Murder At The Tindari E-Book

Connie L. Beckett

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Kansas City, 1922: a hub of jazz music and the mob. While the Kansas side of the city had Carrie Nation and prohibition, on the Missouri side the Irish Pendergast brothers kept the liquor flowing.

Claire O'Connor is a young newspaper reporter, hungry to find her next big case. While interviewing Anthony Glaviano about his new restaurant, a man is cut down outside on the street.

Claire wants to solve the murder. Unknown to her, Anthony is keeping secrets from her, and the restaurant's true purpose is something completely different. The two begin an affair, but soon, a handsome detective begins blackmailing Claire about the Glaviano family and their criminal dealings, and Claire needs to decide where her loyalties lie.

Connie L. Beckett's 'Murder At The Tindari' is a romantic mystery set in the early 20th century United States.

Leseprobe

MURDER AT THE TINDARI

CONNIE L. BECKETT

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 Connie L. Beckett

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Graham (Fading Street Services)

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful to have friends and colleagues with whom to share advice and encouragement on our various writing journeys. I am blessed to have a family who supports my writing obsession.

To my late grandmother, Bee Beckett, who worked as a newspaper reporter before she married. While writing this novel, I often wished I’d had the opportunity to ask her questions about the newspaper business of that era and her day-to-day activities.

PROLOGUE

Kansas City, Early December 1922

Anthony Glaviano quietly closed the hotel room door and rested his forehead against it, taking deep breaths.

"Damn, damn," he whispered into the darkened room, a familiar quake rattling his gut.

"Got yourself into another fix didn't you, cousin," came a voice from behind him.

Anthony whirled around, his heart thudding wildly even though his visitor this night wasn't unexpected.

"Damn you, Jack," Anthony growled.

Light from the streetlamps streaming through the half-opened drapes faintly illuminated Jack, dressed as dapper as ever, sitting in a high-backed chair.

Jack grinned. "Didn't leave such a good impression with that reporter gal. She seems to have caught your eye."

"Is that so?" snapped Anthony. "I wouldn't think such mortal things concerned you anymore."

"Just keeping in touch, little cousin."

Anthony went to the cocktail cart, poured half a tumbler of Scotch, and took a swig. He tipped more into the glass, stoppered the bottle, and without looking at Jack, told him, "I'm gonna run a hot bath. Stay or leave, it doesn't matter to me." With that, he picked up his drink, went into the bathroom, and shut the door behind him.

A few minutes later, soaking up to his chin in water hot enough to flush his olive skin, Anthony thought back over the afternoon. The reporter—female for God's sake, what was this country coming to—had called him a few days earlier asking to interview him about Tindari, the new restaurant he and his partners had recently opened.

A restaurant had seemed like a great opportunity; it was located in a perfect spot in downtown Kansas City, on the Missouri side of the line, naturally, since that damn Carrie Nation and her ilk had fouled the liquor trade in the prudish Kansas side of the city. Their location near Nineteenth and Vine Streets—an area fast becoming a favored nightlife spot—was also perfect since what the orchestras were calling Jazz seemed to be gaining an audience eager for music and dancing. And it wasn't just the Negros who were drawn by the Jazzy beats; the whites liked it, too.

The more important reason for opening the digs, of course, was that it was a perfect ploy to launder money gained through the Sicilian enterprise his father, Big Tony Glaviano, ran. Not that Anthony had any choice in the matter. What Big Tony wanted, Big Tony got. That was true whether you were family or foe.

CHAPTERONE

Anthony and the reporter, Claire O'Connor, had set a date to meet in the early afternoon. She had a husky but lyrical voice over the phone, so Anthony envisioned a large-boned, unattractive woman with cropped hair and dressed in clothes more suited for a man. After all, what respectable woman would want to work in the newspaper business, much less meet a man she didn't know in such a randy area of the city?

Sitting at a back table in the Tindari, Anthony tapped the ash off his cigarette and looked at his watch. They had set three o’clock to meet. It was five minutes before the hour. The reporter had claimed the newspaper had a deadline for the next day's edition and would need to meet him early so she could write the story before said deadline. That was fine with him. At this early hour, the place was mostly empty. Behind the bar, Jimmy was busy lining up clean glasses and cutting limes in preparation for the evening crowd.

Anthony took a drink of the gin and tonic before him, took a drag off his cigarette, and looked around to make sure the place was clean and ready for customers. At first, he didn’t notice the maître d' escorting a woman in his direction.

A young woman wanting maid work in the upstairs rooms was his first impression, but as they came closer, he realized this was no humble maid.

The young woman was beautiful with fair skin and bobbed auburn hair peeking out from below a stylish hat. When she removed her wrap, he could see she had pert breasts and a slender waist above the swell of hips that disappeared beneath a slim-fitting skirt. He began calculating a way to waylay the reporter he anticipated would soon interrupt his efforts with this delightful gal when the maître d' made an announcement with a skeptical expression on his face.

"Mr. Glaviano, this woman says she has an appointment with you."

Anthony stood, a pleasant tingle starting low in his belly.

"Claire O'Connor," she said, stepping forward and putting out a hand. "We had a three o'clock appointment, I believe."

Anthony couldn’t croak a word from his suddenly tight throat.

She watched him, an amused look on her face and a hand still extended.

Finally, Anthony's world began to spin again, and he clasped her hand, feeling like he never wanted to let go. He could smell her powdery fragrance, felt the warmth of her palm against his. Drowned in those beautiful jade-green eyes.

After an eternity, he pulled his hand away and bumbled out, "Miss O'Connor, a pleasure to meet you. Please have a seat."

CHAPTERTWO

At her place in the reporters' pen filled with its desks, the chatter of voices on the phone, and typewriters clacking, Claire O'Conner smoothed her hair before setting her new cloche cap atop her head.

"I'd send Peterson along with you, but he's doing the photos for this morning's bank robbery at National with Hamilton and it's clear across town," said her boss, Harry Dudley, as he walked up to stand beside her desk.

"I'll be fine, Mr. Dudley," she told him, although she'd never been to this part of town. It wasn’t a safe area for a young, unaccompanied woman to wander about alone, and she worried Mr. Dudley could hear the knock of her knees under the wool skirt.

Harry Dudley pulled the cigar from his mouth and gave her a thorough look-over. "It's daylight and not much goes on over there in the afternoon. You should be fine. Get the five Ws and get back as soon as you can."

It was the standard reporter instruction—who, what, when, where, why, and how—that Claire knew well enough.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Dudley," she told him, flashing her most confident smile. With only a tiny quaver of her hand, she picked up her notebook and pencil and made her way out. This could be the first of more newsworthy stories, and the prospect thrilled her. Of course, it depended on whether the editors liked what she wrote or not.

On the way to the Tindari, Claire tried to review her notes about the new restaurant and the questions she had penciled in the notebook one last time, but her mind wandered.

She was grateful Mr. Dudley had hired her, but she had longed—had begged, really—for more newsworthy stories. More like covering the armed robbery that had taken place just this morning at National Bank. Sam Hamilton and Mark Peterson had been assigned to that story. She, on the other hand, had been covering young ladies' coming out dances and society women's causes. This was something slightly more interesting thankfully; the opening of a grand new restaurant. At least it wasn't writing up birth notices and obituaries. For that she could thank the fact that Mr. Dudley had been high school pals with her dad, Tag O'Connor.

"We're here, Miss O'Connor," said Clyde, the old Negro driver the newspaper hired to shepherd around reporters to various locations.

"Thank you, Clyde," she told him and stepped out of the car. It was early December, and she tightened her coat against the icy wind. "Come back by to pick me up in, say, forty-five minutes."

"Will do, Miss," he said, touching the brim of his hat.

The maître d' led Claire past unoccupied tables set with white tablecloths and place settings ready for the dinner crowd to arrive, to a man sitting alone at a table. Even in the low lighting, she could see he was handsome with black hair, warm brown skin, strong Sicilian features, and sensual lips.

Her heart did a flip when her gaze alighted on those lips. He looked a few years older than her twenty but still he seemed too young to be a proprietor of a business such as this. Mentally, she added a question of how he came to buy such an establishment to her list of questions.

When he stood to greet Claire, a strange expression darted over his face. Was he one of those traditional men who believed a woman's work only involved catering to a husband and the care of children? She had spoken to him on the phone so why the surprise.

Finally, he crooked a smile and shook her proffered hand, holding it a moment longer than might be considered polite. As they took their seats, he seemed flustered, having had to retrieve the cloth napkin that fell from his lap when he stood to greet her. Whatever the reason for his discomfort, Claire could use it to her advantage. It made her feel a little more confident. She took a seat, squared her shoulders, placed her notebook on the table, and opened it to a blank page.

They chattered for a few minutes about the weather and the upcoming holidays. Then it was time for the first topic: who was this new owner?

"Tell me a little about yourself," she asked Anthony after the bartender set drinks on the table; hot tea for her and another of what he had been drinking for Anthony.

He smiled, took a sip. "What do you want to know?"

"Do you own as well as manage the Tindari?"

"Me and silent partners."

Pencil poised over the paper, Claire asked, "Who are the silent partners?"

Anthony gave that grin again, the one that hinted of a private amusement. "They are silent partners. That means they don't want to identify themselves."

Claire felt herself blush. It was a novice's mistake and it made her feel she had lost a little ground in the interview.

Anthony tapped a pack of cigarettes against the tabletop but didn't take one out.

Claire gave him her most confident smile and said, "Tell me about yourself then."

He shrugged. "I came back to my hometown after the war ended, searched around for a business opportunity, and saw it as a good opportunity…a nice place in a good location, seeing how this part of the city is hopping."

She nodded. It was true. When she was able to escape the controlling thumb of her mother, she and her friend, Josie, and Josie's older brother and his wife went to a nearby dinner club to listen to music. The jazzy mash of trumpets, saxophones, piano, and clarinet, along with the thrum of drums and double bass would jitter through her blood.

"Tell me about Tindari and what the restaurant offers. It's an unusual name. How did you arrive at it?" Claire asked, even though Anthony's answer about who he was hadn't told her much. It was a topic she decided to put aside and pursue later in the interview.

"My family came from Sicily. My father visited the town of Tindari as a child and has fond memories of it. He suggested we name the restaurant after it. Now, to your second question. We've been in business since September. We're located close enough to the jazz clubs that we get patrons both before and during the hours they are open. Our head chef trained in Europe and Italy. Jimmy over there," he pointed to the bartender who gave a little wave, "has a grand selection of liquors, beer, and wine not easily found in other clubs." He leaned over the table to add conspiratorially, "Those bottles, of course, we keep out of sight."

Claire made a note of what he said. Even with her eyes on the paper, she could feel his penetrating gaze as he watched her write. It both annoyed and thrilled her.

"You mentioned liquor. There are, of course, prohibition laws. How does that affect your business?"

Anthony snorted. "A few streets over is the dry Kansas border. Works dandy for us here in Missouri where we are wide open, and it's a short trip for our Kansas patrons. I don't see prohibition lasting long. The war is over, the economy is booming, people are getting rich. Those Washington blokes shouldn't risk slowing the recovery."

Claire wasn't so certain. Her family lived on the Kansas side and were Baptists. No liquor was ever served in the home under her mother's stern eye, and stories of ruined lives caused by demon drink were told and retold among her parents' friends. Looking around at the empty restaurant, she asked, "I don't see a dance floor. Do you have plans to expand and add live music?"

Anthony thought for a minute and then answered. "Maybe in the future but there are no such plans now."

"And that's your silent partners' opinion, too?" Claire was still curious about these anonymous people. She would need to make a call to the Missouri capital to ask about business records.

Anthony shook a finger at her and grinned. "That, doll, would be a matter to keep between us partners."

She started to say something about being called a doll. She was a professional woman after all but stopped. Time for the where question.

"You're right. This is a good location. What made you pick it?"

"Because it's where the action is, as you yourself said."

"You bought the building?" Claire asked. "I noticed there are floors above the club. Or do you simply rent the space?"

For the first time, a cloud passed over his face replacing the cocky expression.

"It was available," he answered simply.

Frustrated by his cryptic answers, Claire looked at the notes she’d made so far. Really, there was nothing of substance for her story. Sure, he had answered her questions, but the answers had been bland with no details or enthusiasm. At least it seemed that way to her, compared to the effusiveness of interviews with the mothers and young women preparing for coming-out events that she was used to. She looked up and sighed.

"So, Mr. Glaviano, why a restaurant versus so many other businesses you could have opened? Especially, with the enactment of federal prohibition laws."

A puzzled expression flashed across his face. She had expected him to say it had always been a dream of his, or that he loved the jazz scene, or here was an opportunity to take advantage of the new lifestyle that had developed after the war ended. Something that showed his motivation other than the boring answers he had given so far.

"I guess I never thought much…."

His attention spun away from her. Something outside on the street had caught his eye. Claire followed his gaze to see what it was. A large black motorcar had pulled up next to the walkway in front of the Tindari. First out of the chauffeured touring car, and not very gracefully, came a portly man with silvered hair. He was dressed in a dark, somber suit and coat. He offered a hand to someone inside and a delicate hand took his. It was followed by the face of an exotic-looking woman with dark bobbed hair and enormous eyes. One long leg snaked out from beneath a short red, shimmery skirt. Leading that leg was a slender foot in a high-heeled, strappy, blood-red shoe. As more came into view, Claire could see she had a white ermine cape wrapped around her shoulders. Claire turned to look back at Anthony on the far side of the table. He sat rigid, watching the couple disembark. Was the gentleman someone he knew or was it the woman who had captured his attention? Was this man one of the silent partners? If that was it, why the tension?

Anthony was still focused on the couple, so Claire turned again to watch the activity.

The woman had nearly completed her exit when a sleek coupe quickly pulled up behind them.

There was a burst of activity as men holding pistols sprang from both doors. They raced toward the couple with guns extended. The man shouted something Claire couldn't understand and shoved the woman back inside. Just as he tried scrambling back into the car to join her, gunshots rang out.

Claire heard a distinctive pop, pop, pop. Suddenly, Anthony roughly pulled her down to the floor and shoved her under the table, his body between hers and the action on the street.

Another pop rang out, along with the sound of pounding feet and the screech of tires.

"Stay here," hissed Anthony, pushing Claire deeper under the table and dropping the tablecloth to hide her.

Claire heard panting and realized it was her own quick breaths. Blood roared in her ears. Street noise erupted when someone opened the restaurant door.

"Jimmy, telephone my father," Anthony shouted. The door closed, and she heard a clatter as the bartender picked up the phone receiver and ordered the operator to dial a number.

Claire's heart pounded and heat flooded through her. With a shaky hand, she lifted a corner of the tablecloth to look, but all she could see through the window from her position on the floor was Anthony's head as he bent over to look at something on the ground.

CHAPTERTHREE

For a time—seconds or minutes, Claire couldn't figure out—the only sounds she heard were her own ragged breathing and Jimmy's low voice over the phone. Just then, the shrill sound of a police whistle broke the quiet. She scrambled out from under the table just as Jimmy hung up the phone and hurried to the door to see what was going on out on the street.

Quickly, Claire grabbed her reporter's notebook and pencil from the floor where they had fallen in the scramble and rushed to one of the windows that overlooked the street. The man who had exited the chauffeured automobile lay on the pavement in the center of a spreading pool of blood. Claire gasped and felt her stomach roil. She had never seen a dead person, but judging by his stillness, and half-opened eyes, this man was surely dead. And the blood, so much blood.

The car's back door had been opened on the street side, opposite the dead man. Claire could see Anthony, kneeling on the seat, assisting a police officer who was pulling a person out. It was the lady in the ermine cape, Claire realized when she saw glimpses of white and red as they worked to ease her out.

Claire started to sketch the scene, but her hands shook, and the lines of the drawing were jagged. She stopped, took a deep breath, and clenched and unclenched her writing hand in an effort to steady her nerves. Calmer, she began again, grateful that her mother had insisted on her taking art lessons.

"Miss, Miss, I need to get you away before the nosey coppers come in and start asking questions."

Engrossed in the sketch, Claire flinched, startled. She turned away from the window and found Jimmy at her side.

"Here," he told her, pointing past the bar. "There's a back way out. You have a driver waiting for you?"

"Yes. I mean, I don't know." She had told Clyde to pick her up in forty-five minutes. How long had it been? Would the cautious Clyde even venture down the street if he saw all the police activity?

"I'd better. Well…" Claire straightened her spine. "I'd better call my editor, tell him I'm all right so he won't worry." Call the story into Mr. Dudley she meant, but she wasn't going to tell Jimmy that.

"Be quick," Jimmy hissed, going over to look out the other window.

Claire rushed to the phone, picked up the receiver, and asked the operator to place a call to the newspaper.

"Number, please," the operator said.

The number. What was the number? The fog cleared, and Claire gave the operator the number.

"Dudley, here," the editor said when the call was answered. Claire practically swooned with relief at the sound of his raspy voice. She turned so her back was to Jimmy. No need for him to overhear their conversation.

"Mr. Dudley, this is Claire. I was at the Tindari talking to the proprietor, and there was a shooting outside in the street."

She listened, heart still racing.

"No, no, I'm fine but I need to call in the story. If there's time before the deadline." She told him what happened, only leaving out the part about Anthony shoving her under the table.

Hearing the phone receiver bang back into its cradle, Jimmy moved toward her, ready to escort her out the back door.

The escape came too late.

The club door opened, and a policeman stepped inside.

"Halt right there," he commanded.

"Rats!" Jimmy hissed.

CHAPTERFOUR

An automobile had come and gone with the ermine-caped woman by the time two officers came inside to interview the witnesses. An Officer Johnson pulled Jimmy to one side of the club. A second one, Detective Wells he had told Claire, took her to a table on the opposite side. She sat gratefully, only then aware that her legs were still quaking.

"Who are you?" Wells asked before she had properly arranged herself on the chair.

Claire's anger flared at his rudeness. "Claire O'Connor," she snapped.

He wrote her name in his own notebook. "Well, Miss O'Connor, what were you doing here?"

His eyes took all of her in, from the fashionable hat she worried had become crooked in the excitement, to her modern attire. Then his blue eyes met hers and bored in. Did he think she was a common bar prostitute? How dare he.

"If you must know, I'm a reporter for the Kansas City Times. I was here on a story."

"What story?"

"The opening of this new restaurant, of course." She grew weary of his insolence. She was a career woman, not some twit or a chambermaid he could intimidate. If he wasn't so—she had to admit it—handsome and manly—she would have told him to talk to her editor and just walked out. His hair was sandy blond with just a hint of red. And then there were his eyes. They were the dark blue of a prairie storm cloud.

Detective Wells leaned back, took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, lit one from a pack of matches that sat beside the ashtray on the tabletop, and pulled the smoke deep into his lungs.

The change of tone from aggressive to contemplative took Claire off her stride.

"Want one?" he asked, holding out the pack to her.

Lord, yes, she did. "Thank you," she said, trying not to appear too eager when she took the one he tapped out of the pack.

Wells struck a match and lit Claire's cigarette, cupping a hand around hers to hold it steady. His touch unnerved her, and she worked to hold the cig still. She took a deep drag and coughed.

Damn it.

Wells laughed. "Not a regular habit, I suspect."

Claire glared at him and took another drag for spite. Truth was, she didn't smoke much. Not because her mother hated the habit, although that was a part of it. No, it was because her friend Josie smoked. Plus, she was not fond of the taste. But, on this horrible day, Claire needed the calming effect it gave.

"Back to where we were," Wells said. "You were here on assignment. Who did you talk to?"

"Mr. Glaviano," she said.

"Anthony," Wells said, a sour look crossing his face. "And just how long had you been talking to Mr. Glaviano?"

"I don't know for sure. Ten or fifteen minutes, I'd say."

"Then what happened?"

Claire put the cigarette to her lips and thought. How much should she tell this copper? If Mr. Dudley had been able to write the story she had called into the paper before the presses started printing, would the secrecy even matter?

"Well?"

Claire took a deep breath and started. "An automobile pulled up. A man and a woman were disembarking when another one pulled up behind it. A couple of men came out with guns and went running toward the man and lady. I heard shots and ducked down."

"Where was Little Tony when this happened?"

"Little Tony?" Claire asked, puzzled.

"Anthony."

"Oh. We were both at the table over there." She pointed to where she and Anthony had been sitting. The tablecloth was pulled halfway off, and his glass was on its side and dangerously close to the edge.

"Did Anthony fire off a shot?"

Claire frowned, thinking. "No. It happened too fast. The second car pulled up, men jumped out shooting, and then they sped away."

"And Little Tony, I mean Anthony Glaviano, where was he as they fled?"

"He had shoved me under the table," she said, grimacing at the admission. "It wasn't until after I heard the car squeal away that he went to the door."

"Are you sure?" Wells said, leaning forward to stare at her.

The man was back to being rude. She was telling the truth. Why so skeptical? She narrowed her eyes and bent toward him, mirroring his movement. "I'm sure."

"What did the two shooters look like?" he asked, changing the subject.

Claire shrugged. "I didn't get a good look."

"Seeing as how you were hiding under the table," Wells snarked.

Claire held her silence and glared.

"What about the car?"

"Didn't get a good look," she repeated. It had been a black coupe, but she was tired of this officer, and from the day's events.

Claire had been focused on Wells, but now she looked out the window. All she could see were officers milling around the first car. The dead man, if he was still there, was below her line of sight. Anthony was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone? At some point she would need to finish the interview so she could write the story.

"So, you're a reporter?" the detective asked, again changing the subject.

"I told you I was."

"What was the story you were writing?"