The Bachelor Girl's Guide to Murder (8 page)

Jem turned toward home, a little apprehensive as she saw newsies hawking the evening edition of the
Hog
. Would Ray DeLuca have found a way to work their humiliating meeting into a headline?

She bought a copy of the
Hog
from a newsboy and flipped through it. Unless she missed it, there was nothing at all about a strange trouser-less girl.

Jem breathed relief as she trudged up the stairs to their flat. She passed the paper to Merinda, who demanded it as soon as she spotted it tucked under her friend's arm.

“Well.” Merinda stretched her legs out on the Persian carpet as she read. “He didn't get much more last night than any of the other reporters.” She waved a hand over several other newspapers strewn around the floor. Merinda had been examining them—quite closely, it would appear—since Jem had left for her shift that morning.

“Is there anything of interest?”

Merinda stretched. “I think the only thing of interest is the fact that Jasper is back on street patrol.”

“Poor Jasper. That
is
awful. We ought to do something.”

“Send a fruit basket?” Merinda huffed. “It's rotten luck for us. With Jasper gone, they won't throw us any good mysteries, and
then
what will we do with our time?” She flicked a fanned-out paper with the tip of her shoe.

“You could find a job.”

“Serious suggestions only, please.” She tilted her head. “Besides, I have a job. I am an investigator.”

Jem studied the paper and bit her tongue. Nothing could come from pointing out that it didn't count as a job unless one was paid.
Instead, she commented about her coworker. “Tippy was in a strange mood today.”

Sometimes Tippy came over for dinner or tea after a long day. Occasionally, the three went to see a Nickelodeon.

But Merinda wasn't paying attention. Something about the pictures of the young man holding a gun at the election party had caught her eye. “Fred O'Hare.”

“Who?”

“I told you last night. Fiona Byrne's fiancé.” She pointed, and Jem looked at the caption identifying him.

“What about him?”

Merinda skimmed the article and then looked up. “Get your things. We're going.”

Fred O'Hare was not a man who wanted to be found. But Jem and Merinda were determined, and soon they were in Corktown, following him up the street. Merinda tucked her walking stick under her arm and picked up her pace. Jem walked just at her heels. Without the restriction of skirts and stays they could easily cross the road and match his speed.

They caught up to him. “Stop, wait,” Merinda said.

Fred flinched. “I have no time for—” He squinted at them under their bowler hats. “Hang on. You're a girl! And so are you!”

“You didn't kill Fiona,” Merinda said.

He remained flummoxed. “I what? Yes! I mean, no! Of course not.”

“I know you were taken in for questioning,” Merinda said, “and I was there at the Elgin when… when Grace was killed.”

Fred cocked his head to the side, suddenly interested in what she had to say. “There's a coffee house just up here past Massey Hall,” he said.

Merinda and Jem followed him in, and they sat and ordered a pot of black coffee.

Fred twisted his tweed cap nervously in his calloused hands. “How do you know I didn't kill Fiona? I mean, I know I didn't, obviously. But the police aren't convinced, I fear.”

Merinda sipped her coffee. “I think it unlikely that the man who was enraged enough to risk his freedom by barging into Montague's soirée waving a pistol would be the same man who carried off the murders of two young women. You were filled with grief, I think, Mr. O'Hare. Blinded by it, as your impassioned presence at the theatre demonstrated.”

Fred stared ruefully into his coffee cup. “And what's it to you?”

“I'm investigating the Corktown murders for what they are,” Merinda said.

Fred sat very still, and Jem feared he might be preparing to stand and flee. But he stayed put. “They kept me in holding overnight. But they couldn't find a motive or any evidence, so they let me out.”

“The two girls were strangled,” Merinda said as calmly as if she were discussing the weather.

He seemed to shrink. “Yes. Fee and I were engaged for a year. I was so close to saving enough.”

“Did you suspect she was… familiar with any other men?”

The tips of Fred's ears flamed as red as his hair. He swallowed some of his anger with a long sip of coffee. “Of course not.” His voice croaked. “But she did go out.”

“She did?” Merinda leaned forward.

“Most Thursday evenings. To a dance hall on Elm Street. I went once or twice but I often worked the night shift. We were this close… ” A single tear snaked down his cheek, and Jem's heart clutched at the sight. “This close,” he repeated, looking between them, “to being able to afford a home of our own.”

When they got back home, Merinda made a note of the Elm Street Dance Hall on the chalkboard in the sitting room.

Jem was just happy to recline by the fire and read a book, far away from danger and murder suspects. But the wheels in Merinda's head were turning at a rapid pace.

In the tea room at Spenser's Department Store the next day, as Jem enjoyed her break, a delivery boy she only knew in passing stared up at her with a gapped-tooth smile and asked, “Hey, Jem! Isn't this your friend? This Merinda Herringford girl?”

“Yes, why?”

“You're two steps from famous. Think I'll hire you to find that fiver I lost on the shop floor last week.”

He handed her copy of the
Hog
. On the society and arts page was a small boxed advertisement:

Mystery or theft? No problem too big or too small for two lady detectives. Apply Herringford and Watts, 395 King St. West. Consultations and deductions for a reasonable fee.

Jem's jaw dropped. All of Toronto had her address. She flung the
Hog
away and spent the rest of her shift plotting how best to ream her lodgemate out when she returned home. When Tippy returned from her own tea break, she could barely suppress the laughter teasing the corners of her mouth and lighting her eyes.

Tippy smiled broadly. “You're a detective!”

“I am not!” Jem was adamant, and she dashed out as soon as she possibly could and sprinted to the nearest streetcar.

When she reached their flat, she saw a bold sign hanging in the front window:
Herringford and Watts: Lady Detectives for Consultation and Hire.

Jem bounded into the sitting room, already imagining the riffraff they'd collect from the street with such blatant advertisement. “Mer-in-
da!

“Jem! Isn't it wonderful? We're Sherlock and Watson.”

“We are nothing of the sort.” Jem tossed her coat at the longsuffering Mrs. Malone and wagged her finger at Merinda. “You can Sherlock all you want. I am starving and tired and I want to rip up that sign before half of the city is on our doorstep. How did you get the
Hog
to run the ad so quickly?”

“I paid DeLuca extra. Also, we really do need to give that fellow his coat and book and watch back.”

Jem flushed a little.

“He was so polite about it,” Merinda continued. “Gentlemanly enough to—listen to this—refer to you as nothing more than the odd hobo girl on the steps of the benefit.” She giggled. “Imagine his keeping that indiscretion to himself. The man I know from those muckraking pieces on the Don Jail would have hung you out to dry if it meant earning a few more pennies from the newsies on the Queen beat.”

“You talked to him?”

“I bartered. And here we are. An advertisement for our exciting new venture. A business! We'll start with the Corktown Murderer and then move to the top.”

“What did you give him in exchange?”

“The promise of his coat,” Merinda smirked. “Take his things by the
Hog
offices tomorrow, will you?”

By eight thirty that evening, it seemed that half the city was standing on their doorstep or chattering in their foyer. Jem helped Mrs. Malone move chairs from every corner of the house, and she and Merinda received their clients one at a time in the sitting room.

“Why does no one ask our qualifications?” Jem broke into one girl's soliloquy about a priceless family heirloom pilfered from her purse as she took it to the jewelers for appraisal. “Miss… Tremblant was it?”

“H-Harriet Tremblant.”

“Yes. Well, we are not qualified.” Jem thrust a finger in Merinda's direction.
“She
is not qualified.”

“H-how much do you charge?”

“For you? A first-time client?” Merinda was near bouncing out of her seat. “It's positively free!”

Harriet Tremblant clapped her hands.

By the end of the night, they had fifteen open cases. No one cared a smidge about credentials. They were lady detectives, after all, who could be trusted to handle delicate matters. When it came down to it, and despite all her reservations, Jem simply didn't have the heart to turn these girls away. Many of them came straight from the Ward, burdened with problems that pressed down their shoulders. Merinda had been right: The
Hog
did reach the widest number of readers. It was a rag, yes, and a cheap one at that. Two pennies cheaper than the
Globe and Mail
or the
Daily Telegraph
. But advertising with them was effective.

As the last girl was escorted out, Merinda gave a triumphant little dance. Jem still hadn't had any supper and her head positively ached from hunger. Her temper, too, had worn thin.

“Finally, something exciting!” Merinda yawned. “Don't forget to give DeLuca back his coat and notebook and watch tomorrow.”
*

“Merinda,” Jem said, “you cannot possibly think that we can help these girls. They trust us. We are not qualified.”

“Your parents cut you off,” Merinda said. “What else do you have to do with your time?”

“Gainful employment!”

“We have on more than one occasion given aid to the Toronto Constabulary.”

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