Death at the Tavern Read online

  Haley stared back with disapproval. She was beginning to miss the former chief medical examiner immensely. However, though she preferred a strong Italian coffee, her time in London had conditioned her to enjoy tea as well.

  Dr. Guthrie’s mood cheered once Haley delivered the tea. She was about to leave the man to his musings, and what looked like the crossword puzzle in the Boston Daily Record, when her thoughts returned to Agnes O’Reilly, known by her associates as Snowflake.

  “Is there anything in the paper about last night’s death?” she asked.

  Dr. Guthrie’s bushy eyebrows inched up. “The woman with the gunshot wound?”

  “Yes.”

  The doctor grunted. “Not that I saw.”

  Haley was both pleased and annoyed. Pleased that Miss Hawke had kept her promise. For some reason that surprised her. Her actions didn’t line up with Haley’s impression of the hardworking, driven journalist.

  Even so, Haley couldn’t help feeling annoyed that the shooting death of a blue-collar man was considered news, making it into the evening papers, while the shooting death of a “blue-collar” woman was not. Sam Hawke had kept her word and hadn’t reported it, but she wasn’t the only newshound around.

  Haley sipped her tea as she took in the morgue. The surgical table was empty. She called to Dr. Guthrie who could hear her through his opened office door. “Should I prepare the body for the postmortem?”

  Through the glass, Haley watched Dr. Guthrie work his lips. “I imagine you are speaking of the female that came in last night?”

  Obviously. “Yes, doctor.”

  “Whatever for? Cause of death is evident. Why waste taxpayers’ money on a corpse destined to be buried in the paupers’ graveyard?”

  Haley nearly choked on her tea. “Because the woman was murdered! An autopsy might provide clues to the killer.”

  Dr. Guthrie harrumphed. “I doubt the mayor cares about that.”

  Okay, first clue to how Dr. Guthrie got this job. He was friendly with the mayor.

  “Well, I care!”

  Dr. Guthrie seemed to be considering Haley carefully—she could practically see the wheels turning in his head thinking that the mayor was one thing, but he had to work with this hysterical woman.

  “Very well,” he finally said. “You may proceed with the autopsy of Agnes O’Reilly, but only because we’re not presently busy, and I wouldn’t want a disagreement to grow between us unnecessarily.”

  Haley’s lip tugged at on one corner. She had the feeling that Mrs. Guthrie had been a formidable lady.

  Haley donned her lab coat, opened the refrigerated cabinet marked O’Reilly, pulled the chilled corpse out, and pushed the trolley to the surgical table. After washing her hands with soap in the nearby sink, she carefully shifted Miss O’Reilly from the trolley to the table then turned on the electric lamp that hung overhead.

  She started the routine: Y incision, examination of the vital organs, collection of the stomach contents.

  The uterus appeared enlarged. Haley reined in her emotions as she made the incision to open it up. She wasn’t surprised by what she found there.

  Later, once she’d completed the task, Haley reported to Dr. Guthrie, “Miss O’Reilly was pregnant.”

  “I suppose that happens from time to time in her profession,” was all he said.

  Haley thought of the other girl, Primrose, who was also expecting. Surely Madame Mercier taught her girls about birth control? There were options available for women nowadays.

  The morgue telephone rang, and when Dr. Guthrie saw that Haley was in no position to pick it up, he grunted and strode to the apparatus himself. He had a way of walking that suggested there were unsavory obstacles in his path, and it required lifting his knees unusually high. Haley almost chuckled out loud.

  “The detective wants the report on the Marchesi fellow,” Dr. Guthrie stated. “You don’t mind running it over, do you?”

  The police station shared a backyard border with the hospital, and wasn’t so far that Dr. Guthrie couldn’t make the jaunt. But Haley was happy to do it. She needed fresh air and a chance to clear her head.

  The police officer at the front counter directed Haley to Detective Cluney’s desk. On it was a telephone, a stack of papers, an ashtray due to be emptied, and a framed photograph of his family—a wife and four kids. The detective set a half-empty coffee mug down when he saw Haley approach.

  “Ah, Dr. Higgins,” he said. “No doubt our new chief medical examiner’s not keen on the heat and humidity. My guess is his visits will be more infrequent than the former ME’s.”

  “I suspect you might be right about that,” Haley said. She handed over the manila envelope.

  Detective Cluney perused the contents. “Ah-ha. As I expected. A bullet killed him.”

  Haley cocked a head at the detective’s snide tone. “But which bullet?”

  The detective clipped the tip of a cigar, clamped it between dry lips as he lit it, and blew smoke out the side of his mouth, away from where Haley stood: a courtesy she appreciated.

  “Like we determined at the scene, there was no bullet casing found in the teahouse, however, since we last spoke, a new witness has come forward. A bum camped out across the street. Says a man in a long brown trench coat entered the Bell in Hand just minutes before a backfired, and then exited seconds afterward.” He inhaled and then tapped ash into the ashtray. “Can’t say how reliable his word is.”

  “It’s interesting that both he and the waiter mentioned a car backfiring.”

  The detective extinguished his half-smoked cigar. “Cars backfire all the time.”

  “Have you learned anything more about the victim?” Haley asked. She knew her questions about the case were beyond the scope of her jurisdiction as the forensic pathologist—she was there to give information not ask for it—but she and Detective Cluney had developed a semi-comfortable professional relationship over the years. Haley believed he respected her input and opinions since she’d helped him solve more than one case in the past.

  The detective waved at an empty wooden chair. “You might as well sit down, Dr. Higgins.”

  Haley accepted his offer, and the detective continued.

  “Stefano Marchesi was what you might call the black sheep of the family. Broke ties with their Mob dealings, determined to make his own way.”

  “Interesting,” Haley said. “Here’s a man who could have anything he wanted as far as earthly comforts and pleasures go, and yet he chooses to make it on his own? He either had upstanding moral character, or there’s more to the story.”

  “I’d bet on more to the story,” Detective Cluney said, then quickly added, “hypothetically of course.”

  “So what did Mr. Marchesi do to make his living?”

  “Fisherman.”

  Haley studied Detective Cluney’s face. Nowadays, a man who claimed to fish, usually supplemented his income by rum running.

  “Did he have his own boat?”

  “Indeed, he did.”

  “‘Curiouser and curiouser,’” Haley mused.

  Detective Cluney’s thick forehead buckled. “What?”

  “It’s a quote from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,” Haley explained.

  “Bah,” Detective Cluney said dismissively. He picked up his discarded cigar butt and relit it. “I only read the papers.”

  Haley waited a moment, hoping Detective Cluney would ask about the death of the girl from the brothel, but when he didn’t, she said, “I performed the autopsy on the victim from last night.”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah. Let me guess. She died from a gunshot wound to the head.”

  Haley huffed. “Is that necessary? Autopsies can reveal more than just the obvious.”

  “My apologies, Dr. Higgins. What did you discover?”

  “Well,” Haley pushed a stray curl behind her ear. “She was with child.”

  “Another one?”

  “You mean another of Madame Mercier’s girls or another child?”
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  “Another prostitute knocked up.”

  “Yes,” Haley said, ignoring the detective’s brashness. “It could be motive.”

  “You think someone in a position of power might’ve been the father?”

  “It’s possible.” Haley wished she had the photographs Samantha Hawke had taken. She didn’t know what she could glean from them, but something niggled at her subconscious.

  Detective Cluney stared at the yellowed, nicotine-stained ceiling, “Maybe. But not provable.” He shrugged a thick shoulder and brought the conversation to an end by adding, “Thanks for dropping the report by.”

  Haley stood and smoothed the wrinkles out of her summer dress suit. “You’re welcome. Have a good day, Detective.”

  Outside, Haley adjusted the brim of her hat to block the sun more effectively. Instead of walking toward the morgue, she headed in the direction of her parked car.

  7

  Bina had gotten up early to bake the rugelach, despite Samantha’s insistence that the night before would be fine.

  “Feh!” Bina had exclaimed at the dinner table the previous evening. “It’s important that my rugelach are served fresh. Always the younger generation wants to take short cuts, take the easy way. The schmaltzy twenties made you soft! And now that times are hard again—”

  With Bina, a simple yes or no would never do.

  However, the morning smelled brighter and more promising with the mouth-watering sweet aroma of rugelach filling their small apartment.

  “Mommy.”

  Talia stood in the hallway in too-small pajamas and wiped sleep out of her eyes with her little fist.

  “Good morning, sweet one.”

  Samantha couldn’t resist scooping her up into her arms. “Oof, you’re getting so big, I can barely lift you!”

  Talia snuggled her nose into her mother’s neck and Samantha breathed in deeply the smell of her young daughter.

  Talia’s breath tickled Samantha’s ear. “Can I have rugelach for breakfast?”

  “Of course.”

  Talia wiggled out of Samantha’s arms and raced for the kitchen. Samantha burst out laughing as she watched her go. “Such a wild thing, you are.”

  Later, in the newsroom, Samantha immediately had the attention of her co-workers when they realized what it was that she carried on the platter in her arms.

  The anticipation was enough to make shy Max speak aloud. “You made rugelach?”

  Samantha felt a little bit guilty when once again she never corrected Max’s assumption.

  “Doll!” Johnny said with a big grin. “I smelled something delicious the minute the door opened, and this time I’m not talking about you.”

  “You’re such a tease, Johnny.”

  Samantha placed the tray of pastries by the coffee maker and removed the tea towel.

  “Wait a minute,” Johnny protested. “Those are my rugelach. You and I had a deal, sweet pea.”

  Samantha teased back. “Do you mean to say you won’t share? The boys might end up fighting you for them, and I’m not sure you’d win.”

  The boys had indeed gathered around and pushed Johnny about playfully.

  “You eat all that,” Freddy Hall said, “and you’ll get fat as a hog.”

  Another jumped in. “And sick too!”

  “Fine,” Johnny said, feigning defeat. “I’ll share.”

  Samantha sat at her desk and watched the fellows, who resembled a group of hogs around the feeding trough, and she couldn’t help but laugh.

  “What in Hades is going on?”

  Silence filled the room at Archie August’s bellow, and they scampered back to their desks, wiping crumbs off their faces as they went.

  The editor’s beady eyes landed on the near-empty tray and spied the lone rugelach left among the remnants.

  “Whose birthday?” he said, then walked over and claimed the last pastry. “Never mind,” he mumbled with his mouth full. “Just get back to work.”

  He pivoted heavily to face Samantha. “Miss Hawke, my office.”

  Samantha’s pulse jumped. What did the boss want with her? She patted her blond locks and wished she had a moment to apply more lipstick, but that was something she could never do in the company of men.

  “Mr. August?” she said as she followed him. Mr. August wasn’t sentimental, and his office was free of personal photographs or items of comfort. The walls were bare, though he could boast a window. Samantha wondered if the glass was ever cleaned and could hardly make out the streetscape below due to the buildup of grime. Small piles of papers, a variety of pens, and a well-used coffee mug littered the editor’s desk. A partially smoked cigar rested in an overfull ashtray.

  “Take a seat, Miss Hawke.”

  “Is something wrong?” Samantha mentally assessed her work and nothing contrary came to mind.

  “Not at all. I wanted to commend you on your piece about the tavern death. You didn’t mind tagging along with Johnny? I know it’s muggy outside.”

  “Not at all,” Samantha said automatically, then her thoughts backtracked. You didn’t mind tagging along with Johnny?

  That son of a gun! Some deal he’d made! And a fool out of her, traipsing to work all thankful for Johnny’s offer when it had been Mr. August’s offer all along. And a tray of rugelach to boot!

  “The Globe has a female reporter now,” she heard Mr. August say when she’d tethered her anger. “I thought I should give you a chance.”

  Aha. Mr. August meant to keep up with the Joneses.

  “I appreciate it, sir,” Samantha said. “And I won’t let you down.”

  “I’m sure. This means you’re free to go out on the beat with the guys or on your own.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “But you’re still in charge of the ladies’ pages.”

  Samantha figured as much. She returned to her desk without giving Johnny a sideways glance. Two could play at his game.

  She reviewed her files. She was working on stories about the glamorous Joan Crawford, and how to sew a dress using a bias cut. And the piece on Dr. Higgins. Thinking about the assistant medical examiner reminded Samantha about the photos now hidden between her mattresses. She’d spent an hour studying them but for the life of her, could find nothing that could point to the killer. Dr. Higgins had been adamant that the photographs be taken before the body was whisked away. What was it that she’d seen? Or that she thought she’d seen?

  Samantha should drop the photographs off today, but she wanted one more opportunity to look at them first, this time in the light of day, and she wouldn’t have that chance until she took her lunch break. She normally ate at the desk. With Talia in school, it meant only Bina was at the apartment and, well, they didn’t exactly enjoy one another’s company.

  Then there was Archie August and his newfound faith in her. She knew she’d get sacked if he ever found out she had them and hadn’t brought them to the paper. Prostitute or not, if it was a potential lead, he wanted it.

  Samantha worked on the ladies’ pieces until she was ready to go. Johnny approached as she was putting on her coat.

  “Are you heading to the wharves?”

  “What?”

  “August, he told you, didn’t he?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Samantha said stiffly.

  “Ah, don’t be sore. All the guys appreciated the rugelach, not just me. And besides, you want the guys to like having you around, right? You know Freddy’s not the only nut needin’ crackin’.”

  Incredulous, Samantha stared at the infuriating man. “What I want is to be taken seriously.”

  “We do,” Johnny insisted. “I do. Look here, why don’t we go to the docks together.” He raised his palms. “Not that you need protecting or anything like, just you know, two heads are better than one.”

  Samantha pretended to consider his offer while congratulating herself on getting in on Johnny’s lead while he thought Mr. August had given it to her.

  “Okay, fine. B
ut you’re driving.”

  Johnny jiggled his keys in the air. “Whatever you say, boss.”

  * * *

  Haley didn’t know what she had expected to find, but her curiosity—morbid, perhaps—drew her back to the scene of the crime. The one at the Bell in Hand. Traffic moved slowly down Union Street as Haley followed a white van advertising Coca-Cola in large red script that was inching along ahead of her. Traffic could be bad this time of day, especially on the busier Hanover Street they were merging onto. The slow pace allowed her to take a good look at the damaged windows, several covered in sheets of plywood while another was being replaced by three men who belonged to the work truck parked nearby.

  Once parked, Haley searched for the homeless man opposite the tavern whom Detective Cluney had mentioned, but could find no evidence of him.

  She half expected the heavy wooden door to the tavern to be locked, but it opened with a slight complaint from the hinges.

  There were a few customers seated at a table near the door, but the back of the room where the killing had occurred was roped off. She strolled toward the barrier and shuffled underneath the rope as if she had every right to do it.

  Someone had swept and mopped up the blood and Haley silently groaned. At least she had witnessed the police photographer taking plenty of photographs. If she asked nicely, Detective Cluney might let her see them.

  The window with the crucial bullet hole was one of the ones boarded up, and Haley took another look at the crater. She confirmed for her own sake the direction of the glass shards. The rim of the one from the bullet that had killed Stefano Marchesi moved outward. The bullet had definitely been shot from inside. She compared it with the others, and the directional position of the shards pointed inward. Those shots came from outside. There was no way Detective Cluney could reasonably deny the evidence.

  Haley studied the floor and bent to look under the table. She examined the chair, then sighed. She’d hoped to discover something new, but it appeared to be a waste of time.

  “Hey! You’re not supposed to be there.”

  The voice belonged to the waiter, Mr. Tobin. He stood on the other side of the bar, hands hidden behind the counter.