Web of Deceit, page 1
part #1 of Dewey Webb Series
Web of Deceit
A Dewey Webb Mystery
First Digital Edition published by Creative Cat Press
copyright 2016 by Renée Pawlish
Acknowledgments
The author gratefully acknowledges all those who helped in the writing of this book, especially: Beth Treat, for superior editing; L & L Coins & Stamps Incorporated for coin collecting advice (any mistakes are mine, not theirs); Janice Horne, for countless hours helping me work through story ideas; and Gerry Nelson, a wonderful storyteller in his own right, for giving me insights into Denver in the 1940s. If I've forgotten anyone, please accept my apologies.
To all my beta readers: I am in your debt!
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CHAPTER ONE
I’d never heard of Gordon Sandalwood until he walked up to my booth at State Bar & Grill and slid into the seat across from me.
“This table’s taken, bub,” I said. I had been enjoying my lunch while I read The Denver Post – four years after the war and there was still trouble in Germany – and I wasn’t in the mood to be disturbed. Reminders of the war tended to leave me with a foul disposition.
“Dewey Webb?” he asked, but it wasn’t a question. He knew who I was.
I leaned back and contemplated him. He was neat and tidy, in a gray suit and a white shirt with blue stripes, a blue tie and a gray wool trilby hat. A gray tweed overcoat was draped over one arm. I’m sure people instinctively called him ‘Sir.’ ”
“Okay, you know my name,” I finally said. I wasn’t going to say ‘Sir.’ I hadn’t done that since I was in the army. “How about telling me yours?”
“Gordon Sandalwood.”
He took off his hat and set it and the overcoat on the seat next to him, then reached a thin hand across the table. I waited just long enough so he’d know I was still annoyed that he was interrupting me, then firmly shook the hand.
“Okay.” I pointed a finger at him. “Now I know who you are. What do you want?”
“I need a moment of your time, Mr. Webb,” he said.
I gestured at my hot roast beef sandwich. “Can’t it wait?”
He sighed heavily. “You’re a private investigator, and I need your help.”
“Why not come to my office?” After the war, I’d been an investigator for a law firm, but a year ago, I’d gone out on my own. I had a place on Sherman Street in an old Victorian house that had been converted to offices. It wasn’t much, but it was private, and it was where I should be conducting business.
He shook his head as he took out a Chesterfield and lit it. He blew smoke off to the side, then said, “I did. Twice. I got as far as your door, but couldn’t bring myself to go in. The second time, I ran into you in the hallway, but I didn’t say anything.”
I gave him a good once-over. “I remember you. It was last week, right?” He’d been dressed in brown that time, from his shoes to his hat. I wondered if he was always perfectly color-coordinated.
He nodded. “Then today, I’d finally screwed up my courage to talk to you, but when I got to your office, you were just leaving. So I followed you here.”
I folded up my paper and pushed it aside. The article about Ted Williams winning the AL MVP would have to wait. “It must be something important if it couldn’t wait any longer.”
“It is.” His face twisted up with a pained expression. “It’s not easy to ask for help.”
“But you’re here, so shoot.”
“It’s my wife.”
I folded my arms, beginning to lose patience with him. “I’m listening.”
He tamped out the barely smoked cigarette in a tin ashtray, then pulled out a leather wallet. He extracted a picture and handed it to me. “Her name is Edith. She’s twenty-nine, two years younger than me.”
I studied the black-and-white photo. Edith was a good-looking dame, with a round face, light hair, big dark eyes, and full lips spread into a light smile.
“She’s pretty,” I said noncommittally as I handed the picture back to him.
He put the picture back in his wallet. “That was taken a few years ago. She was a lot happier then.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged, then rested his hands on the table and tapped his fingertips together. “I wish I knew. Lately she’s not been herself. She doesn’t smile or laugh anymore. When I ask her if she’s okay, she tells me she’s fine, but I know she’s not.”
“Have you considered taking her to a psychoanalyst?”
“I mentioned that once and she got mad at me and repeated that she was okay. And for a day or two, she seemed better. But then she started acting strange again.”
“How so?”
“I work at the Federal Center. I’m an engineer, with regular hours. I leave work at five and come home the same time every night. She always has dinner on the table when I get home. She’s a good cook.” His face momentarily lit up with pride. “But for the past two weeks, she’s been rushing around in the kitchen when I get home, trying to get dinner ready. That’s not like her. When I ask her why the rush, she says she got busy out in the yard, or talking to our neighbor Jane, and she lost track of the time.”
“It’s December,” I said, “and it snowed a week ago. What kind of yard work is she doing?”
He held up a hand. “I don’t know. I couldn’t tell that anything had been done in the yard. And I ran into Jane one morning and joked about how she was keeping Edith from her chores. Jane looked at me like I was crazy and said she hadn’t talked to Edith in a week, that Edith’s been gone a lot during the day.”
“Was Jane lying to you?”
“I don’t think so, and why would she?”
“Just asking the question.”
He took out another cigarette, but instead of lighting it, he fiddled with it. “After Jane told me that, I talked to another neighbor, Irene. She has two boys, and that keeps her busy. She also said she hasn’t talked to Edith in a while, which is unusual.”
“Has she seen Edith? Working in the yard, maybe?”
“Irene didn’t say, but if she did, they probably would’ve talked.”
“Do you believe Irene?”
“I think so. I don’t know why she’d lie to me.” He kept playing with the cigarette.
“How well do you know the neighbors?”
He shrugged. “It’s been four years. We moved here after the war, when I got hired at the Federal Center. During the war, Edith lived with her sister in Limon. Edith’s sister was a schoolteacher there, but she moved here three years ago.”
“So you’ve lived here long enough that Edith should know your neighbors fairly well.”
“I would think so.”
“Did Edith work while you were overseas?”
“She worked for a while at a small grocery store in Limon, and she helped her sister. But she hasn’t worked since I came home and we moved here.”
“What does Edith do when you’re at work?”
“She grocery shops on Mondays. Wednesdays she has bridge club. She has other errands, and keeps up with the housework, and cooks.”
“You don’t have kids?”
The pain flashed on his face again. “No. Edith…can’t have children.”
That could make any woman sad, I thought. My wife, Clara, hadn’t conceived right away, and I had seen how that had worn on her. Our son, Sam, was three months old and I knew how much being a mother meant to Clara. “Uh-huh,” I murmured.
He continued, as if that sensitive topic had never been brought up. “And the past two days, I’ve called her from work, but she doesn’t answer.”
“She wasn’t shopping or at bridge?”
He shook his head. “I called when she should’ve been around, but she wasn’t. Both nights, when I got home, I asked her about it. She lied and said she must’ve been out in the yard and didn’t hear the phone. But I tried calling for hours.”
“And no answer.”
“Right.”
I studied him. “And you have no idea where she might’ve been?”
“None.”
I leaned forward, then cleared my throat. “I don’t want to seem forward, but do you think your wife’s having an affair?”
“No. We love each other.” His voice was tight.
Because of the question, or because he thought the affair was possible? I wondered.
“I had to ask,” I said. He didn’t say anything to that. “How long have you
“Almost eight years. We met a few months before Pearl Harbor. After the Japs attacked us, I enlisted. We got married right before I left.” He gazed out the window. “It was hard on her, while I was gone. She was…lonely, I think, even though her sister was around.”
“Times were tough,” I said. I hadn’t met Clara until after the war, but I knew of a lot of men who married their sweethearts and then immediately left for the war. And many never returned.
He turned back to me. “When I came home after the war, things got better. We’ve been happy. Until lately.”
“And you can’t think of any other reason your wife’s acting like this?”
He shook his head.
“Does she have any money?”
“She has a weekly budget for groceries, gas, that sort of thing.”
“And nothing’s missing from your bank account?”
“No, nothing like that.”
I took a long moment to think about it. “It’s not a lot to go on,” I said.
He sighed. “I realize that. That’s why I want to hire you. Find out what Edith’s doing. Follow her and see where she goes. I can’t do it because I have to work, and besides, she might see me and then she’d be even more careful about whatever she’s doing.” He slipped some twenties across the table. “That should get you started.”
I sipped my Coke, then picked up the bills and stuffed them in my pocket. “Okay. I’ll watch your wife tomorrow and see what happens. Then we’ll talk.”
He nodded. “Maybe you’ll find out something.”
“Where can I reach you?”
He pulled a card from his wallet. It had his name, office address, and phone number on it. “You can reach me at work.”
“Where do you live?”
“You can’t talk to me there or Edith might get suspicious,” he said quickly.
I cocked an eyebrow at him. “If I’m going to follow her, I need to know where you live.”
He choked out a laugh. “Oh, yes, of course.” He gave me an address on King Street near Sloans Lake, west of downtown. Most of the houses in the area were 1920s-style bungalows with detached garages. “I leave for work at seven-thirty, and she never leaves before I do.”
“Does she have a car?”
“Yes, we have a Chrysler. I take the streetcar to work.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow morning,” I said. “And we’ll see what happens.”
“Excellent.” With that, he slid out of the booth. “I’ll expect a call from you late tomorrow,” he said as he donned his hat and overcoat. Then he strode out of the restaurant.
I grabbed my sandwich, cold by now, and finished it, then put two quarters on the table and left for my office. I needed to start a file on Gordon Sandalwood, and then finish some paperwork and pay some bills. The money Sandalwood had given me would help with that, although I didn’t see it going too far. This case wouldn’t take too long. It’d be simple, I thought, probably a misunderstanding between them, or maybe I’d discover that Edith was having an affair.
I’d look back on this moment and realize how wrong I’d been.
CHAPTER TWO
At seven o’clock the next morning, I was parked in my black Plymouth sedan down the street from the Sandalwood home. It was a red-brick bungalow with yellow trim, a long driveway that led to a detached garage at the back of the house, a sidewalk that cut through a small yard, and concrete steps up to a porch that spanned the length of the house. Two rocking chairs sat to the right of the front door. I wondered how often Gordon and Edith sat there.
I sank down low in my seat, pulled my hat forward to shield my face, and waited. A few minutes later, a green Mercury coupe drove past me, but the driver – a man in a tan Homburg – didn’t even notice me. Five minutes after that, two small boys came out of a house next door to the Sandalwoods, books under their arms, lunch pails swinging from small hands. A woman in a tan dress came onto the porch and waved at them, then disappeared back in the house. I watched the boys in my rearview mirror as they ambled toward Seventeenth, and I pictured my son Sam someday walking to school like them. Then the street grew quiet and no one paid me any mind. I’d shut off the engine so I wouldn’t draw attention to myself, but now a chill crept into the car. I crossed my arms to keep warm.
At seven-thirty, Sandalwood emerged from his house. He was smartly dressed in a brown suit and matching brown fedora, and today he wore a brown overcoat. I hoped he wouldn’t see me, so that he wouldn’t subconsciously do something that would alert Edith to my presence. But Sandalwood walked down the steps toward the street and didn’t look my way. Instead, he adjusted his hat, then turned right and hurried in the opposite direction, toward Colfax. A moment later, I lost sight of him.
I lit a cigarette and slowly smoked it. Boredom set in. I looked around and caught my reflection in the side mirror, then glanced away. I’m okay looking, with light hair I’d grown out a bit from my military buzz cut, and a square face, but I don’t like seeing myself, especially my eyes. Clara says my eyes are older than my twenty-nine years. That’s what came from seeing what I’d seen during the war. Nobody talked about their war experiences in any detail, but we all knew and recognized the haunting that came from them. The war was still near to me, nearer than I liked. I never told anybody, but I hoped the images that still flashed in my mind would someday fade.
Somewhere a dog barked and brought me back to the present. As the sun rose, it warmed the inside of the Plymouth a little bit and I found myself growing drowsy. The morning dragged on. I remembered too many days like this during the war. The waiting and wondering was almost as bad as the combat itself, because you knew what was coming, and it wasn’t going to be good.
Finally at eleven, a blue Chrysler Windsor slowly backed down the Sandalwood driveway. A woman with flaxen hair in a pageboy style was inside. Edith, I presumed. I ducked down, then glanced over the dashboard. The Chrysler reached the street, then headed south. When it reached the corner of West Sixteenth and King, I popped my head back up, started the Plymouth and eased into the street. I got to Sixteenth and saw the Chrysler turning east onto Colfax. I stayed back, but it was easy to follow Edith, as she didn’t drive very fast. I let three cars get between her and me as we drove east. We soon passed downtown and continued on Colfax until we reached Josephine Street. She turned north, then right on Seventeenth. On our left side was City Park, 330 acres of grass and trees, with two lakes, the City Park Pavilion, and a boathouse. She then took a left into the park. I waited for a car to pass by on Seventeenth, then followed her. The road split into a Y, and the Chrysler veered left. I crept up to the intersection, then checked my rearview mirror. No one was behind me, so I edged forward. Through some trees I could see Ferril Lake, the bigger of the park’s two lakes. I looked to the left, down the road. The Chrysler was a hundred feet ahead of me. I waited a moment, then turned the wheel and drove slowly after it. The day was chilly, and few people were in the park.
Edith soon parked near the Pavilion, a large, yellow-brick Spanish-style building with twin towers, arches, and a red roof. I pulled up to the side of the road behind a Woody station wagon and watched the Chrysler. The driver’s door opened and Edith got out. She wore a blue dress that accentuated her curvy figure, black heels, and a blue pillbox hat. She pulled on a white trench coat, adjusted her stockings, and then strode across the road. She glanced around and I sank down low, but since I’d parked behind another car, I doubted she would see me.
I’d brought my Bausch & Lomb binoculars with me, and I pulled them out of the leather case and focused on Edith. She walked down a path between a grove of maple trees, her hair shimmering in the light, then emerged into an open space. She stopped at a bench, then glanced all around again, and finally sat down hesitantly. She placed her purse next to her and put her hands in her lap. Low hazy clouds obliterated the sun, and she cinched the belt of her coat tightly around her waist. Her full lips had formed a hard line and she began fidgeting with the hem of her coat. Then she suddenly stood up and stared to her left. I swung the binoculars in that direction.
