The Fruitcake Murders. Ace Collins
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“the money still being here means that it was likely not a robbery either. I just don’t see this as being connected to Delono.”
“Tiffany, other than your fake Santas, who else had a motive?”
“Maybe,” she suggested, “our visit to the address on Elmwood will give us some insight into that.” She smiled, reached over, and patted the attaché, “You got a plan, Skipper?”
“Of course,” he growled, “and don’t call me Skipper!”
“Hey,” Tiff laughed, “if you think I’m ever going to forget what you did to us in that rowboat you’re sadly mistaken.”
Lane shook his head, grabbed his hat, and walked toward the door. It was not the time to relive a past adventure that ended badly; instead it was time to play Santa and deliver a gift he hoped didn’t explode in their faces.
Chapter 5
5
Wednesday, December 18, 1946
11:02 p.m.
It’s all set,” McCoy Rawlings announced as he placed the phone back into its cradle. While waiting for a response, the six-foot, three-inch ruggedly good-looking man walked over to an end table and twisted a knob on a Zenith desktop radio. The dial’s light immediately popped on and thirty seconds later the walnut-encased box’s speaker came to life. While tapping his fingers on the wooden tabletop, Rawlings listened to the second verse of Perry Como singing “Winter Wonderland.” Only after the decade-old holiday hit concluded did he turn back and study his visitor.
In the shadows beside the small living room’s one door, dressed in a gray wool overcoat turned up at the neck and sporting a matching fedora pulled low over his face, a short, thin brooding man stood stone still and mute. His motionless hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets and a cigarette hung from his lips, its smoke drifting lazily toward the ceiling giving the only indication that Richard Delono was alive.
Delono was a crime lord or a “boss” as the newspapers described him. He was by nature and profession ruthless and cold. For this Chicago native, the only lives that had any real value were those belonging to him and his family. His voice registered in the tenor-range and his slow, deliberate delivery was crisp and grating. He dressed, ate, and lived well, but rarely smiled. He fancied himself looking like Humphrey Bogart but in truth was closer to Bela Lugosi and, like the character that actor was famed for playing, Delono was a creature of the darkness.
Though there was no hint of emotion etched on Delono’s face, Rawlings figured “The King of the Underworld” must have been pleased with the news that’d just been shared. After all, for weeks Delono’s main goal had been tracking down the blonde. Still, even if he was satisfied that his goal had been realized, the man with the dark eyes and pencil-thin mustache didn’t reveal it. He remained stiff and silent until Como’s song finished and Nat King Cole’s new hit, “The Christmas Song,” began.
“Mr. Rawlings,” the guest began, his voice so quiet as to almost not be audible over the music, “what do you think of that recording?”
“The one by Nat?”
“Yes.”
“I like it,” Rawlings admitted.
“Why?” the visitor demanded.
Rawlings shrugged, “I guess, Mr. Delono, because it mentions so many of the things that make Christmas special to me. I like thinking about the way kids look forward to Santa, a nip in the air, snow on the ground, and the sighting of reindeer. So even though I’ve never eaten a chestnut, for me that song captures a lot of magic in its few short verses.”
Delono nodded, reached up to his mouth, took the cigarette from his lips, dropped the still-burning butt into an ashtray, and moved toward the door. It looked as though he was about to make an exit until he paused while reaching for the brass knob and slowly glanced back to his host. The words he spoke hung in the air like a summer fog. “McCoy, there’s only one way this Christmas will be merry at my house, and that’s if you do your job tonight.”
“Can I ask,” Rawlings quietly inquired as he considered what was obviously meant as a warning, “why this dame means so much to you?”
“Do you need to know?” Delono asked. “Will it matter as to how you do your job? I mean, a man working on a Detroit assembly line doesn’t know who is going to buy the car he’s making or why he chose that one over a dozen other models.”
“No,” Rawlings admitted, “you’ve paid me well and the money that Elrod is adding to the kitty is more than enough bonus, so, in truth, I don’t really need to know. I’ll assure you my knowing or not won’t matter when it comes to my work. I’ll snuff out and get rid of the mark even if I don’t know the reason I am doing it, but—”
Delono, his dark eyes glowing, cut Rawlings off before he could finish his question. “You don’t need or want to know the whys. Too much knowledge only gets people in trouble. Just do your job and send me the proof that you’ve done it.”
“Will a photo do?” Rawlings asked.
The underworld king nodded. “A photo and that blue jade ring she always wears. It’s the only one like it, and she never takes it off. You mail those two things to the post office box I gave you and then you get back to the West Coast. After you finish here I never want to see you again.”
As he considered what was obviously a threat more than a suggestion, Rawlings nodded, walked over to the radio, and switched it off. Reaching into his coat’s side pocket, he fingered a thick stack of bills before turning back to his guest. “Ten thousand is a chunk of change; she must mean a great deal to you.”
“Let’s just call her a present,” Delono countered.
“A present?”
“McCoy, were you in the military?”
“Yeah, Marines,” Rawlings admitted, his tone displaying a hint of pride. “I fought in the Pacific.”
Delono smiled, “And what was the value of a man’s life in the war?”
“I cared a lot about my own,” Rawlings truthfully answered.
“What about the enemy?” the guest asked. “Or what about a fellow soldier who took a bullet intended for you? What were their lives worth when compared to yours?”
“When compared to mine?”
“Yes.”
“About a plug nickel,” Rawlings explained. “I was no hero, just a man trying to stay alive. My skin was much more important to me than anything or anyone else.”
“Well,” Delono explained, “this woman has great value to me only because she has great value to someone I need in my camp.”
The host nodded, “And who is that?”
“You don’t need to know,” Delono explained. “All you need to keep in mind is that the blonde needs to be silenced. When her lips no longer move, when she can no longer tell what she knows, then she has no value to anyone. Her silence is the greatest present I can give this year.”
Delono’s words were cryptic, hiding much more than they revealed. As Rawlings turned them over in his head, he quipped, “You said give not get. I’m not following you. I thought I was doing this for you. After all, it’s your money and you hired me.”
The visitor smiled, “Don’t you know it is always better to give than receive? That’s the great lesson of this season.” Delono pulled his left hand from his pocket and ran his gloved fingers over his clean-shaven chin. “McCoy, I have a wonderful wife and five children. My oldest kid is in college and my youngest is just a third grader. This year I’ve spent thousands of dollars on their presents and can’t wait until Christmas Eve when we sit around our tree, sing a few carols, and open those gifts. That will be a day when I will make memories that I’ll never forget. So therefore it