Ring-A-Ding Dead! Read online

  “It’s ever so fashionable,” the lady sitting to Mrs. Jackson’s left said. She was perhaps twenty, with straight brown hair topped by a beaded headband which went straight across her forehead. “My husband and I are off to visit my parents in the countryside. We arrived last night.” She became animated. “But if we ever did want to stay downtown, this is where we’d be! Why, the nightlife, the scenery, the shopping ... this lies at the center of it all.”

  Several heads nodded around the table, and the waitstaff smiled at each other.

  Mrs. Jackson said, “I had no idea.”

  “Well, my dear,” the dowager Duchess proclaimed, “if you’re going to stay in Chicago any length of time, you should definitely stay here. This is the place to be!”

  ***

  And yet, Mrs. Jackson mused, they’d likely just been witness to a murder.

  5

  The garrulous old dowager annoyed her. Not only that, she was dangerous. They couldn’t dodge too many questions about themselves before rousing suspicion.

  So Mrs. Jackson fired a return salvo. “My Lady, what sights should we see first?”

  This set the dowager into a stream of recommendations, each with its own set of observations, quips, and amusing stories. It was left for Mrs. Jackson to simply nod, smile, and exclaim from time to time.

  As the woman spoke, Mrs. Jackson glanced around the table. Most were dressed in casual finery, ready for venturing forth into the street. The dowager’s husband Albert had on a red felt vest which looked handmade, decorated with small wooden beads.

  Her interest caught his eye and he glanced down, then grinned, pulling at the bottom of his vest.

  “You like it? Got this on our travels.”

  “Oh,” the dowager said, “let me tell you about that trip.” And so she set off again, to Mrs. Jackson’s great amusement.

  The Duchess herself wore a simple necklace of golden-brown beads, which as it turned out, were seeds hand-drilled by her husband. “Oh, he just loves making things,” she gushed.

  Her husband beamed.

  “Would take a steady hand, that,” Mr. Jackson said.

  This sent the dowager’s husband into an explanation of the tools he used, with witty stories from the dowager along every step of the way.

  Once they’d finished eating, Mr. Jackson rose, shaking hands all round. “We’re so pleased to meet you! Have a wonderful day.” Then to her relief, he took her arm and moved off towards the lobby before anyone could insert themselves into their day.

  She giggled at that thought. “You’re a master at handling people.”

  “You didn’t do so poorly yourself.” The dining room door attendants opened the beveled glass doors for them. “Do you still fancy a stroll?”

  “No.” Her arm had begun to ache, and the exertion of fending off the dowager fell upon her. She felt suddenly gray, transparent. “Let’s go back upstairs.” She looked up at him. “I hope you weren’t looking forward to it. Going out, I mean.”

  Mr. Jackson put his arm around her waist, then took her left hand in his, steering her towards the elevators. Which she felt grateful for, as the effort of making the decision seemed beyond her right then. “Not at all, my dear. I’m here for whatever you need.”

  She hated feeling so weak, hated needing someone to bring her places like some invalid.

  “Is she well?” The concerned face of a bellboy swam before her.

  “Is a wheeled chair available?”

  “Wait here, sir, I’ll get one right away.”

  Her vision cleared. They stood before the array of elevators.

  “Here,” the bellboy said, and something pressed upon the back of her legs. She sat, placing her hands on the armrests.

  “Thanks,” Mr. Jackson said, and a rustle of cash followed.

  “Thank you, sir!” The bellboy sounded quite pleased.

  A group had gathered, yet moved aside when the elevator door opened to let them pass in.

  “Let’s get you to your bed,” Mr. Jackson said. “We’ve had enough excitement for today.”

  ***

  Mr. Jackson felt helpless when his wife sagged in his grasp out by the elevators, utterly grateful for the bellhop’s assistance with the chair. He should never have taken her down to breakfast so soon after surgery.

  He’d seen sickness and injury many a time, yet it’d always been someone else who handled the details. He’d had to ask his wife how much medication she took, and somehow, he felt he should know.

  But he could help his wife into bed, keep watch over her. He could hold her hand, listen to her soft breathing.

  It reminded him too much of another bedside, another hand. That scene had ended in death, right in front of him, and he felt a brief instant of terror that she might die as well.

  His wife woke well after tea. “Welcome back,” he said.

  She stretched lazily. “Have you sat there this entire time?”

  He shrugged. “The view is lovely whichever way you turn.”

  “Since when have you become a flatterer?”

  “Never. I prefer to speak the truth, when I can.”

  She smiled at that. “And what will you do now?”

  “Read the afternoon paper. Order dinner in our rooms. Converse with my wife. Go to bed early.” He stretched. “I am on vacation, after all.”

  “Do you really travel all over, visiting your properties, as you said?”

  “When the need arises.”

  She smiled, falling quiet for some time. To his surprise, she said, “Do you remember when you captured me?”

  He chuckled at that, rubbing the ugly old scar on his upper left arm. “One hardly forgets getting shot.”

  Her voice seemed playful, but a sharpness lay beneath her words. “You brought that on yourself. If you hadn’t tricked me, none of that would have happened.”

  He felt humbled at the memory. “I suppose I did. Why do you ask?”

  She sat quietly for a while. “Who took care of you?”

  “Why, my sister, of course. And two of my retainers.”

  “Those must have been trusted retainers. Everyone thought you were dead!”

  He nodded. “They were.” He still wasn’t sure what she wanted. “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, I don’t know — I want to know you better, that’s all. I feel like my entire life has been spent trying to kill you.” She let out an ironic chuckle. “Yet today I’ve wakened alive, with you guarding me.”

  His eyes stung. But he smiled, picking up her hand and kissing it. “I’ll be here always, dear girl. For as long as you need me.”

  ***

  To Mrs. Jackson’s surprise, a knock came at the parlor door.

  Mr. Jackson went to answer it. A few minutes later, he returned, closing the door behind him.

  “Duchess Cordelia is here to see you. Should I send her away?”

  Mrs. Jackson considered the matter. She felt well, and was still in her day dress. “How does my hair look?”

  Mr. Jackson smoothed her hair down on both sides, tucked the back part behind her head, then drew back to survey her. “Perfect.”

  “Then I feel fit to receive visitors.”

  Mr. Jackson left, returning a bit later with the dowager Duchess, who rushed to sit beside her. “Oh, my dear, I’ve been so very worried for you! I heard you’d fell ill after breakfast, and they called for a wheeled chair!” She pressed her hands to the sides of her face, eyes wide. Then she dropped her hands to her lap. “I do hope you’re improved?”

  Mrs. Jackson felt amused. “I am, thank you.”

  Mr. Jackson retreated, closing the door behind him.

  An awkward silence fell, so Mrs. Jackson said, “I hope you and your husband are well?”

  “Oh, Albert’s fine — he’s off on a walk.” The old dowager surveyed her. “I do hope I’m not intruding.”

  “Not at all. What can I do for you?”

  Duchess Cordelia drew back, nose reddening. “My dear girl. I’m h
ere to visit you!” She reached over and took Mrs. Jackson’s hand in hers. “My poor dear. You’re not used to such things.”

  Mrs. Jackson shrugged.

  “Well, where I come from, friends have a duty to help each other, or at least offer support. And although we’ve just met, I wish to act as a friend.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Mrs. Jackson said, and meant it. “I’m flattered.”

  The old woman’s eyebrows rose, and her mouth dropped open.

  Mrs. Jackson said, “A Duchess here, at my bedside, wishing to befriend me?”

  The dowager chuckled. “Oh, that. I’ve never been much for putting on airs. My Duke is dead, the estates sold.” She shrugged. “Hardly seems worth all the fuss.”

  Mrs. Jackson smiled at her. The woman seemed sincere. “I’m honored to have your company.”

  The old woman’s cheeks reddened. “Can I do something for you? Get you anything?”

  “Might you ask Mr. Jackson to come in?”

  “Of course, my dear.” She went to the door to the parlor, returning with him.

  “Sir,” Mrs. Jackson said, “would you call my lady’s maid? I was thinking we might take dinner here in our rooms. The number’s on the stand beside the telephone.”

  From the expression on his face, she knew he was amused at her formality. “My dear, I am ever at your service.” He picked up the slip of paper beside the phone, disappearing into the parlor.

  From the expression on the dowager’s face, Mrs. Jackson knew she’d made a mistake: she’d aroused the old woman’s curiosity. “Have the two of you known each other long?”

  This question actually surprised her, threw her suddenly back to the night they met. “Why, yes, many years now. Why do you ask?”

  Duchess Cordelia appeared flustered. “Uh, well, I don’t mean to intrude. Just making small talk.”

  Perfect! Small talk it would be, then. “How did you come to marry a Duke? That seems so grand.”

  The Duchess chuckled. “Well, I suppose it was. My family was a very good one, but nowhere near as grand as all that. It was all arranged: both myself and my Duke were the last heirs to survive to that day, and our fathers felt it the best way to preserve our fortunes.”

  The last to survive? “Oh, I’m so very sorry.”

  She shrugged. “I was, strangely enough, an only child. My Duke’s family suffered quite a bit of tragedy, though.” This seemed to dishearten her. But then she brightened. “It turned out well, when you consider everything. It was a good match, and we made the most of it.”

  Mrs. Jackson smiled at the old woman. “I’m glad for you.” But then she felt at a loss as to how to proceed. She didn’t want the dowager to begin asking questions again. “Do you have any advice?”

  The Duchess beamed, her eyes growing moist. “Oh, if I only had such a sweet nature at your age, to ask for advice!” She grasped Mrs. Jackson’s hand in both of hers. “Right now, all you need to do is to rest and get well.” She grinned. “Let your young man care for you. Once you’re stronger, we can talk all you want.” The clock struck seven. “I must dress for dinner. Please take care of yourself.”

  “I will.”

  After she left, Mr. Jackson came in. “What did she want?”

  “It seems, simply to be my friend.”

  He let out a breath, slumping into the chair Duchess Cordelia had used. “That’s a relief.”

  Her stomach rumbled. “Let’s order dinner now, shall we?”

  “Ah, yes, my poor dear, you slept through tea. You must be starving!”

  She giggled at that, then sat forward, tucking her feet under her knees tailor-fashion. “But I feel stronger somehow. You want to explore that park tomorrow?”

  He grinned. “Only if you feel well enough.” His tone turned playful. “I will be sincerely vexed at another fainting spell on my watch!”

  ***

  After dinner, Mr. Jackson opened the afternoon news, which had the desk clerk’s death on page 8:

  CLERK FOUND DEAD AT POSH HOTEL

  Police Ruling: “Suspicious“

  A desk clerk was found dead at his post yesterday morning at the Myriad Hotel on Lake Shore Drive.

  At this time, police have not released the name of the victim nor the cause of death, yet a spokesman for the police department stated the death is considered suspicious.

  The hotel manager released this statement: “Our deepest sympathies go to the family and friends of the deceased. The Myriad Hotel offers its full cooperation into the investigation.”

  The Myriad Hotel, established in 1897, is one of the premier hotels in Chicago, visited by notable and prominent people from around the world. The Hotel anticipates no alterations in service due to this unfortunate event.

  Mr. Jackson showed his wife the article. “They suspect foul play.”

  “It certainly seemed that way to me. I hope they find whoever did it soon.”

  He closed the paper, leaned back, stretched his legs out. Hopefully, the police would have no further interest in them. Once his wife was well, they could speak to the staff as the manager requested.

  The manager barging into their rooms the day before like he had still annoyed Mr. Jackson to no end. It was unnecessary. The matter certainly wasn’t urgent, and the police seemed well-equipped to pursue the culprit.

  His wife looked pale, and while the dark circles around her eyes had improved, he didn’t like seeing them there. “How’s your arm?”

  “I might need some medicine soon.”

  He rose to fetch the bottle. “Same amount?”

  She considered the matter. “Yes, I think so. It makes me much too sleepy, but it’s time for bed in any case.” She grinned up at him. “A good night’s sleep should help.”

  ***

  The next morning was a fine one: a blue sky, children playing in the sun, trees fluttering in a light breeze. Cars chugged past, steam spouting from tail pipes. A bird flew by.

  The couple sat arm in arm on a park bench. Mrs. Jackson took a deep breath, savoring the clean, crisp air. So different from home, with its perpetual gloom.

  She felt much more rested today, clearer-minded. And she was reminded of the manager’s request.

  At first, it seemed odd that the owner would ask two strangers for help in a police matter. Yet on further consideration, she’d decided that if the owner’s priority was to keep things quiet, the fewer people who knew about the matter, the better.

  “Last night, you said the police ruled the matter suspicious,” Mrs. Jackson said. “But you never offered your opinion.”

  “I suppose it could have been natural,” Mr. Jackson said. “But the man was so young. And his face so pale. I agree with the ruling: this feels like foul play.”

  The man’s face was certainly an unnatural shade. If only she’d had a chance to examine the body more closely.

  Mr. Jackson said, “The teacup on the floor was quite evocative. Poison, perhaps?”

  She squeezed his arm, a sudden wave of fondness passing over her. “If nothing, you are sharp of mind. I hesitated to take tea with breakfast for that very reason.”

  “As did I. But poisoning suggests the offender knew the person, or at the very least, his habits.

  Unless, of course, he wished to kill us all.”

  Mrs. Jackson smiled at him as they rose, moved along the sunny path. “Yet everyone made it from the table alive. Point well-taken, sir.”

  For her, the conversation was merely chitchat, a way to pass the time. The man was dead: surely the police would care for the situation.

  It felt good to stroll in this park for a moment, to smell the breeze, watch the clouds pass. Forget everything which had led up to this day. Never in a thousand years could she have anticipated being in this city, strolling in this park today, arm in arm with this man — much less married to him. How things had changed!

  Mr. Jackson tipped his fedora at a passing couple, then said, “Yet who would wish to kill a desk clerk?”

&
nbsp; She smiled to herself. “I’m sure the police ponder the very same question.” She let go of his arm, pulled out her cigarettes, the matches with them. “Light one for me?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Very well.” He handed a cigarette to her, lit it. “But I won’t have this in our rooms.”

  “Fair enough.”

  They continued to walk side by side as she smoked. “What do you think is happening back there right now?”

  “At the hotel? I have no idea.”

  “No, back home.”

  He chuckled. “I imagine quite a lot.” He stopped then, faced her. “My dear, you must forget it all. Consider yourself reborn. None of that,” he made a wild, sweeping gesture, “will bring anything other than grief and trouble.” He began to walk, and she followed. “For us, today is all that matters.”

  She dropped the cigarette, stepped upon it, then held onto his arm. Could it be possible to make a clean break with the past? In some things, perhaps. But not others. “Is there a pharmacy nearby?”

  “I can ask if it’s important. Is there something you need today?”

  Mrs. Jackson considered this. “A day or so probably won’t hurt.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.” He truly seemed concerned for her welfare. “If you’d like to find the address, we can visit the pharmacy the next time we venture out.”

  ***

  Mr. Jackson strolled back towards the hotel with his wife. To his relief, her cheeks had good color, and the dark circles were almost gone from around her eyes. Rest had been all she needed.

  The streets were busy, and so was the hotel lobby. Tourists gazed at the murals above the rosewood paneling, families stood around planning their day.

  Leading his wife by the hand, Mr. Jackson made his way through the throng towards the front desk to fetch their room key. An older woman scrubbed the wooden floor in the hall beyond: a dark stain lay there.

  The new desk clerk was an eager young man with blond hair, just bloomed into adulthood. As he handed over the key, he said, “Anything else you need, sir?”

  Suddenly, a list of things they needed appeared in Mr. Jackson’s mind. He chose the one with highest priority. “Where is the nearest pharmacy?”