Isabel Feeney, Star Reporter by Beth Fantaskey
I stole a peek at Detective Culhane, who sat stiffly next to me, his eyes trained on the judge, although he must’ve heard similar spiels a hundred times before.
Why couldn’t somebody like him, who I might not always like but who definitely exuded confidence, be on the case protecting Miss Giddings?
I tapped Maude’s arm, and she glanced down at me, whispering, “What, Isabel?”
“That lawyer looks awfully young,” I observed. “Do you know him?”
“Yes, yes I do,” she said.
“And . . .”
Maude frowned. “I’m . . . I’m sure he’ll do his best.”
That was all she said. It was all she needed to say. We both faced forward again, and I saw Miss Giddings nod at some comment by her incompetent attorney. She was hunched over, her body drowning in the pretty dress Flora had chosen. A few weeks earlier Miss Giddings would’ve had every man’s attention in that frock, but now it hung on her skinny frame. And if she’d had her hair done, as Flora had suggested, it didn’t show. Her curls were limp, the shade nearly as mousy as mine.
And speaking of Flora . . .
All at once I realized that somebody important was missing from the room.
A girl who seldom passed up a chance to be in the spotlight, even if it meant exploiting the fact that she was an orphan.
Just as I started to wonder if Flora Bessemer would actually skip the trial of her father’s accused killer, maybe because she’d already found Miss Giddings innocent, the big double doors at the back of the room swung open wide, so everyone, including the judge, shifted to see a future film actress make her—of course—dramatic entrance.
Chapter 90
“MISS!” THE BAILIFF CALLED, TRYING TO CATCH FLORA’S arm and stop her from entering the room, which was already beyond capacity. Detective Culhane, Maude, and I were squeezed into a spot that had previously been occupied by only two people. “Wait!”
Needless to say, Uncle Carl—part chauffeur, part bodyguard—wasn’t going to let his “delicate” little charge get grabbed, and he stepped wordlessly between the bailiff and Flora, giving her a chance to tell the court officer, in her best “actress” voice, which just happened to project to everyone in the room, “Surely you can’t deny me a seat at this trial! I’m Charles Bessemer’s daughter!”
Most folks in the courtroom probably knew who Flora was, but it was such an exciting moment that a lot of people gasped at that revelation.
Heck, I gasped a little. It was like a scene from a play or a film.
Maude was scribbling too furiously to make a sound. She was also probably used to staying a bit detached from emotional moments so she could report them.
Could I ever achieve that?
And—I looked back at Flora—was she going to make this all about her, and not Miss Giddings? Because if the jury got all weepy for a pathetic orphan, they might be more likely to convict, just to get some kind of justice for the little Bakery Pride Bread girl, who continued to stand in the very center of the room, commanding attention like a miniature general in blue velvet, bows, and ribbons.
Flora didn’t even pay attention to the judge—whose nameplate said THE HON. JOHN WAVERLY—when he banged a gavel and snapped, “Order! Order in this court!”
Nope. She just waited until the last echo of the gavel faded away, then said, firmly and clearly, “I am here to make sure that Colette Giddings goes free, because she did NOT kill my father!”
Talk about a huge gasp, and more gavel banging, and whispers that rose close to a roar—which made it difficult to hear the prosecuting attorney yelling, “Objection! Objection!”
Miss Giddings was twisting all around, her eyes wide, as if Flora’s endorsement had alarmed more than pleased her, and her lawyer’s jaw was flapping open too, which wasn’t reassuring.
Meanwhile, on one side of me, Detective Culhane groaned and rubbed his forehead, while on the other side, Maude was grinning, no doubt at the prospect of landing on the front page with this spectacle.
And me—I was smiling too, as order was restored in the courtroom, the judge told everyone to ignore Flora’s remarks, and the bailiff led Flora and Uncle Carl to even better seats than mine. Apparently, even if you messed up the whole trial, being the daughter of a dead man carried some weight.
One row ahead of me, a few feet away, Flora flounced into the bench, her curls bouncing, then leaned back past her uncle’s massive shoulder so she could wink at me.
Yeah, Flora Bessemer might’ve been a self-centered pill, but she looked out for the people in her circle, and that made her okay by me.
We shared a conspiratorial grin, and then she turned around just in time for me to realize that the judge was directing the attorneys to make their opening statements. I started out listening closely to Miss Giddings’s lawyer, but the room was warm, and he droned on for so long, seeming to say nothing, that even though I was worried, my aching head got the best of me and I began to nod off, bumping against Detective Culhane’s arm.
In fact, I was dreaming about struggling down a dark alley, with my legs trapped in two huge polio braces, when I was abruptly awakened by Detective Culhane nudging me off his shoulder, Maude shaking me, and the sound of a man’s deep voice intoning, “The prosecution calls its first witness.”
Forcing my eyes to open, I groggily wondered who that unlucky person would be—only to hear the same man say, “Isabel Feeney!”
Chapter 91
I HAD RAISED MY SHAKY RIGHT HAND AND PROMISED ALL THE folks in the courtroom, the entire government of the United States of America, and God himself that I would tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth about Charles Bessemer’s murder—just as I’d fully intended to do even before I’d rested my left hand on a Bible. But when I actually sat in the big wooden seat next to the judge and looked out over the crowd while everybody stared back at me, I kind of forgot everything I’d found while investigating the crime.
Instead, I said all the wrong things every time the prosecuting attorney—a wiry man named Johnson—asked me the same questions a hundred different ways.
“So, Miss Feeney,” he said, cleaning his tortiseshell spectacles with his handkerchief, “you say that when you arrived on the scene, the gun was right next to Miss Giddings?”
My curls were damp with sweat under my turban. “Yes, but—”
“It’s a simple yes or no question,” he reminded me, still rubbing his lenses with that stupid cotton square. He was no Clarence Darrow, but he was making me look like a fool. “A one-word answer will suffice.”
I glanced at Flora, who had an I told you so! expression on her face. She’d warned me that I wouldn’t get to say everything I wanted. Not that I could even remember what I’d planned to tell the jury.
Then I tried to wordlessly let Miss Giddings, who was struggling to keep her chin from quivering, know that I was sorry, right before I mumbled, “Yes.”
Mr. Johnson leaned forward and cupped one hand behind his ear. “What’s that, Miss Feeney? We need to make sure the court stenographer can hear. So please tell us again . . . Was the gun right beside Miss Giddings when you found her kneeling next to Charles Bessemer’s corpse?”
I shouldn’t have let my temper get the best of me, but I was sick of the way he was bullying me, and I balled up my fists and popped up onto my feet. “Yes!” I yelled, right into his face, at the top of my lungs. “Yes, it was!”
The gavel came swinging down, and Judge Waverly called for order in the court again, because lots of people were talking and some folks were laughing. I saw Detective Culhane lean over to confer with Maude, a smirk on Johnene Giddings’s face, and Robert . . . he looked like he was dying. For a second, I stood frozen, forgetting about the scene I’d caused and thinking I should tell somebody to get an ambulance. But Robert could speak for himself, and surely he knew how much he could handle. Besides, the judge was addressing me. “Sit down, Miss Feeney,” he said. “No more outbursts!”
I star
What?
“But . . . but . . .” I started to protest, only to have the judge interrupt me.
“You are dismissed, Miss Feeney.”
There was nothing I could do but step down, my shoulders slumped in defeat, and drag my feet back to my seat, purposely not looking at Miss Giddings, in case she hated me—as she should.
“Please don’t say anything,” I mumbled, edging past Detective Culhane. I fully expected him to make some kind of remark about dumb kids. Therefore, I was very surprised when he patted me on the back. “It’s okay, Isabel,” he whispered. “You did fine.”
No, I hadn’t, but I appreciated the reassurance—and the way Maude squeezed my hand when I plopped down next to her. “You honestly did well, Izzie,” she promised, leaning close. “Johnson came across as a bully. The jury was sympathetic to you.”
I finally raised my eyes enough to meet hers. “Honest?”
She nodded, smiling. “Honest.”
I looked warily at her notebook. “Are you gonna write about all this?”
“Of course. You’ve probably just earned yourself a spot on the front page!”
Having a famous reporter for a friend would likely always be challenging and a little confusing, but I no longer felt angry about being part of her stories. Maude genuinely cared about me too. “Don’t forget, Izzie,” she reminded me, “you’ll get to say more when the defense calls you. That’s when you can really speak up for Miss Giddings.”
I’d forgotten that I’d probably have two chances to talk, and I felt better as I sat back to see how the next witness did.
But before anybody else could be called to the stand, Albert Rowland—whom I’d practically forgotten was there—stood up and said, “Excuse me, Your Honor. I think I need to take my son to a doctor. Now.”
Chapter 92
“GOSH, I HOPE ROBERT IS OKAY,” I SAID, LOOKING TOWARD the doors through which Albert Rowland had carried his son, who had been frighteningly limp. I met Flora’s eyes again, just as both of us got jostled. We were in a crowded hallway outside the courtroom during a recess. Nobody was venturing too far, probably for fear of losing a seat when the trial reconvened. “He looked really bad, don’t you think?” I added. “Like he was hardly breathing.”
“He never looks great,” Flora noted with a matter-of-fact shrug. “But yes, I’d say he needed a doctor.”
“How strange that his father spoke up, after ignoring Robert for years—and abandoning him because he’s sickly.”
Flora’d been fixing her curls with the help of a mother-of-pearl mirror she’d pulled out of her little beaded bag, but she paused and frowned at me. “That really happened?”
“Yes. Mr. Rowland is terrible. Almost as bad as Robert’s aunt!”
Flora resumed primping while I located Aunt Johnene, who hadn’t gone to the hospital with her nephew. She was, for once, smiling sweetly—no doubt because she was chatting with the bailiff, who was young and not bad looking.
She wants to be married so desperately.
All at once, as I considered Robert’s bad luck when it came to relatives, I had a terrible thought.
Is Robert safe with his father, who might be a pepsin-gum-chewing killer?
“Isabel! I’m talking to you!”
Flora nudged my arm hard with her elbow, which made my head hurt too. “Ow!”
“Sorry.” She looked me up and down, from my bandage to my boots. “I keep forgetting that’s not some unusual fashion choice on your part.”
She was such a witch, yet I liked her.
“I was asking you to send me a letter,” she said, snapping her bag shut. “To let me know how Robert’s doing.”
“What do you mean, send a letter?” I asked. Though it was nice that she cared about Robert, I didn’t want to be her errand girl after the trial was over. “Just stop by and see him yourself.”
She gave me a funny look. “How am I going to do that from California?”
“What?”
“I’m leaving, you know. For Hollywood,” she reminded me, as if I’d forgotten she was going to be in a movie.
Okay, maybe I had sort of forgotten that.
“You’re really leaving?”
The news was surprisingly upsetting to me. It wasn’t that I’d thought Flora and I would spend a lot of time together once we helped Miss Giddings get free, but I didn’t exactly want her moving to an entirely different state, either.
Apparently that was happening, though. And soon. “Yes,” she informed me. “Uncle Carl and I are going by train. Filming begins in less than a month.” Flora beamed with self-satisfaction. “We’ll stay in an apartment building very close to the Pacific Ocean.”
I narrowed my eyes at her, wondering if she was exaggerating, at least about the ocean. “Jeez, exactly how much are they paying you to prance around onscreen? Must be a lot!”
That was a terrible question and none of my business, but Flora was more than happy to answer it—and the number made my eyes pop. “Ten. Thousand. Dollars,” she said, making sure to emphasize each word. “And I already have an audition for another film, based on my screen test.” She fluffed her curls. “The executives at the studio really liked me.”
“I guess they did,” I muttered, trying not to be jealous. I couldn’t dream of making that much money if I sold Tribs every day for fifty years.
And that’s probably just the start for her. She’ll probably make loads of cash, because she is pretty, and has charisma, and can be cloyingly sweet when it suits her . . .
I was definitely teetering toward envy when Uncle Carl muscled his way over, his jowls flapping as usual, and took Flora’s arm in his meaty paw. “Come on,” he urged without so much as a “Hello, kid” to me. “Court’s startin’ up again.”
Flora allowed herself to be led away but looked back over her shoulder. “I’ll see you when this is all over, okay? And better luck if you testify again. I’m sure you won’t make a mess of it the second time!”
I didn’t respond. I was too busy thinking that if I, who actually knew Flora Bessemer, liked her, she almost certainly would become the nation’s sweetheart when she turned on the charm for millions who wouldn’t see her awful side.
Just how much money did she really stand to make?
And what was nagging at me right then, aside from my headache?
What was I not quite piecing together?
Chapter 93
“AND MISS GIDDINGS’S FINGERPRINTS WERE ON THE GUN?” Mr. Johnson asked Detective Culhane, who was on the stand. “The gun found in the alley?”
Detective Culhane had no stake in whether Miss Giddings went free—probably still wanted her to at least go to prison, if not hang—and he wasn’t fumbling or bumbling around with his answers.
“Yes,” he confirmed with a slight nod.
If ever there was a person meant to respond with one word, it was Detective James Culhane.
Mr. Johnson rubbed his glasses and squinted. “Was she holding the gun when you arrived?”
“No.”
We’d been going over all of this for what felt like hours, and even Miss Giddings appeared almost bored. Or maybe she was drooping even more to hear the facts laid out against her. Only Maude and some other reporters I’d noticed in the crowd—all men—continued to show sustained interest. But none of the male journalists’ pencils flew as fast as Maude’s. She took notes almost as rapidly as the stenographer typed.
I wanted to be a reporter too, and I knew I should practice paying attention, but my mind was definitely wandering far from the courtroom, if not the case.
A dark alley and a single gunshot.
Miss Giddings kneeling, her eyes wide and her coat stained with blood.
The smell of blood in a butcher shop . . .
I shifted in my seat, se
I studied Robert’s father until he again felt my gaze and glared at me.
Or had Albert Rowland finally “disposed of” an inconvenient and embarrassingly weak child?
Shaking my head just slightly, dismissing that possibility as too absurd, I turned back around, letting my thoughts drift again, to Robert’s house.
So warm and cozy—until Aunt Johnene arrived, smelling of mothballs and cabbage and desperation . . .
I probably should’ve stayed still, but I twisted to look at Johnene Giddings, too.
She was also preoccupied—watching the bailiff.
Really?
At your own sister’s trial, while your nephew is maybe dangerously ill?
Although Aunt Johnene wouldn’t see it, and a lot of other folks would probably wonder what I was doing, I gave in to the urge to stick my tongue out at her. Then I faced forward again, continuing to daydream, with the vague goal of putting together a puzzle that had a big missing piece.
The alley by daylight. Snow, disturbed on a doorstep. Chewing gum.
An abandoned building at night. A shadowy figure.
A fancy Italian restaurant where Mr. Bessemer ate—every Thursday.
Me, running.
Being grabbed.
A strange smell . . . again.
Flora Bessemer, about to be rich.
Blood.
Jealousy.
Siblings who might kill.
Inconvenient—and very convenient—children . . .
My heart was racing, and I still wasn’t sure exactly what I was going to say when I jumped up off the bench just as someone in the courtroom, as if on a director’s cue, unwrapped a piece of gum.
I probably should’ve whispered to Maude, giving her an exclusive, but as usual, I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, and I ended up blurting out to everyone, my finger shaking as I pointed, “There! The real killer is right there!”