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DICK BYRNES RESTED in peace while organ music played in the background.
The church was packed. In the front pew, Darlene Byrnes sat straight-backed and unemotional. In contrast, her mother-in-law sniveled and sobbed. Three men resembling the deceased, no doubt his brothers, sat to the left of the elder Mrs. Byrnes and comforted her with handholds and grave expressions.
My entourage occupied a pew several rows back from the family. Immediately upon taking our seats, we became the recipients of sundry stares, some curious and others rude. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why. The wise guys could have stepped straight out of an Edward G. Robinson gangster film. A visibly injured private eye with swollen jaw and bloodstained shirt resembled a felon on the loose. And with missing buttons and half-bared breasts, the beauty among beasts could’ve been a gun-toting moll, as indeed I was, since the derringer was once again tucked safely inside my purse. We were a pitiful bunch, interlopers and gatecrashers who hadn’t come to grieve or comfort the family or mourn a life cut short. No, we were there for an ulterior motive.
I sat up with feigned dignity and returned every snide look with a haughty one of my own. Eventually, heads turned away.
The ceremony was about to begin. Altar boys entered in timed procession, filed down the center aisle, lit altar candles, and separated to either side of the closed casket.
Latecomers arrived.
The mayor strutted to the fore and paid his respects to the two Mrs. Byrneses.
Taking up the mayor’s rear as bodyguard and toady, Pennyroyal made eye contact with me before redirecting his face front and center.
Wearing a black pillbox hat and short veil, Shirley Wickham slipped into the church and excused herself past several mourners before sitting.
Tom Stacy bumbled inside and found a seat with a loud, “Excuse me,” and a louder, “Sorry,” followed by, “Great day for a funeral, huh?”
Attired in an unassuming suit, Delilah Lanz occupied a seat on the center aisle. With eyes in the back of her head, the current Mrs. Byrnes turned, regarded the ex-Mrs. Byrnes, and faced front with barely a change of expression.
Monica Seagraves floated like a wraith down the aisle, stared at me from beneath the brim of her picture hat, and found a seat upfront where everyone could admire her tearful profile.
Starr’s erstwhile inamorata and interrogator led the Li sisters to inconspicuous seats in back. The statuesque beauty, however, was anything but inconspicuous. Dressed in scarlet red, she had a special wink for Starr.
The organ music ended. The priest stepped out from the sacristy and approached the lily-drenched coffin. He brought his hands together and said, “Let us pray.”
Forty-five minutes later, pallbearers transported the coffin outside. Hot winds stirred. Wispy clouds offered scant relief from the summer sun. Mourners fanned programs and prayer cards at their faces. Everyone stood in respectful silence as the casket was loaded into the hearse. Cool and collected in a Coco Chanel hourglass suit, the widow seemed unaffected by the heat, humidity, and heartfelt sentiments bestowed upon her by friends and family.
Delilah expressed her condolences to both Mrs. Byrneses, who accepted the former Mrs. Byrnes’s sentiments with apathetic forbearance. When she strolled past me, we exchanged glances but didn’t speak. Picking up on our intrigues, Stacy trundled after her, pummeling her with questions and scratching her indifferent responses into his flip notebook. Monica and Shirley stood together, speaking very little but observing everything, including my oddball cohorts. Mayor Moore briefly drew Shirley aside, said something to her, and afterwards, ducked into his awaiting car. The Li sisters ran their eyes past me, directed rapt attention in Pennyroyal’s direction, and finally nodded subtly toward Monica Seagraves.
She was batting her eyelashes at a cub reporter from the Post-News when Pennyroyal closed in on her. “Monica Seagraves?”
“Lieutenant Pennyroyal?” she said in a teasing tone.
“You’re under arrest.” The inflection of his voice was anything but teasing.
“Ha-ha-ha, you’re a laugh a minute, Detective.”
“For the murders of Richard Byrnes, Crystal White aka Cynthia Whitehead, and John Phineas Kirk.” His declaration struck a note of sobriety for everyone present except Monica. The mourners exclaimed and drew away while she giggled. Pennyroyal reached back and detached a pair of shiny handcuffs from his belt.
“This is a joke, right?” Embarrassment replaced the giggles. She leaned close to him and whispered behind a deflecting hand. “Pascal? What’s going on?”
In a booming voice, Pennyroyal said, “Do you deny that you posed as one Persia Delight aka Constance Holt?”
“What’s going on?” Her voice was barely audible.
“At an establishment known as the Big Dive?”
“Pascal ... this is me you’re talking to ... Monica.”
“And that you own a cat going by the name of Kitty Cat?” Pennyroyal slapped the handcuffs around her wrists.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He grabbed her elbow. “A cat known to belong to the murderer.”
“For chrissakes! I’m not a murderer!”
“A cat for which you offered a reward of ten bucks plus sexual favors.”
“I was only trying to help a little girl find her kitty.”
“Which cat you left behind in your rush to vacate the scene of the crime.” He marched her towards an awaiting squad car.
“You’re out of your goddamn mind!”
Pennyroyal faced her, his expression unreadable and his dark eyes menacing. “After shooting Dick Byrnes pointblank between the eyes with a .38-caliber pistol.”
“Oh, my God,” Monica muttered. “OH, MY GOD!”
Pennyroyal shoved her into the back seat and slammed the door shut. She pressed her face against the window. The squad car roared off. Centrifugal force jerked her away from the window.
Eyes narrow, the Li sisters stared after the black-and-white as it whipped to the end of the block and turned the corner. Minna gazed at her sister. They both shook their heads in grief.
Aghast by what had just happened, the mourners murmured, too shocked to express anything more than bewilderment.
Shirley Wickham broke the morbid mood with a terse observation. “Thank goodness that’s over with. Maybe now everything can get back to normal.” She strolled towards a ’55 Ford Fairlane, climbed inside, and drove off.
Even though justice had been served in the name of the slain husband she was about to bury, Darlene Byrnes appeared unmoved. Her only reaction was to stare down the street, as immobile as a statue and just as bloodless. Either she was too overwhelmed with grief to care, or else she hid her emotions well, perhaps too well. The same could be said for the elder Mrs. Byrnes, who stared blankly through a mask of sorrow. Just like her daughter-in-law, she had been bled dry of tears. She was past grieving. Perhaps both women were past grieving. They didn’t give a damn that a murderer had just been arrested. They only knew they were saying goodbye to husband and son, and nothing could bring him back from the grave.
The Li sisters regarded each other uneasily. Just as Pennyroyal was about to get into his car, they chased after him. “Detective Pennyroyal ...”
“Miss Minna. Miss Ada. You’ll have to come downtown and make a statement.”
Chewing her lower lip, Minna glanced anxiously at her sister. “Must we?”
“It’s just a formality.”
Ada mirrored her sister’s uneasiness. “What will happen to her?”
“She won’t get a chance to kill anyone else.” He tipped his hat. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies.”
“But ...” Ada reached out a hand to delay him. “She seemed like such a nice girl.”
A shadow fell over his eyes. Even the hard-nosed cop inside the calculating detective could have misgivings. “She did, didn’t she?” He blinked in the direction the squad car had taken. Nodded with regret. Then nodded again, this time with conviction. He tipped his fedora and turned away, but not before acknowledging me with a curt nod. It was the closest to a thank you I would ever get for helping him solve the case of the green-eyed dick. Moments later, the Star Chief sped away, burning rubber from the curb.
Darlene Byrnes shook the hand of the priest. Mourners climbed into their automobiles and formed a caravan behind the hearse. Starr and the rest of our merry band piled into the Imperial. After we settled into our usual seats, Centanni scratched his head and asked, “Scusi, but what just happened?”
“The Li sisters just fingered Dick Byrnes’s killer.”
“La donna paffuto con il cappello grande?”
“She misled you. She misled everybody.”
“Scusi again. My English isn’t so good. But why did she kill him?”
“Because he wouldn’t cough up the dossier.”
He tilted his head. “Why didn’t he ... as you say ... cough it up?”
“Because the dossier doesn’t exist.”
He punched the heel of his hand against his forehead. “I don’t believe.”
“Believe.”
“Then why all this?” He flourished an arm. “Everybody chasing everybody else?”
“Byrnes started the rumor about the dossier to cover up his dates with a beautiful girl.”
“He had a woman? On the side? Like a spare tire?”
“At the Big Dive.”
“In Italy, every man has a mantenuta ... a kept woman. The wife winks. The children don’t know. Everybody happy.”
“Not in America.”
“Never will I understand Americans,” he said, shaking his head with regret. “Tell me. How did la donna paffuto do it?”
“By infiltrating the Big Dive as their newest girl.”
“Ah,” he said, “and when Byrnes gets together with his regular puttana―”
“She waltzes into the love nest, whacks the girl unconscious, and demands the dossier at the point of a .38. Probably she didn’t mean to kill him. Or maybe she did. The result was the same. A bullet to the brain.”
“Got a lot of chutzpah, this Monica.” He folded his forehead in thought. Eventually his eyes lit up. He grinned. “Maybe he had the dossier. Maybe he gives it to her. Maybe she kills him anyway. To keep it secret. So she can have, what you call, an exclusive. Or maybe the puttana had the dossier. Maybe the fat man. Maybe the Li sisters. They’re cunning, those two.”
“Maybe a lot of mayby’s.”
“And so,” he said, tapping his chin and thinking aloud, “one killing leads to two, no? And to three.”
“Once a killer smells blood, it gets easier the next time ... and the next.”
This was something the wise guys could appreciate. Their eyes drew a bead on me. They were considering me with fresh eyes. As the daughter of John Grenadine, I learned a thing or two growing up. Everyone, including my father, assumed I was having a normal childhood. They were wrong. The bedtime stories of my friends were fairy tales. Mine were real.
“Still can’t believe la donna paffuto is the killer. She molto bella.” He cupped his hands at chest level.
“Some reporters will do anything to get a story.”
He pointed a finger at me. “You?”
“I have more integrity than Monica Seagraves.”
“Peccato. I was hoping you were a bad girl.”
“I am a bad girl. Just not that kind of a bad girl.”
“Does this mean our engagement is off?”
“Not for a hundred years would I ever marry you, Armand Centanni.”
Crestfallen, he pouted. His posture slumped. His eyes blackened. “You lead me on. You make me hope. You break my heart.” With a soulful sigh, he tugged the fedora over his eyes, folded his arms, and settled back for a snooze. So much for true love.
Ratmeat dropped us off at Chess Records. During the final farewells, Centanni gave our engagement one last try and tried to mash me. I kneed him in the groin. Munson got a kick out of his partner’s yowls. Centanni kicked him in the balls. Ratmeat said, “Sheesh,” rolled up the windows, locked the doors, and stranded both wise guys.
