The Bachelor Girl's Guide to Murder (20 page)

When the appointed hour arrived, Gavin presented Jem with an ostentatious bouquet of lilies and helped her into his car. Merinda pretended not to see the look Jem shot her as they left.

Ray arrived not long after. “In trousers this evening, I see,” he said to Merinda.

“And you're all in black.”

“I couldn't very well wear my street clothes to a break-in,” he said with a smirk. “I've got to look the part.” But then he turned serious. “I still don't like that you're using Jem as a trap.”

“Jealousy doesn't become you, DeLuca. Come on.”

As they stopped under a streetlamp, she revealed to him that her walking stick was, in fact, a crowbar. She rapped it over the palm of her right hand.

Ray chuckled. “Merinda.” As if the name itself defined her endless surprises.

“And these.” She jangled keys. “Picklocks I got in Kensington Market.”

Ray inspected them, sure she couldn't have acquired them by legal means. “So, with these gadgets and our wits we will break into the
Globe
office in pursuit of… what, exactly?”

“We'll know it when we see it. Come on. We have hours. Jemima's using her feminine wiles or something.”

Ray nodded. His skin was still crawling as he thought of the way that brute had pulled Jem so tightly to himself at the Policeman's Ball.

Merinda waved a hand before his eyes. “Are you with me, DeLuca?”

He looked her up and down, took in everything from her bowler hat to her men's shoes. “You know you could get arrested at any moment.” He said. “And where would that leave me?”

“Oh, hush. In moments like these I don't know why we let men into the operation in the first place!”

“
You
asked me!” Ray said emphatically, then gave a resigned sigh. “There's a Victoria Street entrance we can use. Off Agnes. The door that leads to the presses should be open. Then it's just a matter of sneaking around to the offices.”

A short trolley ride later, they were standing before the
Globe
offices.

It was easy to get in, as Ray had predicted. He delighted at the smells tickling his nostrils. A
real
newspaper! Not the silly old
Hog
drenched with the tang of old hops, barley, and bitters. He had half a mind to break from Merinda and explore.

Merinda reached into her breast pocket and extracted an electric torch she had purchased with her Christmas allowance money.
*
They used the light to guide their steps toward Gavin Crawley's office. Ray kept watch as Merinda used her new lockset. She got it on the fourth try and, though it was hard to see through the veil of dark, he could sense her Cheshire grin stretching wide.

They explored the office, shuffling through the desk and behind the photographs and framed pictures adorning the room, careful to leave everything in order. Surely there was something here that would prove their suspicion that there was more to the
Globe
's absence of the murder reports than met the eye. They neared a broad, black cabinet. It was here that the crowbar-walking stick came into play. They creaked the shelves open, revealing several files.

Ray and Merinda splayed them on Gavin's neat desk. They thumbed through the files until Merinda's fingers were as black as Ray's.

“Cracker jacks! Here we go!”

“What?”

“Corktown. A whole file on Corktown.”

Reports, unpublished photographs, scribbles, scrawls, and typeface. Red-blotted edits and stories never printed. Theories and quotes. Police reports.

Ray and Merinda skimmed the bylines of the writers of the various articles. Several of these reporters were well known. And none of the articles had been penned by Gavin Crawley.

“The biggest story in Toronto,” Ray mused, “and its star journalist lets everything rot in a filing cabinet. Not only do the stories not get published, he himself didn't write about it at all.”

Merinda's eyes glowed eerily in the ribbon of torchlight. “It looks like Waverley did his job as editor. There was a big story, and he covered it. He assigned his writers to document every aspect of the murders and the investigation. But they never ran.” She showed him a sheet that appeared to be a sort of roster, laying out who would go where and when and how to report on the murders and the police actions.

Ray's eyes narrowed. “It's so organized. This is good reporting.”

“Too bad it never saw the light of day.”

They halted at the sound of shuffling feet in the corridor beyond. Merinda clicked off the light and stacked the papers and photographs messily into the folder. Ray grabbed Merinda's shoulder and pushed her down beside him behind the desk. Merinda impulsively snatched the folder, popping up like a jack-in-the-box before Ray pulled her down again.

They crouched, listening, as the door clicked open and a slight breeze whispered through the air. From their position beneath the desk, they could see a man's feet stepping carefully. They heard the cabinet shuffle and jangle. Next the papers were rustled about.

“Would be nice if I could see anything,” the man's voice said.

Ray knew that voice. He touched Merinda's shoulder and mouthed,
Tony.

Another man spoke. “This is what you call keeping an eye on the place, Valari?”

Merinda and Ray started simultaneously. Merinda kept her hand clutched on Ray's sleeve.

“I swear,” Tony said, “there was no one here before me. I've been standing in the blasted cold for three hours.”

“On Yonge?”

“Yes, on Yonge.”

“So you've had no one casing Victoria!” The voice seethed anger.

“I can't be everywhere,” said Tony.

The second man growled. “Didn't you find it yet?”

“I can't find it.”

“A whole file? In Crawley's office? It can't be that hard to find.” The unrecognizable voice growled. “Well, we have to clean this up.”

“He made us come here on account of his having a prior commitment and not wanting to wait one more night. He can clean it up himself.”

“What's so urgent anyways?”

“Maybe he's starting to realize that some of this might creep up on him sooner than later.”

Ray and Merinda heard the cabinet close and saw the yellow light of a lantern stream the perimeter of the desk. Finally, Tony and his companion agreed that “someone” was not going to be happy, and they clicked the door shut behind them.

Ray and Merinda exhaled. Ray slowly rose to ensure they were again alone.

The filing cabinet was in shambles and the desktop had been cleared of papers. “Looks like you snitched what they needed just in time,” Ray said quietly.

“At least we had the decency to be neat about it,” Merinda scoffed, noting the shambles and state of disarray.

Ray leafed through the remaining files, typed pieces, and headlines. “As neat as we could be.”

“Let's go,” Merinda said, tucking the folder under her arm.

Outside and safely out of sight, they took relieved gulps of air.

“Well,” said Merinda.

“Well,” said Ray.

“Well, now we know for sure that Tony is involved,” Merinda said.

“I like Gavin Crawley even less now,” Ray said. “Obviously they are working for him. They are hiding everything they'd uncovered about the murders, and I am not sure why.” He shook his head. “Do you think the other man was Forbes?”

“Could be.”

Ray whistled lowly. “If Tony and Forbes are affiliated with Gavin, then something isn't right.”

“Jem will be finished with her outing soon,” Merinda said. “We'll tell her all about this as soon as she gets back.”

“At the Bachelor Girl detective office,” Ray mused as Mrs. Malone took his coat.

Merinda tugged her blonde curls from under her bowler and shook her head in front of the sitting room fire, asking Mrs. Malone for Turkish coffee and sandwiches. “You drink coffee, DeLuca?”

Ray nodded.

The door creaked open, and Jemima came in. She worked the gloves off her hands and draped her coat over the settee.

“Ray!” she said, not seeing Merinda at all. “How was your sleuthing? Did you find our murderer?”

“We're on the trail, I think,” said Merinda. She handed Jem the folder, and she and Ray tripped over each other to relate all the details as Jem leafed through the papers inside. “Thanks for keeping Crawley occupied. His thugs were there, but we beat them to it.”

Mrs. Malone interrupted and smiled down at Ray as she poured him coffee. The side of his mouth turned up an inch toward his cheek.

“Thank you,” he said.

“These sandwiches are watercress and tuna, and these are lemon
curd,” she said, indicating the tray she'd placed in front of them. “Which would you prefer?”

“Lemon.” He picked one up and popped it in his mouth.

Jem watched him taste it, and something magical happened. His face broke into a broad, uninhibited grin, a smile that could stop clocks and tell the robins it was time to sing. Jem's breath caught in her chest. Certain that Merinda wasn't paying attention, she dared to prolong her look. That smile lit his entire face. If lemon curd got a smile like that, she'd commence keeping a bucketload of it in the pantry!

But all too soon the smile vanished as Ray studied the papers on the table. “Your beau,” he said to Jem pointedly after a swallow, “had all the
Globe
articles on the Corktown case.”

“He's not my beau.” Jem followed Ray's eyes to the papers on the table. “What does it all say?”

“That they assume whoever did the deed is long gone.”

“Gone from where? And how?”

“Listen here.” Ray grabbed another sandwich and picked up a sheet of paper from the file. “ ‘The one thing Toronto can count on is the efforts of its police service and its nearly spotless track record. Chief of Police Henry Tipton, when approached by our reporter, affirmed that he retained his utmost faith in the department, despite this most grievous open case.' ” Ray stopped and popped a little sandwich in his mouth.

“But then they just washed their hands of it?” Jem looked at Merinda, who was rifling through the folder. “Isn't there some sort of journalistic integrity that dictates things
have
to have coverage? Especially something as big as a murder?”

“Two murders!” Ray said. “But Jem, editors have control and if they don't want to publish something, they don't have to. They can choose to cover other stories. In this case, the editor did want to cover this story, and the articles were written. But someone above the editor made sure they never ran. And they all ended up in a folder in Gavin Crawley's office.”

Jem was puzzled. “So Toronto's biggest newspaper just decided to leave Corktown out of it? For what reason?”

“For this reason!” Merinda said suddenly. At the very bottom of the file, stuck between two sheets of paper, a graph had caught her eye. She fished it out and laid it on the table. “It would seem,” she said, her eyebrows rising, “Gavin Crawley owes certain people a large sum of money.”