Dear Reader,
In this monthly newsletter, I explore a variety of genres. I decided to try writing a mystery set in the 1920’s. “How hard can it be?” I wondered. Short answer? HARD.
“No one will know if you give up,” I told myself, banging my head on my desk the first few days (not so metaphorically). But the point of an experiment is to venture out of familiar waters. It didn’t have to be perfect, it just had to get done.
That being said, the story you’re about to read would still exist only in the sloughs of “experimental draft,” if it weren’t for several key editors. From my writing group: Maureen Gil, Andrea Towns, Humnah Memon, Nick Ransom, Ceara O’Sullivan, Elisa Maiz, and Eileen Connors (who read it twice and helped cultivate Detective Daniels’ western flare). They have tirelessly read and critiqued most of the stories in this newsletter, and are themselves, excellent writers. Keep an eye out for their books in stores someday soon. Thanks also to Avery LaPan, a fellow Wheaton (IL) alumnus, whose close editorial eye on this project sharpened and refind my understanding of these characters, and identify plot holes, bringing this story to the next level.
We will never fully understand the complexities of the mechanics of relationships, but somewhere in this network of people around us, if we are humble and pay attention to what they have to teach us, we find the path to truth and a better version of ourselves. Thank you to my editors for helping me solve the mystery of writing.
P.S. Don’t forget to subscribe to catch the next story from the world of “Refurbished”.
~The Spokes of Wheels & Co.~
Detective Daniels climbed the gangplank of the SS Ile de France. It had been a long journey from Colorado to New York City, but he’d had his fill of the nouveau nightlife and was ready to settle into the ship. The liner supposedly the most elegant vessel crossing the Atlantic now; a culmination of the Art Deco tastes developing over the last decade. The main deck and subsequent floors were a pristine white, and the staccato beat of windows and rails put him in mind of a piano. Fitting, since the manifest promised there would be live music on board.
“This way, sir,” the attendant said after he presented his ticket.
Daniels mapped the ship as he followed the man, not pausing to take in the details of the rich interior. He knew the number of chairs in the room, the location of exits (both servant and public) and suspected his guide was trying on a new cologne, but he was on vacation. He’d pay closer attention later.
The income of a detective, even a world-class detective like Daniels, was sporadic at best, and so he should have been accommodated in the second-class dice house. He wouldn’t have minded it either; a bed was a bed, especially since he was used to the embrace of a hen skin on the ground next to a fire pit on cold nights.
As it was, the Detective wasn’t crossing the Atlantic to take in the sights of Europe. He’d been hired to investigate an anomaly in Amsterdam. Given the luxurious state of his first-class quarters, his employer was extensively wealthy.
He had no idea how someone in Europe might have heard of him. The majority of crimes he investigated were in a West that was mostly still wild. No, there must have been a very particular reason why this individual had sought him out. Weighing on balance the strangeness of the invitation and the unlikelihood he would ever be able to visit Europe on his own dime, the detective had accepted.
“Very good sir,” the attendant said, thanking him for the tip before he left.
The walls were clean panels with a painted scene depicting a countryside of lush hills, crumbling stone architecture, and spindly trees anointed with flowers as soft as clouds. Aside from the curtained windows, the room was illuminated by several lamps clasped to the walls with curled iron holdfasts. The wood of the bed frame was polished and inlaid with a diamond pattern from two different types of wood. He was fairly certain the sheets were silk, as were the armchairs in the sitting area. There was also a dresser, and a desk that doubled as vanity (should he want to admire his trim beard while he wrote his letters).
Daniels doubted he would ever travel like this again. For one weeklong trip, the room cost more than half what he made in a year.
The ship’s posters boasted a capacity of almost 1,800 passengers, but from the logbook he’d flipped through when the ticket inspector wasn’t looking, the total number of passengers was closer to 1,400 for this trip. It seemed as though each and every one of them was on the main deck as the SS Ile de France left her port.
The detective was distinguished from most of the other passengers by a nut-brown tan from all those years under the Colorado sun. Heavy black brows and hair, in conjunction with his quiet demeanor, allowed him to fade into the background when he wished, unnoticed. A boon in the detecting industry. He did so now as he walked the deck, familiarizing himself with the other passengers on board.
It was the usual assortment of suits, caps, and dresses, no odd sticks. But there was one who stood out to him. Or rather two, because of the strangeness of the pair. The first, an ordinary man, wore a worker’s flat cap. His hands (Daniels found you could identify much about an individual by their hands) were clean, but the skin was rough, weathered. The woman next to him, by comparison, was pure elegance. Ace-high.
Daniels once investigated an unusual robbery at a bank. He had joined the bank manager in his office. Offices gave another measure of a man: both for the objects they chose to surround themselves with, and how they wished you to view them. On his desk was a polished piece of marble. Secured to this pedestal was a golden stylus. The body itself seemed no more than a line of ink, angled over the block like a pen poised over the page. A gold chain trailed from the top, draping to the desk where it coiled.
This woman reminded Daniels of that pen; the sweeping angle of her hat, the lines and folds of her coat, slender hands tucking something into a pocket, the drape and coil of the fabric. She leaned away from the railing as though her presence here were only temporary, and she expected to be called away to other important matters shortly. As Daniels passed, the woman met his gaze, making her own assessments.
The banker had given him a similar look, as though reading an improperly balanced financial sheet. Something about the detective’s questions he hadn’t liked. It turned out the bank manager had committed the crime himself.
***
The grand dining room belonged to the world of Alphonse Mucha. Every inch of the two-story space was a bounty of curls and taste. The upper levels were supported by pillars carved with designs, a pattern which carried over into the whiplash curves of the iron railings and the geometric lines of the lighting overhead.
The evening of the second day on the SS Ile de France, Detective Daniels sat on the second level, enjoying his meal.
“Bonjour. Is this the famous detective I hear I have onboard my ship?”
Daniels had seen Captain Joseph Blancart coming, but it was polite to let others introduce themselves.
“Howdy captain,” Daniels offered a hand. “How goes the voyage?”
Where Blancart softened all his vowels, easing back on syllables like soft clouds of cream on a pastry, Daniels’ pronunciation was blunt, like the arid landscape he hailed from. Bare planes showed every stone and crevasse, but he kept the Rocky Mountains out of his voice until the situation demanded it.
“You tell me. Any crimes I need to be wary of?” asked Blancart.
“I’m surprised you’ve heard of me,” Daniels admitted.
“Oh, that Charlotte business made the papers, I’m sure you know.”
Charlotte. Of course, that tended to be the one people had heard of. But he had been much younger then.
“Seems to me you’re in apple-pie order, captain.”
“Well let’s see that it stays that way. What do you say to joining my table tomorrow evening? I’d like to hear about the investigations that didn’t make the papers.”
“I don’t jaw over closed cases. Protects the families concerning, you understand.”
“Not a man to brag I see.”
“I let other mouths do the crowing for me,” Daniels said with half a grin.
Captain Blancart laughed. “A good policy. I insist you join me.”
Daniels agreed.
***
The captain’s dining room was a private chamber lined with mahogany. The long table was set with porcelain plates, with a full set of silver on either side. A napkin billowed upward in clean white folds, reminding the guests they were dining while sailing across the water. At the head of the plates were four glasses: a water goblet, a glass for red wine, a smaller glass for white, and a champagne flute. This was the other benefit to traveling with the French instead of an American vessel.
The United States, a country many years into the prohibition, required all US ships to be dry. This stipulation, the detective thought, must cut into profit severely for American liners. Daniels sipped his Chambertin. It pared marvelously with the veal cutlet poelee bordelaise on the menu.
Filling the finely upholstered chairs along the table were the employees and family members of the automobile producer Wheels & Co., in their best bib and tucker. His neighbor was a plump man with a bald pate named Mr. Kahn.
“What brings y’all across the Atlantic?” Daniels asked Mr. Kahn after introductions.
“We have a meeting with another manufacturer, Alycon. Of all the European countries, France is pulling ahead in car production. An agreement between us could give us an edge against our competitors in the states. We’re bringing them an example of our latest model, not even on the market.
“I don’t think I spied it on the parking deck,” Daniels said. He knew he would have spotted a new model.
“It’s not there, Captain Blancart was good enough to let us keep it in a private area in the ship’s hold,” Mr. Kahn explained.
“Perhaps you’ll show me before we dock,” Daniels said.
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” said Edith Smith, seated across from him. Her hair was cut in a crisp bob, bangs outlining the severe line over her brow, the edge of the cut curving down to point at her jaw. “The vehicle is an example of product, crucial to negotiations.”
She was the woman Daniels had spotted on the deck earlier, poised above the world of mortals. She wore a dress of sequins, a light cream color overlaid with gold lines, and ended in swishing tiny gold beads.
“Oh Edith, always so paranoid,” said Charles Blake, seated at the farthest corner of the table. A man in his late twenties, Mr. Blake carried himself as though the world were his oyster and he was the pearl. He filled his mouth with a large cut of veal.
Ms. Smith’s eyes flashed. Already thin lips, a dark plum color, thinned further.
“My father’s company must land this connection. If we don’t, we’re likely to be absorbed by other manufacturers.”
“Yes, yes, we know, that’s why we’re on this trip. We’re eating now, let’s leave the business outside, shall we?” Charles’ square jaw worked the veal. His glossy hair and smooth skin had the look of one used to such meals.
“And what is it you do, mister…” Ms. Smith said, determinedly ignoring the voice farther down the table.
“Daniels. I am a detective.”
“I don’t mind being one of your boastful mouths,” Blancart interrupted. “Daniels is famous for his investigative work in the west of your country,” Captain Blancart said.
“Whereabouts?” Mr. Kahn asked.
“I hail from Colorado.”
“A detective from the wild west!” said the young girl Sophie Engels, seated between her parents. “How exciting!”
“Hush, Sophie, don’t be impolite,” Mrs. Engels chastised.
It wasn’t clear from which of her parents Sophie inherited her wheat-colored locks, pinned up in small curls. Mr. Engels’ short hair had long since turned to iron grey, and Mrs. Engels’ color was on the dimmer side, faded. Mrs. Engels had outfitted Sophie and herself in more traditional dresses: three-quarter length sleeves, high necklines, patterned fabric. They looked something like a set of matching dolls.
“You don’t sound like you’re from the west,” said Lucille Kahn from the other side of her father Mr. Kahn, her attention finally pulled from Charles at the end of the table.
“My apologies mam,” Daniels said, allowing the rough western scrub to bleed through, a few scraps of stone tumbling down the side of the craggy pitch.
Lucille laughed in delight. She too wore a modern dress, with line after line of cherry red beads that startled into a jig as she applauded Daniels’ accent. However, somehow the dress seemed more to wear her, than the other way around.
“Well how about that? What kind of mysteries do they have you solving out there Daniels? A misplaced cowboy hat? Cattle gone missing?” Mr. Blake snorted at his own joke.
“Really Charles,” Ms. Smith sighed, too quiet for anyone but Daniels and the captain to detect. She finished off her Chambertin in a swallow though the others had barely touched their glasses. She nodded when Blancart offered her more. The French man alone kept pace with her.
“What kind of mysteries do you solve?” asked Mr. Engels, an older gentleman in a dour suit with the hooked nose and a vaguely interest expression. His young daughter listened eagerly.
“A fair range of cases end up on my desk: false allegations, land ownership disputes with missing evidence, bank robberies, and yes, lost objects or persons.”
“Persons?” asked Lucille.
“Have you ever had to find hostages? Or abducted people? Have you ever been a hostage?” Sophie asked, rushing on before her mother could stop her, eyes growing brighter and brighter.
Daniels smiled. “Once or twice.”
Not desiring to hog the floor and suspecting Mrs. Engels might not like him to encourage her daughter’s fascination was hostages and abductions (let alone the use of his pistol and the inevitable questions that would follow) Daniels asked more about the cars Wheels & Co. were developing. This benign topic seemed to satisfy all, save Sophie.
Following the dinner there was to be jazz music in the entertainment gallery, likely dancing, and the associates of Wheels & Co. took their leave. The captain, however, invited Detective Daniels to stay for a glass of port with his first mate. There were some nautical quandaries they knew of, and he wanted to see if Daniels could shine some light on the scenarios. Desiring to extract himself from the tense relationships of Wheels & Co., and with the appeal of Port, mysteries, and a few good yarns, the captain and his first mate easily won out.
***
Daniels woke the following morning with a headache. He’d drunk himself full as a tick last night, though managed to keep up with the Frenchman. He made his way to the dining room, ordered coffee and juice, and ate his breakfast heartily.
As his rattled sense returned with the nourishment, Daniels realized that the strange irritation at the back of his mind was not, as he had assumed, the result of a night of drinking. He scanned the dining hall, accounting for all the passengers he’d noted on the SS Ile de France. Since humans tended to be creatures of habit, he quickly identified the discrepancies.
Sophie and Mr. and Mrs. Engels were all at their table, along with Mr. Kahn and his daughter Lucille, who seemed to have blustered herself out and was sleepily drinking her tea. But Mr. Blake and Ms. Smith were missing.
After another cup of coffee and a second plate of bacon, Daniels looked up to see the young man who thought himself a pearl join the others. He was clean and polished, but something in the set of his jaw, and the sallow appearance of his skin, was closer to a crustacean.
It was hard for Daniels to turn off that part of his mind. He was often spotting connections and discrepancies which held no real value. While he normally could tune it out, this morning it was all a little too clear and set his head pounding. He decided to take a turn about the deck for some fresh air.
Nearly black, the currents swelled beneath powerful as ever. Yet it seemed to him the ship was not moving as fast as it had been. Perhaps the wind had simply died down.
Feeling like a namby-pamby, he retreated to his cabin to clear his head with some shut-eye. Less than an hour later there was an unexpected knock on his door. The captain was pale, aside from the stain of red in his cheeks.
Anger, the detective realized.
“Pardonne moi, detective. Might I engage your services?”
***
At first glance, the mechanics thought it was a system malfunction, but closer inspection revealed someone had tampered with the ship’s engine. The SS Ile de France was not moving forward.
It took a day for the initial round of questions. Daniels established all the crew were accounted for on the night in question, and all passenger whereabouts were confirmed by cabin mates, mostly family members. Since the associates of Wheels & Co. were the only guests with prearranged access to the liner’s hold, Detective Daniels suspected the ship’s tampering had something to do with the automobile parked so close to the engine room. Theirs was also the only party, aside from himself, who had paid the cost of private suites for individual guests.
“She’s one of those flapper girls, I simply can’t abide them.”
Mrs. Engels had launched into her own suspicions on the culprit the moment she’d entered the day room set aside for interviews the following morning.
“It’s impolite for a woman to show that much of her shape. And those beads, swinging wildly when she so much as walks.”
This morning, Mrs. Engels and her daughter wore tame white dresses garnished with lace. There was no doubt, in Mrs. Engels’ mind, that Ms. Smith was the perpetrator. Detective Daniels refrained from asking which crime she was supposed to have committed.
“Ms. Smith is not a flapper, mother. You know she’s a businesswoman,” Sophie said. Daniels saw now in the daylight that the young girl had a smattering of freckles across her pale face. Her mother did her best to mitigate these by keeping Sophie off the decks during the day.
“Another fact: for a woman to foist herself on business matters, it reeks of greed. Power-hungry if you ask me. Don’t you agree George?” Mrs. Engels inquired of her husband, who assented from the divan. The ocean spread beyond, the view on full display through the wide glass windows. Sophie sighed.
“It’ll be her, mark my word. Girls these days simply delight in breaking out of the just norms of society, reckless of the chaos they wreak for everyone else.”
“Mother, Ms. Smith is on the way to a business meeting. Why would she tamper with the ship’s engine when she was the one who set it up?”
Mrs. Engels blinked at her daughter as if she just noticed a spot on her white gown. “How do you know that, Sophie? Have you been spending time with her?”
“No mother, I simply listen when people are speaking.”
“Eavesdropping isn’t polite,” Mrs. Engels sniffed.
“She talked about it when we saw her on the deck. You remember, when we were boarding. She was talking with Mr. McNeil, that nice man who played the piano for us at the party the other evening.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of Ms. Smith’s innocence, Sophie dear,” Mr. Engels said.
“How’s that?” Daniels inquired.
Mr. Engels regarded the detective, having forgotten him entirely.
“Come again?”
Daniels gestured with his pencil.
“You seemed to imply to your daughter that Ms. Smith would stand to benefit in some way by the delay of our voyage. I suppose your speculation is based on more than Ms. Smith’s taste in dress,” he said.
Mr. Engels might have flushed; it was hard to tell in the splotchy folds of his long face.
“The business meeting we’ve arranged is tentative. If we’re late, the deal could fall through. While Ms. Smith was involved in the initial setup of the business partnership, her father set Mr. Blake to lead this delegation. She was irate and later heard arguing with her father before we set out on the trip. If she wanted to punish him for it, all she would need to do is delay our arrival.”
“What did they say to each other in this disagreement?” Daniels asked, taking notes.
“You’ll have to ask Mr. Kahn, his daughter heard the whole thing.” Mr. Engels returned his attention to his newspaper.
***
How Lucille Kahn managed to keep her short bob neatly styled beneath a glittering ribbon set around her head was something of an enigma. She walked along the open deck to the detective’s summons, her feathered scarf blowing in the ocean breeze. She took a seat in the carved chair like a bird alighting on a branch. Mr. Kahn flapped in after her, seeking shelter on the long divan recently quit by Mr. Engels.
“This is all very exciting, isn’t it?” Lucille eyed Detective Daniels, the tilt in her red lips hinting she might break into mirth at any moment.
“Lucille, hush, this is not exciting, it’s very concerning. There has been foul play,” Mr. Kahn scolded his daughter. It didn’t ruffle her in the least.
“I was told you overheard a conversation between Ms. Smith and her father,” Daniels said.
Lucille wore her pearls like a woman in her twenties, but her giggle stripped the years from her. “Conversation? They were shouting at each other.”
“Lucille—” her father objected.
“It’s alright Mr. Kahn, I need all the information.”
“It doesn’t paint an accurate picture of Edith,” Mr. Kahn objected.
“You can be certain I’ll collect all the facts. All down but nine is no way to get to the truth,” Daniels assured him.
“I didn’t hear the beginning of the disagreement; I was visiting daddy at the office because we were leaving for this trip and wanted to make sure everything was in order. And to see Charlie,” Lucille smiled. “But Edith shouted, ‘if you like him so much, then you marry him!’ I thought it was odd—it was coming from her father’s office, and then I saw Charlie was in there,”
“Mr. Smith is grooming him in management,” Mr. Kahn explained.
“I don’t think it’s fair that Charlie should have to marry her to get the company,” Lucille pouted.
“I wager Edith feels the same way,” Mr. Kahn muttered.
“I don’t see why. Charlie’s handsome, and with the rights to her father’s company she’d be just as wealthy. She wouldn’t have to work anymore, getting all dirty with oil beneath her nails. It’s Charlie I feel bad for. What? It’s true,” Lucille said when her father tried to shush her. “But she also said she wasn’t coming back after this trip, so maybe he’ll be saved.”
“What do you mean, oil beneath her nails? Does Ms. Smith help in the mechanical end of her father’s business?”
“No,” Mr. Kahn said, at the same time his daughter said, “Yes.”
“Well, she doesn’t build the engines, no,” Lucille amended. “I doubt Mr. Smith would ever allow his daughter to do that. But I’ve seen her often enough at party functions with smudged hands, smelling like petrol.” Lucille’s eyes sparkled at the secret. “She likes to tinker.”
Daniels couldn’t discern from Mr. Kahn’s frown if this was news, or if he was simply displeased his daughter had revealed it. He jotted a note.
“Can you give me your whereabouts two nights ago?” Daniels flipped back to an earlier page in his notes.
“We were at the party, we all were, listening to that jazz music. What a lark. We danced, or at least I danced with Charlie. It was the only time he had fun all evening.”
“How’s that?” Daniels asked.
“The engagement,” Lucille practically mouthed, as though they stood some risk of being overheard. “It’s not going well.”
“Did you hear anything Mr. Blake and Ms. Smith said to each other that evening?”
“You mean over the music? Of course! We had to take a break at some point. Charlie was telling me of all the things he bought on credit, the things he was going to do with the money and with the company. But Edith butt in and told him he was being foolish. He told her ‘great risk warrant’s great reward’. Edith said he was going to ruin the company with his philosophy of risk—to be honest, I don’t remember much after that. They started arguing and I left. I don’t see what her problem is,” Lucille said.
Detective Daniels walked them to the door when he had finished his line of questioning, but Mr. Kahn waited behind.
“You say you’re going to take into account all the facts. Then you should know that Edith Smith is a levelheaded woman with keener business sense than most men I’ve met, and she’s had more challenges to overcome than any of them.”
“She’s the wealthy daughter of an automobile company owner,” Daniels pointed out.
“Money can only get you so far, some people can’t look past what they see right in front of them.” Then he pinned the Detective with a hard look. “I trust you are not one of those men.”
“I’m no chiseler Mr. Kahn, and I don’t work by a lick and a promise.” Daniels gave him a firm shake. “Thank you, you’ve both been helpful.”
***
“We spent most of the evening with Ms. Smith,” Monica Bernthal told the detective.
“Lovely woman, very engaging,” Tommy Bernthal said. He held his new wife’s fingers between his own, the two pressed close together, knees touching, on the divan. Of all the travelers on the boat, they were the only ones not associated with Wheels & Co. who had spent any time with the company, and the last to see the two suspects in question.
“Really?” the detective asked, examining his notepad. “I’ve learned there may be a disagreement between Ms. Smith and Mr. Blake.”
“But why are you focusing on her? Surely there’s no reason to suspect Edith.”
“Ms. Smith and Mr. Blake are the only two who were unaccounted for a length of time two nights ago,” Daniels said. The company had paid the exorbitant price for private suites for each.
“But that doesn’t mean—” Monica was cut off by her husband.
“My money’s on Blake, difficult chap if I ever met one.”
“Can you explain?”
The newlyweds looked at each other for a long moment.
“He started going on about how Ms. Smith wasn’t getting any younger. Told her she should be more like that silly girl, Lucille,” Tommy said.
The clock in the day room ticked away, keeping time as the ocean roared outside.
“And how did Ms. Smith seem?”
“Well, she had been ignoring him the whole evening, but at that point I think it was too much. She has more patience than I do at any rate,” Tommy grumbled. Monica took up the tale.
“Ms. Smith told him she’d encountered no man who might improve the quality of her life, that was not already married at least. She gave Tommy and me a look at that,” Monica said, running her fingers over her husband’s hands and smiling at him. He grinned down at their intertwined fingers. Monica cleared her throat, seeming a little embarrassed.
“She said she’d never met her equal.”
“How did Mr. Blake take that?”
Monica’s mouth flattened and Tommy answered.
“Not well. His conversation was… unchivalrous towards her, but thankful she had already left. He left shortly after.”
“There is no possible reason for Edith to have done this,” Monica said.
Detective Daniels kept his eyes on his pad, taking note.
“Who else did you see at the party?”
At the couple’s stubborn silence, Daniels leaned back, crossed his leg, and tapped his pencil as he met their tightlipped stare.
“Ms. Smith, though she arranged for the business venture that might save her father’s company, not only isn’t leading this delegation, she is also expected to take a man she doesn’t want, in order to keep a foothold in her company. She has lambasted him in public, and has a known temper,” Daniels said.
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I’m just collecting all the facts, ma’am. If you’d be kind enough to tell me who else you saw at the hoedown?”
Monica sighed and listed a series of names the detective took down.
“Oh, and don’t forget Roger, he was a laugh. Good man Roger,” Tommy said, face brightening.
“Roger?” Daniels asked, flipping through his pages. No one had mentioned a Roger.
“You mean the musician, Mr. McNeil,” Monica said. “He’s one of the guests as well, but he’s tremendous on the piano. Jumped up on stage and helped the entertainers.”
Daniels found the note: Roger McNeil was accounted for in the 2nd class quarters.
“He was there the whole evening?” Daniels asked.
“He led us all in the jig, Charleston, the Lindenberg. My Monica is wonderful at dancing, it’s how I swept her off her feet. We only stopped when Roger did.”
“That’s right, but I don’t think he came back, remember? We were disappointed.”
“Oh yes.”
***
Mr. Blake strode into the day room and took a seat, spreading out on the wide divan.
“Lucky for you, there being a crime to solve even out here in the middle of the ocean. That will keep you employed. Too bad it’s outside your typical wheelhouse,” he said, with a grin to crack lobster claws. Ox hide took a little something more, however.
Detective Daniels let the silence stretch, looking through his notes. Mr. Blake glanced around and then gave an exasperated sigh.
“Can we hurry this up? I have other places I’d like to be.”
“The ship is baked, Mr. Blake. My detecting skills tell me we have all the time we need,” Detective Daniels said.
“Yes, this whole ordeal is ridiculous, the ship needs to get moving, we need to find the culprit so this doesn’t happen again, but more delay and my deal will fall utterly apart.”
“Multiple witnesses confirmed you left the hoedown alone two nights ago. You and Ms. Smith were the only two missing during the time the engine was tampered with.”
“So what if I left? A man’s allowed to leave a party when he wants to.”
“Where did you go after you left?”
“I went to my cabin.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
“No, they can’t, because I left alone. Look, I didn’t sabotage the ship, that’s completely pointless, why would I want to be late and therefore ruin my own deal?”
“Perhaps to buck Ms. Smith.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“As I understand, you and Ms. Smith aired your lungs at each other the previous evening. She said some things to crawl your hump,” Daniels said.
“She’s a wild little minx, I’ll give you that. But nothing I can’t fix once we’re married.”
“I think you were wanting to show Ms. Smith she couldn’t give you the mitten.”
“What?”
“You didn’t want to let her get away with rejecting you, mocking you in public. You sabotaged her deal, so she’d look foolish when it fell through.”
“Do you really think her father would have the confidence to hand over his company to a man who would let that happen? Why would I shoot myself in the foot?” Mr. Blake demanded.
“To avoid hitching yourself to a choke strap.”
Detective Daniels’ gaze didn’t waver as he stared at Mr. Blake.
“Look, it’s no secret Edie and I don’t get along, but I’m willing to put up with her for the sake of the company. Besides, she’s not bad looking either.” Mr. Blake rose. “I’ve never touched an engine in my life. Until you have hard evidence to prove I dismantled the ship’s mechanics, I’ll be going, since I’ve made it clear to you I have no motivation to have done it.”
Detective Daniels didn’t move as Mr. Blake walked past him, only jotted notes.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Mr. Blake said from the door. Daniels looked up but didn’t turn. “You said Edie and I were the only ones unaccounted for, but that musician, the pianist, he left before either of us.”
***
Edith Smith refused to be questioned, but Daniels decided he needed a break from interviewing anyway. He asked Captain Blancart to reinspect the engine room and to see the vehicle at the center of the conflict. The mechanics Wheels & Co. brought with them to manage the car had reported nothing amiss with the machine, so Daniels hadn’t paid it any attention in his initial inspection of the ship’s engine. The captain led him to the separated area, and Daniels stopped in front of the impressive vehicle.
“You a car-man, detective?” Captain Blancart asked.
Daniels let his hand trail on the long black hood of the car.
“Thought every man was.”
“Not myself, I prefer ships, the unpredictability of the ocean.”
Daniels opened the door and got in. He placed his hand on the steering wheel. New, not even on the market yet. He put a hand on the stick shift. Something metal reflected up at him from the ground. He leaned forward and picked it up. A silver pocket flask, with an engraved wheel in the lower right corner. It was thin enough to slip into a breast pocket.
“Interesting,” he murmured to himself.
“Pardon?” the captain called. Daniels slipped the flask out of sight.
“Has anyone else on the ship had access to this gig?” he asked, getting out.
“No sir, by specific instructions of Ms. Smith, only their own employees. She was very firm.” He cleared his throat. “You’re being a detective, I judged it was necessary to the case to allow your inspection.”
“Indeed. Let’s move along to the engine.”
Though he’d visited before on his first inspection, the space had been filled with workers scurrying to fix the damage. It was quiet now.
“Henry’s been hard at work trying to get her in order,” Captain Blancart said.
Something small rolled under the detective’s foot and he had to catch himself before he slipped. He squinted through the poor lighting to see what he slipped on.
“Alright, Daniels?”
“Fine.”
Dirt? Stones maybe? It ain’t prairie coal.
Daniels crouched down and ran his fingers over the concrete. It took him some sweeping, but eventually his fingers caught several hard, round, somethings… He picked them up to inspect. Beads, they were light gold beads, tiny enough to be mistaken for dirt.
“What’s that you found?” asked Captain Blancart.
“Nothing.” Daniels got to his feet and tucked the beads in his pocket. Captain Blancart brought him to the engine and Daniels looked it over. He had no idea how engines worked, so he wasn’t sure he’d notice if something was indeed amiss. His eyes grazed downward, spying several more nearly invisible specks scattered across the ground.
“Thank you, captain, I’ve seen enough. Please take me Ms. Smith’s cabin.”
Thank you for reading Part 1 of “The Spokes of Wheels & Co.” The end of this mystery on the Atlantic will be released on Saturday, August 7th.
In the meantime, if you’re looking for something else to read, consider becoming a subscriber to this newsletter ($5 a month, $60 a year) to find out what happened to Jean and her friends in “Refurbished”. The next installment will be released in two weeks on Saturday, July 17th.
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