Death on Hanover Page 9

  “Dr. Higgins, you’re so sensible.”

  Sarcastic or sincere, Haley couldn’t tell, and quite honestly, she didn’t want to know.

  Samantha reached for the door handle, then froze, inhaling sharply.

  “What’s the matter?” Haley asked. Then she followed Samantha’s gaze to a man leaning against the red-brick wall of the newspaper building. His right knee was bent with the foot of his worn leather shoe pressed against the bricks, a straw boater covered his eyes, while a lit cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. Haley had never met Seth Rosenbaum before, had never seen a picture, but she knew without a doubt it was he who glared in Samantha’s direction.

  “He’s changed,” Samantha said. “He was always a scoundrel, but I’d never been . . .” Samantha stopped and stared at her hands.

  Haley finished for her. “Afraid?”

  Samantha didn’t answer. She pulled the handle, pushed the door open, and stepped out.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Haley asked.

  Samantha shook her head. “It’s not necessary.”

  Haley didn’t drive off immediately, even though staying was obviously an intrusive effort to spy on a personal moment. She didn’t trust Mr. Rosenbaum and worried about Samantha’s safety. She would wait until Samantha went inside.

  Haley couldn’t hear what they said to each other, but from the look on Seth’s sour face, he wasn’t happy to see his wife. Samantha appeared to stand up to him, and Haley silently cheered her on. When Seth grabbed Samantha’s arm, Haley pulled on her door handle. She didn’t know what she would do to break it up between them—make a scene, press on her car horn?

  Her hand rested on the side of her purse, on the outline of her gun.

  But none of the options that flew through her mind in that split second were necessary. Samantha jerked out of Seth’s grip and ran inside. Seth, wisely, didn’t follow her.

  Haley sighed. She felt deep sorrow for her friend. If she’d thought her life was hard while Seth had been missing, it was most definitely going to get worse now that he had been found.

  The nerve of that man! Samantha thought. Demanding I should quit my job! On the spot just like that?

  Ignoring the cheery receptionist, Samantha fumed as she took quick strides straight to her desk. She sat in a huff, not removing her hat or gloves, just letting her messenger bag and camera case thud to the floor by her feet. Her eyes blurred as she stared at the typewriter, the last sheet of paper she’d rolled into it still waiting.

  What was she going to do? Seth had all the rights, all the leverage, and apparently, a good amount of money. At least that was what he claimed. Samantha didn’t even want to know where that money had come from; it most certainly hadn’t been acquired legally.

  Seth claimed he had a job, but he wouldn’t say what, only that she was to trust him.

  “Remember our vows, baby. You have to obey me.”

  Samantha huffed.

  She’d fight him on that—she would’ve fought him on that—if it weren’t for what he said next. He’d take Talia and Bina and leave Boston without her.

  Samantha couldn’t help herself. She lifted her gloved hands to her face and cried.

  “See?” Fred Hall howled from the other side of the pit. “This is why I say no women in the pit. She’s crying. This job is meant for men. A reporter needs backbone. You never know what you’re going to see or what you’ll have to do.”

  “Shut up!” Samantha glared at the sports man through her tears. “I’ve seen more blood and gore and have been in more danger working at this paper in the last six months than you’ve seen in sixteen years! Nose bleeds on the ball field don’t count as gore!”

  Johnny, who Samantha only now noticed, slowly clapped.

  “Just admit it that you love the dame,” Fred said, sneering.

  Samantha could take no more. She headed for the ladies’ room, a small single-stall lavatory, where she could have privacy. She brushed past a bewildered Mr. August, who furthered her humiliation by bellowing into the pit, “What’s the matter with her?”

  16

  Haley left Samantha, stopped at a sandwich shop to order three ham and cheddar sandwiches, and drove directly to the morgue. She’d been gone all morning. Providing lunch was a goodwill gesture.

  It would’ve worked if it hadn’t been for the telephone call from Detective Cluney that came in just as she walked through the door.

  “Just in time,” Dr. Guthrie blustered.

  Haley set the paper lunch bags on the counter by the coffee machine. “What’s up?”

  “Another body on Hanover. In a ditch near Battery. Same modus operandi as Keating.”

  “Are you going?” Haley wasn’t sure why she asked that. Dr. Guthrie didn’t like to be inconvenienced.

  “No. You can do it. Too damn humid for my liking.”

  A true Englishman, the weather in Boston was too damn cold, too damn hot, or too damn humid. Rainy days were acceptable but still warranted a complaint. The “pavement”, the British way to say sidewalk, was too damn slippery.

  Haley took a minute to collect her sandwich, took a large bite, then grabbed her medical kit. She stared over her shoulder at Mr. Martin. “Would you like to assist?”

  Mr. Martin snatched his and Haley’s lunch bags as he took long strides in her direction. “Love to, Doc.”

  By the time they’d traversed the long hallways of the hospital and arrived at Haley’s DeSoto, Mr. Martin had finished his lunch. He held up Haley’s bag. “Want me to drive?”

  Haley hesitated. She didn’t like to let other people drive her car, but then her stomach growled loudly. She tossed Mr. Martin the keys, and he lobbed her her lunch bag.

  “Good catch,” Mr. Martin said with a grin.

  “That was nothing,” Haley said, sliding into the passenger seat. “I played ball with three brothers. Now, do you even know how to drive?”

  “I grew up on a farm too. My pa bought one of the first motorized tractors on the market.”

  Mr. Martin worked the double-clutch system with finesse, and Haley rested easy. She dug into her sandwich.

  Detective Cluney and his officers were already at the scene. Haley spotted Officer Bell, who looked sheepish and kept his gaze averted. Jack had his back to her, preoccupied with his camera and snapping pictures. He smiled when he spotted her.

  “Hello, Dr. Higgins.”

  “Officer Thompson,” Haley returned. “Detective Cluney. What do we have here?”

  Both officers stepped aside, and Detective Cluney said, “See for yourself.”

  The body—on its side, throat cut—lacked blood pools, which pointed to movement to this location after the fact. Haley recognized the man.

  “It’s Douglas Mulryan,” she said. “The secretary at St. Stephen’s Church.” She crouched down for a closer look. “How odd that a body of a non-member of St. Stephen’s was deposited in the church and the church secretary here.”

  “Seems random, at first glance,” Detective Cluney said.

  “Who found the body?” Haley asked.

  “I did,” Officer Bell said. “Just out on the beat.”

  Convenient, Haley thought. But if Officer Bell was complicit, why would he bring the body to the attention of the police? To keep from becoming suspect himself?

  “You get around, Officer Bell,” Haley said.

  Detective Cluney eyed her keenly. “What do you mean by that?”

  “A friend and I were perusing Long Wharf at the docks earlier today, and we saw Officer Bell there.”

  Tom Bell jumped to his own defense and addressed Detective Cluney’s questioning look. “A call about suspicious persons came in, sir.”

  Haley snorted then turned it into a sneeze. “Oh, sorry. Uh, were we the suspicious persons?”

  “It is unlikely to see ladies such as yourselves there, Dr. Higgins.”

  “But surely we weren’t enticing enough to merit a call to the police department. It wasn’t like we w
ere prowling. The workers and managers there know police time is valuable and not to be wasted.”

  “Actually, now that I think about it,” Officer Bell said, “gender wasn’t mentioned.”

  Haley glanced about for Officer Harris, but he wasn’t there. She was glad to see Mr. Martin was busy taking notes. Her attention returned to the victim. There was a difference between this body and the others. Mr. Mulryan’s hands were baby-bottom soft, and from Haley’s cursory check, he didn’t sport a tattoo.

  She looked up and asked, “Can I move him?”

  Detective Cluney stared at Jack Thompson. “You done?”

  Jack nodded. “Got a full roll.”

  Haley gently turned the deceased onto his back.

  “Cause and time of death, Doctor?” Detective Cluney asked.

  “The slice to his neck is the most likely cause.” Haley checked the limbs for rigor. “Stiffness is just starting to set in. I’d say eight to ten hours.”

  “Can I check the pockets?” Detective Cluney asked.

  Haley nodded.

  The hefty detective squatted with a grunt and then fished through the dead man’s pockets. “Nothin’. Whoever dumped him, must’ve made sure they were empty.”

  Detective Cluney instructed Tom Bell to check the grounds for possible evidence, and Haley waited until the officer was out of earshot.

  Jack Thompson noticed her hesitation. “Is something wrong?”

  Haley looked at Jack and glanced at Detective Cluney. “I overheard Will Delaney threaten Mr. Mulryan.”

  “He said he was going to kill him?” Detective Cluney asked.

  “Not specifically. He said that Mr. Mulryan had two days. The threat was implied.”

  “When was this?” Jack asked.

  “Sunday evening after mass.”

  Detective Cluney worked his thick lips. “So, two days ago?”

  Haley nodded. “It looks to me as if Mr. Delaney followed through on his threat.”

  17

  To Samantha’s horror, long black streaks of mascara traced down her cheeks. She stared at her reflection, engulfed in a new wave of mortification. This was what she’d looked like while screaming her head off at Mr. Hall. No wonder they snickered behind her back.

  With her palms braced against the sink, she let her knees buckle. She had to get herself together. She was stronger than this! And smarter than them!

  Her silent rally failed to buoy her. No matter what she said or did, she couldn’t escape Seth. Even though the courts might grant her a divorce based on Seth’s blatant abandonment, the fact that he’d returned would probably be enough cause to overrule it. She’d have to prove cruelty or adultery, or possibly mental illness, but Seth wouldn’t take those accusations lying down.

  And there was always her daughter to think about. She had no way of protecting Talia from her father.

  Samantha let out a long breath, then took off her hat and gloves. She removed her hairpins and with long painted fingernails, combed through her hair and repinned it into a long bob as best as she could without a brush. After that, she turned on the taps and washed her face, but unfortunately, the spare makeup items she carried in her messenger bag had been left in the pit. She checked her pockets and sighed with relief at the discovery of an old lipstick. The surface of the Tangerine Twist was worn to almost nothing, but with her fingertip, Samantha mined enough out of the tarnished tube with her pinky finger to cover her washed-out-looking lips.

  There wasn’t much else she could do besides pin her hat back on and pull on her gloves. With her shoulders back, she headed to Mr. August’s office. There was only one choice left for her.

  She found Archie August with his usual cigar in his mouth and a plume of blue smoke circling around his head. His large desk was covered with papers and newspapers, the Boston Daily Record along with all the competitive rags. He stared up at her over his typewriter.

  “Look, Miss Hawke, we all have our bad days. Let’s just forget it and move on, huh?”

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.” Samantha stepped into the editor’s office uninvited and sat tentatively on the edge of one of the chairs that faced her boss.

  “My husband came back.”

  Archie August stilled then slowly moved the cigar from his mouth. “I thought he was dead.”

  “So did I, but believe me, he’s very much alive.”

  The editor delivered the butt of his cigar to the overfilled ashtray. “I see.” He leaned back in his chair and threaded his thick fingers over his belly.

  Samantha continued. “He doesn’t want me to work.”

  Mr. August hummed. “Yes, well, I suppose he’s got a point, now that you’re a married woman again and not a widow.”

  “I’m in the middle of a potentially big story. I’ll have to pass it on to Mr. Milwaukee.”

  “What’s the story?”

  “Illegal fight clubs moving about the city to escape detection and litigation.”

  His bushy brow jumped an inch. “How’d you stumble upon that?”

  “That body at St. Stephen’s.”

  The brow flattened. “Right. Yes, give it to Milwaukee. Fight clubs isn’t something a lady should get involved with anyway.”

  Samantha held her tongue. No point in leaving on a bad note by getting into an argument she wouldn’t win with her boss.

  “Who do you suggest I give the ladies’ pages to? I got no ladies left?”

  “Does it have to be a lady?” Samantha said.

  Mr. August grunted. “From what I’ve heard, other rags hire men to cover their fluff.”

  “Maybe Mr. Owen?” Samantha offered. The unassuming Max Owen was a gifted photographer, and Samantha suspected a keen observer. He’d probably enjoy keeping busy with the lighter side to life after covering the darker parts of humanity with Johnny.

  “Not a bad idea.” Mr. August stood and approached Samantha with an outstretched hand. “I wish you well, Miss Hawke, or, uh, should I say, Mrs. Rosenbaum. It’s been a pleasure.”

  Samantha fought back another round of tears. “Thank you, sir. The pleasure has been all mine.”

  Johnny wasn’t at his desk when Samantha returned. Ignoring the other men in the room who pretended not to notice her, she wrote Johnny a quick note and placed it and her file on Keating on his desk.

  She then addressed the room. “I’m leaving, and I won’t be returning.”

  Max Owen stared back with wide eyes. Fred Hall’s lips twitched upwards.

  “Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your team. Good luck.”

  Samantha collected her messenger bag and camera—it belonged to her and not the paper—and swallowed a hard lump as she left. She was doing the right thing for Talia.

  She was.

  18

  Samantha caught the next bus, but she didn’t go home. Before she went back to being a housewife and spending long hours fighting for territory with Bina, she had one more stop to make. She watched without seeing through the grimy window as busy Bostonians went about their business. When the bus got to the corner of Allen and Charles, she filed off with the other passengers and walked the rest of the way to the hospital.

  Saying goodbye to Haley would be hard. She’d probably say they would remain friends, but at best, they might remain friendly, should they ever have reason to see each other again. Samantha’s world in the tenements—somehow even with Seth’s boast about money, she didn’t think they’d escape living there—being a mother, wife, daughter-in-law, and following Jewish holidays, couldn’t possibly coincide with Haley’s life. They were friends because their jobs gave a commonality. Take that away, and the rest went with it.

  If she was anything, Samantha was a realist. She’d give herself this one day to mourn her losses and be sad, but tomorrow, she’d rise to her new challenge. Being there when Talia needed her was the best silver lining.

  Her heels echoed on the hard tiles and steps that went to the basement morgue. She inhaled, and when she forced
a smile her face felt tight.

  She could do this.

  Samantha knocked. Haley’s voice called her to come in, and she pushed the door open.

  “Samantha?” Haley said with a look of surprise. She wore a white laboratory coat and sat at a side table with a pen in her hand poised over a notepad.

  “Hi. Am I interrupting? I can come back.” She couldn’t, really, but, as she’d hoped, Haley didn’t turn her away.

  “Of course not. Come in.” Haley stood and offered a chair.

  Haley was subtle, but Samantha could tell she was assessing Samantha’s look and mood.

  “I’ll make coffee.”

  Samantha was thankful for the extra minutes of what she was already mentally referring to as “her old life”. She found a small comfort watching Haley prep and plug in the aluminum percolator.

  While they waited, Haley asked, “How did it go with your husband?”

  Samantha knew that Haley had witnessed her conflict with Seth. From her peripheral, she knew the DeSoto hadn’t moved.

  “I’ve quit my job.”

  Haley raised a dark brow. “That was fast.”

  “Not fast enough for Seth.”

  “How do you feel about that? I thought you loved your job?”

  “I do. I did, but it’s fine, though. I’m fine.”

  Haley stared back with a look that said she wasn’t convinced. The coffee was ready, and Haley poured for them both and added cream and sugar without asking.

  She handed the milky brew to Samantha and said, “You look pale. This will help.”

  Samantha sipped with appreciation. Bina was too cheap to buy either sugar or cream, only milk. Or rather, Bina was good at budgeting pennies, and they couldn’t afford luxuries on Samantha’s wage.

  No longer her problem. See? The lining was getting more silver all the time.

  “What about the case?” Haley asked.

  “I’ve given the story to Johnny, with Mr. August’s blessing. You don’t mind if he calls you occasionally?”

  Samantha noted Haley’s hesitation before her friend nodded. “Whatever works.”