Feeney’s office and swing over to visit with young James. It would be another long day.

Daggett glanced again at Little John, “I’m waiting for your answer.”

“I wasn’t anywhere special.”

Little John actually squirmed. Daggett was amazed.

“I was home and in bed by ten,” Little John turned to face Daggett fully. “Ask Anna if you don’t believe me.”

“And this afternoon?”

“When you saw me,” Little John returned his eyes to the road, “I was heading toward Tinsley’s from McDaniels’. Eva had asked me to stop by after noon. Had something she wanted me to look at,” he turned his head away.

“What time did you get there?”

“Must have been half-past one.”

“When did you leave?”

“Soon after. You saw me.”

“When did you leave home to go to McDaniels’?”

“I didn’t leave home,” Little John glanced out the window on his side of the car again, “I wasn’t there. Had some biscuits at the bakery.”

“You had a large breakfast?”

“If you must know,” Little John swung around to face Daggett again, his cheeks bearing odd purple splotches, “Anna isn’t speaking to me.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“This morning she refused to cook my breakfast,” the words flew out of Little John’s mouth. “I don’t know what’s gotten into that woman.”

Daggett kept his eyes on the road.

“Can’t anybody understand women anyway,” Little John shrugged, “ever since Eve. Adam sure never understood her. If he had, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” he gestured broadly.

Daggett felt a smile rise. He suppressed it.

“I don’t know why I try,” Little John sighed.

B
Y
the time Daggett returned to his office from Seal Cove, it was ten minutes past six. He had already missed Feeney, and he had promised young James he wouldn’t stop by until well after six. He could afford half an hour or so for his pipe. Time enough, he hoped, to go through the day’s mail and check back through his notes. Too many places sold oversized torches, Daggett placed the notebook on his desk. And too many people bought them.

A quick glance at the pile on his desk suggested that his mail contained the usual assortment of government correspondence. Daggett’s occasional secretary, Jane Hobson, had apparently come in to straighten up the office and open his mail. She left it stacked to the right of his blotter.

Daggett let himself sink deep into his chair. He undid the buttons on his jacket and placed his notebook on the blotter. Then he took out his tobacco pouch and pipe. No sense rushing, no matter how short the time.

Daggett raised his feet to the desktop and tamped tobacco firmly into the bowl, but when he reached for the tin of matches, which he had taken out of his pocket and placed next to the ashtray, he noticed the sheet on the bottom of the mail. It was a telegram. New Bedford, Massachusetts. He began there.

Not one John T. Brown in all of New Bedford. No such customer at Chin’s Chinese Laundry on West 13th Street.

Chin’s did, however, do shirts on a regular basis for a John Thomas Bush. White shirts with French cuffs, Daggett drew deep on his pipe. Chin’s was concerned about this Mr. Bush. He had dropped off his last order Saturday, June twenty-ninth and never returned. The order he picked up on the twenty-ninth contained six starched shirts and a navy blue suit. Daggett opened his notebook and reached for a pen.

John Thomas Bush’s clothes were expensive. His suits carried a Boston tailor’s label, Daggett began to place check marks next to parallel items in his notebook. The physical description of John Thomas Bush matched precisely what Daggett knew of John T. Brown, Daggett expelled the smoke from his lungs in a concentrated stream.

Mr. Bush had no criminal record in New Bedford, but he was well known to the police. A girlfriend had disappeared. The police investigated but had never been able to pin anything on him. Bush might be an alias. He divided his time between New Bedford and Detroit, Daggett found himself breaking into a grin.

The New Bedford police thought Bush a gambler and probable bootlegger. Rum customer, the telegram concluded. Wry sense of humor, the lieutenant from New Bedford. With a wide grin, Daggett placed the yellow sheet exactly in the center of his blotter and ran his hand over it several times, as though ironing out wrinkles.

Whatever else he did this evening, he would take time to fire a telegram back to New Bedford asking for everything they had on John Thomas Bush. He would send new telegrams to New York and Boston to see what they had on a Mr. John Thomas Bush. Maybe if he made their jobs easier, they would come up with something after all. And he would ask Doc McCauley to get what prints he could from the corpse. The Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington, DC might be able to find a match. If Bush was an alias like Brown, the FBI could tell him. Daggett had never had occasion to use them before, but he understood the FBI now had the best records in the world.