CHAPTER 6/18
WPOV
I woke up the next morning cursing Wild Turkey for the evil that it was as I propped myself slowly up on one elbow and ran my hand over my face. I’d slept in my clothes and they were rumpled and stank of bourbon, sweat, and cigarette smoke. I knew from experience that a scalding hot shower was the only thing that was going to make me feel human again. I only wished I had been coherent enough last night to take my trusted hangover preventative, two aspirin tablets and a huge glass of water. I slowly, painfully, sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed. A quick glance at the clock told me it was nearing mid-morning, nine twenty-three in the morning to be exact. I had to put a wiggle in it and get moving. I had a list of difficult things to be done, the first of which would be a trip to the Maclay house. I started peeling off my soiled clothes; my fingers, fat and uncoordinated with grogginess, fumbled with the buttons on my shirt. As I stood up to head to the john for that much needed shower, I hoped the hot water would lessen that dull, throbbing ache in my head. Today, I needed to have my wits about me, because today was to be day one in cracking this case.
The steam of the shower started to work its magic and I felt the stupor of too much bourbon begin to slowly shift. I struggled to put my thought in order. The first thing I needed to do was call the Maclay estate to let Tara know I was on my way to her house to speak with Donald. Then, I’d move on to the next matter at hand, sleuthing the rest of the household and try my damnedest to get a solid lead on this case. And lastly, track down Mr. Maclay’s closest friends. I hurried and finished up in the shower, brushed my teeth, got dressed and was out the door within twenty minutes, only stopping at my desk long enough to ring Tara.
On mornings like this, I considered coffee to be the nectar of the gods, but I didn’t want to waste time stopping for some. I wanted to get to the estate. I wanted to get this case over with, with my dignity intact. Anyways, I felt that suffering through my hangover was some small penance for being such an all-around jackass. Stepping up to the curb, my black laced shoes crunching on the slushy grey snow that had fallen at some point over night, I hailed a cab.
The traffic signal was stuck on red. I stared at it, willing it to change and drumming my fingernails in time with Lucy Ann Polk crooning on the radio, “Back in Your Own Backyard.” I was pretty sure that the cabbie was going to throw me out of the car before we even got to the Maclay estate; I was driving him bananas with my impatience. I leaned forward like an anxious child and spoke by the cabbies ear. “How much further?”
The cabbies low chortle floated through the air and he shook his head in disbelief “Ya mean since the last time ye asked me, two minutes ago?” he said, his thick Irish accent making his words hard to decipher. “Still thirty minutes.” I leaned back into my seat, the base of my skull pressed against the headrest as I stared expressionlessly upward at the smoke stained fabric of the cab. I should have stopped for that coffee, my head was pounding and my feet were freezing where the snow dampened the leather. Huffing in annoyance, I tilted my head to the side, aimlessly staring out the window.
Half an hour later, I found myself once again standing in front of Tara-Rose’s mansion. It loomed over me with cheerful menace, its bright white walls contrasting starkly against the overcast grey sky. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out some fare money and handed it over to the cabbie, thanking him for the ride as I stepped out of the vehicle. As I was about to step up onto the porch, prepared to knock, Buffy opened the door and waved me inside. I walked into the foyer and grinned sheepishly at her as I tracked in mud.
“Hi, Buffy.” I said courteously as I wiped melting snowflakes off of my coat.
“Hello, Miss Rosenberg. It’s good to see you,” she said sincerely even though it had only been a few short hours since we parted ways.
“Good to see you too,” I replied as I shuck off my overcoat for her to place in the hall closet. “Is Miss Tara-Rose here?”
“Yes, let me fetch her for you,” she said as she bobbed a curtsy, then shut the door and scurried off to the kitchen.
I took off my fedora and dropped it on the entryway table, then took a deep breath as my gaze traveled across the open foyer, admiring the vast array of artwork adorning the walls and the royal red carpet rolled out to protect the chestnut wood flooring. My attention slowly shifted to the massive curvy white staircase, admiring its craftsmanship. A smile subconsciously graced my lips as the sound of Tara-Rose’s melodic voice wafted through the air. I stood still a moment longer, appreciating how the light from the stained glass windows danced across the finely polished wood of the stairs. It wasn’t until I had the unsettling feeling that I was being watched, did I turn.
There, in the same doorway Buffy had disappeared through, now stood Tara-Rose. Her eyes were unabashedly racking over my figure. I smirked, internally happy that I had chosen my more formfitting suit today. The suit had costed me more money than I wanted to spend, but dad always said, ‘the suit makes the man’, and I had to admit, I did look rather spivvy. Brushing the hair hanging over my forehead away from my eyes, “Like what you see, Tare?”
She rolled her eyes at me in what could only be mock annoyance as a feverish blush erupted across her chest and rapidly made its way up her neck to her ears. Without a word, she motioned for me to follow her, turning on her heels and heading to the kitchen before I could speak. I waited a few seconds before I followed, allowing myself the opportunity to fully appreciate the blonde’s wardrobe as she walked away. Her solid green day dress accented with white piping hugged her in all the right places. The high, synched waist of the pleated skirt created an hourglass silhouette that had my head spinning with thoughts best not to dwell on.
I shook my head; I needed to focus on this case and not on the curves of the dreamboat in front of me. With a new resolve, I marched into the kitchen. Standing before me was a tall, dark haired gentleman with his hands firmly clasped behind his back; presumably another staff member. Next to him stood Buffy, a carafe of coffee in hand, and my new best friend as I relished in the thought of a cup of hot joe to help ease away the remainder of my headache.
“Detective Rosenberg, this is our cook, Liam,” Tara-Rose said, in introduction. “He has worked for us for about a year now.”
“Ma’am” he replied as he bowed his head slightly, his face expressionless. Returning the acknowledgement, I nodded back as I sized up the man.
He looked familiar. I’m certain I’ve run into him before but I couldn’t place my finger on as to where. His eyes narrowed at me, as if he too were trying to figure out where he’d seen me before.
“I was just finishing up my coffee, Red.” Said Tara-Rose; her voice pulling me out of my scrutinizing. Shifting my attention, I watched as Tara-Rose pulled out a chair at the table and sat down delicately. “Why don’t you join me?”
“With all due respect,” I said in my most professional tone as I pulled my spiral notepad and pen out of my jacket pocket, “I’d like to start talking with your staff.”
I needed to start my questioning as soon as possible. If Mr. Maclay’s death had been the result of foul play, the more time I wasted chatting up this skirt would result in the murderer having more time to come up with an alibi. And if I was perfectly honest, having her this close to me, her rose perfume assaulting my senses, was driving me wild with want. I needed her as far away as possible so I could do my job effectively without thoughts of running my tongue up the base of her neck, tracing the route of her blush. I shot her a pointed look, making it perfectly clear I couldn’t be persuade as I tapped the tip of my pen against the binding of the pad.
“Of course,” she had responded politely, her forced smile screaming anything but. I watched as she elegantly stood; her movement seamless. Refusing to watch her leave, not wanting to get distracted by her gams peek-a-booing out of her knee length skirt, I aimlessly flipped through my notepad, acting as if I was searching for a certain page. It wasn’t until I heard her call out to me that I stopped my page flicking and looked up.
“Oh, Red, Alexander had to leave to bring my brother to school. Donald said he’ll give you a call when he returns home to set up a meeting.”
“Typical,” I mumbled under my breath, not acknowledging Tara-Rose directly. “Just what I wanted to do tonight, wait by the phone.”
As soon as she exited the room, I shifted my eyes to Buffy’s, the pot of coffee calling to me. She must have noticed me eyeing the container; that or the slight red tint under my eyelid told her I was nursing a hangover. Either way, she wordlessly approached the table and poured me a helping of the hot beverage. “Do you need anything else?” she asked me.
“No, this will do,” I replied as I approached the table. “Please, sit, both of you.”
I waved them over, gesturing to the two chairs on the opposite side of the table. Lifting the cup of joe, I sipped the dark liquid, my eyes instinctively closing as the hot beverage hit my tongue and warmed me from the inside. I waited until they were both seated and comfortable before placing the now half empty cup back onto the saucer in front of me.
It wasn’t until he placed his arms on top of the table did I realize where I’ve seen him before. Tattooed on his right hand, in the webbing between the thumb and forefinger; five precise circles. This man had spent time in the clink. He had been collared by none other than my pops quite a few years back. Liam O’Conner, he was a torpedo for mob boss Blue Lue Boyle, and had been a pretty good one at that. In 1934, his poster had been plastered in every precinct in the five boroughs as well as on the wall in my father’s office for a solid year before he was finally pinched. I tried to keep my expression motionless, my eyebrows neutral and my eyes downcast so as not to give anything away.
Reaching for the notepad, I flipped to an empty page and proceeded to write down Liam’s name. With my head bent, I flicked my eyes upward, taking in the brooding man’s appearance once more before drawing three lines under his name. Suspect number one.
I decided to start off with an easy question “How long have you both been employed by the Maclay’s?”
“I was sixteen when Mr. Maclay took me and my mother on,” provided Buffy. “I have been working for the family for nearly a decade.”
I made some notations in my book before turning my attention to Liam. Tara-Rose had already stated his length of employment but I wanted to hear from Liam himself. “And you?”
“Ten months,” he replied, his voice low and gruff.
I jotted down his response, new questions instantly formulating in my mind. “What did you do before this?”
His mouth contorted, the edges of his lip curling upward into a snarl. My gaze never wavered from his. I kept eye contact, expecting him to lie through his teeth. “I’d spent the previous eight years in Rikers Island. I assisted on the chow line.”
I flicked my eyes toward Buffy, half expecting her to flinch or move away from the convicted felon. She never moved; showing no signs of being phased by Liam’s statement. I arched my eyebrow as I stared at her a moment longer. Pulling my gaze away, I looked down at my notepad, the page filling rapidly.
“What were you imprisoned for?” I didn’t need to lift my head; I knew by his earlier straightforwardness that he wasn’t going to lie.
“First degree assault, first degree kidnapping and second degree theft,” he said dryly, “among other things.”
I already knew what Liam had been found guilty of but I scribbled down his wrongdoings anyway; giving the pretense I was hearing this information for the first time. Notating the degree of his offenses, I inwardly steamed up.
The man, to my knowledge, had spent most of his life as a hired killer, starting his career at the tender age of fifteen. He was proficient in his killings, achieving infamy as the most sadistic gunsel in Boyle’s family. His brutality didn’t go unnoticed and he quickly rose through the ranks of Blue Lou Boyle’s coterie, earning himself the nickname “Angel of Death’. With all of his murders, neither my father nor the flatfoots were ever able to scrape together enough evidence that would hold up in the court of law. And without eyewitness testimonies, the bloke was allowed to walk free time after time.
That’s why I had never understood how a button man could muck up so badly. If he had not stolen a 1933 Singer Bantam, and carelessly left it parked outside his victim’s home on Brownstone, he would’ve never been caught by my old man. He would still be out on the streets, ruthlessly following orders from his boss, and I’d be the new Rosenberg hunting him down. It was pure dumb luck and sheer stupidity that ended up being Liam’s downfall, and even though the sentence doled out had been miniscule, I for one wasn’t going to argue as long as he was behind bars. So color me shocked when a renowned assassin was working in the kitchen of the man whose death I was hired to investigate.
I grilled the two for over an hour, shifting my questions between them. I inquired how they came about their jobs, about the fellow staff, if they noticed anyone unfamiliar hanging around the house, or if Mr. Maclay had any known enemies. I processed their answers, making notes and pondering over possibilities or motives. When I was certain I had enough information, I dismissed the two so they could get back to their responsibilities.
I was about to exit the kitchen in search of the landscaper, Riley, when I stopped in my tracks. Turning on the heel of my foot, I stared at the dark haired man, my expression rigid. “Don’t go far; I might have more questions for you.”
Entering the hall, I pulled my overcoat from the closet and shrugged it on in preparation to head outside. Pulling the coat tight around my frame, I opened the front door, grimacing at the sight of snow rapidly free falling from the sky. Walking out of the house, I hurried down the slick stairs and trudged across the lawn. Stopping outside a large shack, I banged on the door, shouting my presence.
“Riley Finn, it’s Detective Rosenberg; I need a minute of your time.”
I heard shuffling inside the building followed by the sound of metal clinking together. I waited impatiently out in the cold, snowflakes leaving a thin layer of white on my shoulders as others melted when making contact with my skin. Shivering, my cheeks burning from the blistering air, I grumbled under my breath for the second time in so many hours.
“Mr. Finn!” I shouted as I banged on the door again, the force of my closed fist rattling the wood.
Moments later, the door swung open to reveal a sheepishly smiling man. “I’m sorry about that, I was changing out of my wet clothes,” he said as he took a step back, his arm sweeping to the side as he gestured for me to step inside. “Come in, come in.”
Stepping over the threshold, my leather clad shoes crunched on hay strategically placed over the barn wood flooring by the doorframe to absorb the water from the soles of my shoes. Rotating my head from left to right, I observed the man’s sparsely furnished sleeping quarters. To the back, far left side of the cottage, a single occupancy cot rested flush with the wall, two gray quilts neatly tucked around the mattress. Adjacent to the bed, I noticed a well-worn lounger, the arms patched with mismatched fabric. Located between the two pieces of furniture was a chipped brick fireplace; a small fire blazing inside, illuminating the small cottage while filling it with warmth. To my right was a closed door, presumably leading to the bathroom. To the left of me was a small kitchenette, closely resembling that of the one in my own studio. A Murphy A46 rested on the counter; the soft harmonious tone of Joey Nash’s “Winter Wonderland” quietly penetrated the silence.
As Riley closed the door behind me, I crossed to the back of the cottage, shucking off my overcoat once I reached the fireplace. Folding my coat over my arm, I lowered myself into the fireside chair, my body sinking into the worn springs. Readjusting into a more comforting position, I pulled my notepad from my pocket as the warmth emanating from the fireplace quickly worked its way through my clothing, heating my chilled bones.
Looking up from my notes, I watched him walk towards me, noticing a slight limp in his gate. He wordlessly stood in front of his cot, his posture rigid as he gestured to me to begin my sleuthing with a nod of his head. I took in the way her stood perched in front of his cot, his legs slightly parted; hands folded behind his lower back, with his shoulders squared and pushed backwards. Just from his posture I could tell off the bat that he was former military. His face gave nothing away, his features hardened and unwavering. Even his landscaping uniform was pristine, not a wrinkle out of place or grass stain in sight.
I jumped right into the questioning, grilling Riley just as hard as I had Liam and Buffy. “How long have you worked for the Maclay’s?
“Since March 3rd, 1941.”
“What were you doing before that?” Again I knew the answer before it was said to me.
“Serving my country,” he said; pride evident in his tone.
“Why did you leave?”
“Honorably discharged,” he replied, a slight twinge of sadness creeping into his hazel eyes. Bending over, he pulled up his left pant leg, showing off a plastic prosthetic leg. “A bouncing betty took me out from the knee down.”
I pinched my lips together at his words. Not wanting to dwell on a touchy subject, I jumped right to my next question. I put the screws to Riley for another fifty minutes, his answers always precise and to the point. I respected him even more, glad I didn’t have to be bogged down fruitlessly bumping gums. Bidding my farewell, I made my way back to the estate. Entering the main house, I stomped my feet on the rug, the movement dislodging the snow caked around my shoes. As the sound of my feet hitting the ground echoed throughout the stilled home, Tara emerged at the top of the staircase, her hands resting delicately on the banister as she looked down at me.
“I assume you still plan on attending the Gala Saturday?” she asked, her question seemingly out of nowhere. “Not to be presumptuous, but I assume you’ll not be in a dress.”
“Am I that easy to read, doll?” I asked with a smirk, a slight chuckle emerging from the back of my throat. “No, best I stay in a suit and under the disguise of a man while escorting you. Like you said, it would be inappropriate for a woman to attend the Gala without a male chaperon.”
“If that’s the case, we’ll need to find you something to wear.” She replied as she gave me the hairy eyeball. “Your suit simply won’t do.”
I looked down at my suit; half offended at the notion that she thought my clothing attire unsuitable. Cooking my eyes back up to meet her, I arched an eyebrow in silent questioning. The Gala was only a few days away and I didn’t have the time, money or want to acquire a newly tailored suit. Without saying a word, she read my mind.
“I’ll go through Donald’s closet. He must have an old tuxedo or two that he’s outgrown.”
I nodded my head in silent acceptance. A deafening silence began to loom around us as we awkwardly stared at one another. From where I stood by the front door, the low call of a mourning dove from the weeping willow in the corner of the yard lingered in the air. Its sweet coo-oo-oo called my attention to that direction and I watched the bird through the window flutter its wings and hop to the ground from one of the tree’s branches in search of food. A car glided down the street and the bird startled, taking flight as the car drew closer. Squinting into the suns low rays, I raised a hand to shade my eyes, as I watched the car drive closer, realizing Tara-Rose must have called me a cab while I was speaking with Riley. As the taxi cab came to a stop outside of the house, the driver stepping out to open the back passenger door, I turned to the blonde still standing at the top of the staircase.
“My ride’s here.” I exclaimed pointlessly.
“Be safe getting home,” she called out, her tone of voice sincere. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Red. Have a good night.”
Sighing deeply, my eyes shutting momentarily, “Willow.”
“Come again?” she said softly, her brows knitted together in confusion.
This is it, kid.
“Willow ...” I replied simply, with a soft shrug of my shoulders. “That’s my name.” As I reveled to her my surname, I watched a radiant smile envelope her lips, her pearly white teeth gleaming almost as brightly as her sapphire eyes. Opening the front door with my left hand, I reached my right hand up to my fedora, tilting the brim in her direction before making my exit.
Stepping back out into the elements, I briskly made my way to the waiting cab and scooted inside. Slamming the door shut behind me, the cabbie reloaded himself behind the wheel, his head cocking over his shoulder, “Where to?”
I provided him with my address and then settled back into the seat, preparing myself for the long ride home. As the car started to move, taking me farther and farther away from the Maclay estate, I couldn’t help but think about that dame, and the way she had looked at me, and how I wanted to see her again, close, without a silly staircase between us.
_________________ Alyson, oh, Alyson why don´t you join my band? So you could play the flute like this one time in band camp. I Am Forever / A Special Christmas of Sorts / Maybe It's Just Me / Honeysuckle Rose / Blackouts and Breakthroughs / When Love Arrives
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