BECK RULES MYSTERIES BOOK 3

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Chapter 1

Rule #53: Suspicion comes first, second and third. Trust comes tenth.

Sitting in the newsroom, smoking my cigarette with my feet up on my desk, I feel at home listening to the harmonic rat-a-tat-tat of typewriters all writing stories about people, events, and criminal activity. Amid the thick billows of cigarette smoke, I never feel more alive than I do in the bullpen of The News Bugle—or The Old Bug, as we affectionately call it.

Information is the heart of the newspaper. It tells people what they need to know and sometimes what they don’t want to know. But knowledge is power and without the newspaper, people are living each day in complete darkness, blind to what’s going on in the world around them.

I take that responsibility seriously. It’s my job. When people see “May Beck” in my byline, they know the exact details of the daily happenings in our city. It’s my calling and my pleasure.

Chasing a lead is thrilling, intoxicating, and sometimes obsessive. My father used to say I was a dog with a bone with ink running through my veins… once I got something in my mouth, I just couldn’t let it go until I found the truth. Sometimes it becomes a problem, but so far, I’ve been able to bring people to justice. But loose threads really gnaw at me. Rule #49: Never ignore your gut.

In a way, my rules are my gut. They’re how I live my life and they never let me down. The rules are my divining rod. Without them, I have no direction.

It’s been a month since my big story put Mr. Carroll Carrington away for counterfeiting. It rocked this city to learn that one of their leading citizens used his seemingly innocent company, for printing calendars and picture postcards, as a front to print counterfeit money. And he used his family dry cleaning business and Italian restaurant to distribute that money.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. His father, old man Albert Carrington, laundered money through his dry cleaning and restaurant businesses, ran numbers rackets and broke any other law that got in his way. He’s behind bars now where he belongs.

It was a long and bumpy road to discover the truth, including several attempts on my life and the shattering of my fragile trust. Uncovering the deception by my former editor, Bill Snyder, was a crushing blow. His collusion with Carrington to bury any stories and inform on me in exchange for a measly payday disintegrated any illusion I had in the goodness of anyone. Although Old Sny came through in the end by helping me nab Carrington and the counterfeit ring, still it reminded me that trust should not be given easily. Who knows how long he lived under Carrington’s thumb?

Rule #53: Suspicion comes first, second and third. Trust comes tenth.

They still haven’t assigned anyone as editor-in-chief to take Old Sny’s place. He resigned the day after Carrington’s arrest. I guess he couldn’t live with the ghost of his betrayal.

His dishonesty nearly killed me. Frankly, I’m glad he resigned. I don’t know if I could’ve looked him in the face again knowing what I knew; some mistakes haunt you and nothing is ever the same.

Since there is no editor, everyone’s been turning their articles into his secretary, Mrs. King.

I don’t know who’s editing them and quite honestly; I don’t care. But it’s probably Mrs. King. She’s more than qualified. I always suspected she edited stories for Old Sny. After all, the newspaper must go out every day, no matter what.

My protégé, Clarence Edwards, has been taking a lot of the stories that I would’ve tackled, small petty stuff… no big reveal, no big crime. I call him Buc for short—it’s the reverse of “cub,” as he is a newbie reporter. But the job isn’t easy for him. I cast a long shadow to hide behind. Even with his hulking six feet, that gangly nerd has to get out on his own a little.

He’s greener than the grass in the fields, but he gets better with every story and he’s an obedient follower of my rules. He’s even taken on the task of memorizing them.

I’ve been in a dry spell ever since Carrington. There’s nothing worse than boredom. It makes you think too much and lasts forever. Rule #24: Keep busy and don’t think so much.

And I still can’t get this feeling that I missed something with the case. I run through every detail in my mind a million times like a movie that will never stop playing in my head. The thing that eats at me the most is Carrington’s wife Elaine, the head of the city’s swanky society.

She got off scot-free. But should she have? I had my suspicions that she knew about the counterfeiting and was maybe even involved. And I’m sure she had Carrington’s girlfriend Beth Denning thrown in the looney bin and their love child put in foster care to cover up the affair. But he took the fall for everything and I couldn’t make anything stick to her. I just can’t shake it. It’s consuming my every thought.

And today, my informant Lucky Lou calls me at home and wakes me up, asking me to meet me in our usual secret meeting spot—right near the newsstand in front of The Old Bug. I quickly dress and head out.

It works out well I haven’t had breakfast this morning, and the newsstand has the best bagel and schmear of cream cheese in the city.

I spy Lucky Lou from a distance, as usual concealed behind the racing form. He’s easy to spot in his old-school Florsheim black and white wingtips.

“What’s the good news today, Lucky?” I greet him.

“Nothing. No long shots. Guess I’ll keep my two simoleons today.”

Even though I can’t see him, his gruff gravely voice from the corner of his mouth is unmistakable and his gloomy mood is always the same as he doles out his information. But then again, I’d hate to meet a bubbly snitch. It doesn’t fit.

“Hey doll, I got one for you. This here is front-page news,” he continues. “Since Carrington has been in the news, there’s been a lot of chatter. But last night at the Lion’s Den I overheard some pinhead jawing in a bar about how clever his boss was to cover it up. Said no one would ever be the wiser.”

Even though I detest being called doll, for Lucky, I make an exception. His intel has proven to be crucial in my work. But he’s been known to exaggerate the importance of his leads. Leave it to a snitch not to know a front-page headline from a back-page obit. Maybe he needs to lay off the dime detective novels.

But he knows, I definitely want to hear anything about Carrington. Impatiently, I spur him on.

“About what, Lucky?”

“He was talking about William Taylor, Carrington’s father-in-law. He said his death was no heart attack.”

When I was investigating Carrington, I always wondered about Taylor’s death. Nothing pointed to foul play at the time, but my instincts told me there was something there. And the hairs on the back of my neck tingled; that’s always a sign of no good.

It’s not a lot to go on and may be nothing but the bombastic rantings of a drunk blowhard, but then again, maybe this is the loose end I can’t shake.

“Was this guy connected?” I whisper.

“I don’t know him. He’s just some guy.”

He shakes his head and with that, Lucky and his wingtips stroll down the street, leaving me with big questions.

The words “no heart attack” reverberate in my head as I stand like a statue in front of the newsstand deep in thought, when Shorty knocks me back to reality.

“Hey, your highness. I don’t got all day ya know. What do ya want?”

I guess the reverence period has worn off for Shorty. After I kicked the lid off the Carrington story, he was actually nice to me and even gave me a free cream cheese schmear once in a while. He introduced me to the technical term for spreading the cream cheese on the bagel, the schmear.

But now, the half-Jewish, half-Greek newsstand owner Stavros was back to his cranky, impatient woman-hating ways.

I grab my bagel and walk back up to the newsroom contemplating the implications of a murder.

Once at my desk, I take out my gold foil cigarette pack and light up my Benson & Hedges cigarette and go through the catalog in my mind about the case.

From my investigation into Carrington, I know Taylor was found in his office one night slumped over his desk a few years ago. They passed it off as a heart attack. He was over 50 and let’s just say he enjoyed his linguine a little too much—so it was a passable excuse. It was never questioned.

In spite of the fact the guy said his boss got away with it while frequenting an established and well-known mob hangout, somehow, I doubt the mob’s involvement. We are 30 miles from Chicago, the mob stronghold, so their hand in most crimes is not unusual. And when people connected to the mob die, no one really questions it. It’s healthier that way.

But the mob has only two ways of executing people. If you are unimportant, someone will find you riddled with bullets. If you are important or dangerous, you just disappear. Neither was true here.

Lucky didn’t even know how Taylor was killed or by who, just that it was a cover-up. Fairly unhelpful, but Rule #27: You gotta start out somewhere.

William Taylor’s death seemed to coincide too neatly with Carrington’s rise to power. But I just figured Carrington bumped off his father-in-law to take over the business and since he was in prison anyway, who cares? Two birds with one stone, you know.

Taylor wasn’t a widely-known criminal, but he was connected to the criminal element in town, especially Albert Carrington. He kept his nose clean so he was never caught, but many suspected he walked the criminal path. Just like when the senior Carrington died, there’s a poetic justice that they meet their maker by the same ruthless greed that drove every element of their lives. No one was going to miss William Taylor, except maybe his devoted daughter, Elaine Taylor Carrington.

But it could be more than that. With this new information, I can’t help thinking about how he met his demise and why. I was so focused on nailing Carrington for the counterfeit ring; I pushed it all aside. The squeaky wheel gets the grease and the counterfeit ring was the easiest through line to put Carrington behind bars.

I know when something is bothering me; it is usually an itch that needs to be scratched.

So, I forcefully put my cigarette out in the tin ashtray and hustle down to the basement to the archive room. I have a special file cabinet, where I keep all my evidence locked up; only I have the key. More than ever, I know I can’t trust just anyone. I trust Ernie, Kat and Buc… but trusting Sny nearly got me killed. Come to think of it, that should be another rule… trust no one.

I take out the accordion files on Carrington’s counterfeit ring and spread the contents on an enormous table we have to read the big newspaper archive books. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but when I see it, I’ll know it.

I methodically scan everything, picking it up and putting it down in the same place. I take the death notice and put it to the side. Maybe there’s something there I’m not seeing now that can reveal itself later.

And then I come upon the picture of Carrington’s group standing in front of the opening of the new printing plant. The police confiscated the printing factory and shut it down as soon as Carrington was arrested, even though they were also printing legitimate postcards, stationery, calendars, and appointment books. But it was all made criminal when the counterfeit was printed amongst it. The police and the feds will be sorting that business out for a long time.

I find it funny that it will take his gang a little while to regroup. Who knows what cracks they crawled into, licking their wounds? Criminal networks are like lizards. You can cut off one piece, but the rest stays intact and eventually it grows a replacement limb. There’s always some lieutenant that’s dying to take the place of the big cheese.

Staring at the picture with fresh eyes, I know Carrington’s father-in-law is the big cheese, but who are the legitimate workers and who are the rats?

And then there’s Mrs. Elaine Carrington. When her husband was arrested, her entire world turned topsy-turvy and she scooted out of town with her tail between her legs pretty quickly to avoid embarrassment. If she’s smart, maybe she squirreled away enough money to live on.

I definitely don’t trust her. It doesn’t seem logical that she knew nothing.

Like they say, a picture is worth a thousand words. And I need to find out who everybody is in this picture. Perhaps Ernie can help. That’s the job of a police officer confidante. He’s pretty new to police work, but he’s a good egg. And I like the new police—they’re more open to working with a reporter than the more jaded flatfoots.

Ernie is a high school friend of Buc’s and I helped him take the collar for the Carrington deal. We scratch each other’s backs, but somehow I still don’t think he’s into high-profile collars. His shy and reserved personality hates the blinding beacon of the spotlight.

But I need him—if any of the men in the picture have records, police mugshot books are a good place to start.

***

Since I helped them nab the counterfeit ring, the cops have gone easier on Ernie and seem more receptive to me. A little. They obviously don’t like having me show them up. I can do their job better than them. And they’re men, so respecting a woman? It’s frustrating, but one step at a time.

Not that I am ready to trust anybody but Ernie in the station’s pigpen. We found the last police chief completely corrupt, covering up Carrington’s dirty deeds. Who knows who else scurried under the woodwork like rats to stay out of the clink? They could still be among us.

The pigpen is not unlike the newsroom bullpen. Phones ring and scanners blare loud unconnected voices from the inanimate speaker while a few typewriters tick the day away. Maybe it’s me, but while the bullpen is an orchestra, the pigpen is a disorganized mess.

“Hey, May, what’s your beef today?” The paunchy desk sergeant laughs as he chomps on his stale afternoon jelly donut.

I walk up to the desk with a Cheshire smile and look him straight in the eye. “Ah, Sarge, you know, it’s not easy doing your job too.”

He stops laughing pretty fast and gives me the silent evil eye. If anyone can break their attitude about females or reporters, it’s me.

“Is Ernie around?” I ask.

He grimaces and points to the squad room, where Ernie has a desk.

Ernie sees me as soon as I walk in and tips his head down, slouching in his seat. His uniform, like his desk is neat and tidy, but I think he slouches so no one will see him. Ernie would be invisible, if he could be.

I sit next to him and slap the picture down on his desk.

“Recognize anyone?” I ask.

He squirms around in his chair.

“Gee, May. What’s this all about?”

“Murder!” I state.

“What? Whose murder?” he asks skeptically.

I stare him down and shake my head.

“Ernie, Ernie. Haven’t I proven myself to you yet?” I sigh.

He lets out a big gulp of air.

“All right, May. I’m listening. Whose murder?”

I point to William Taylor in the picture.

“His.”

Ernie turns and glares at me in disbelief.

“Come on May. That’s ancient history.”

“Ernie. Haven’t you flatfoots wondered about who’s going to try to take over Carrington’s turf? I bet that person is in this picture. And my gut tells me so is the murderer.”

He sinks even lower in his seat.

“Aww, why do you have to go looking for trouble?”

I smile and lean in. “You know why. Trouble finds me. Besides, it’s my job and yours too. Now can I get a look at your mugshot books or not?”

I playfully scoot the photo a little closer to him and look at him with a steady glare.

“Oh, geez. All right, but do me a favor and don’t make a lot of noise about it.”

He puts me in a small interrogation room and plops down a stack of crusty old books that sends up plumes of white dust.

“Have at it and let me know if you find anything.”

Then he leaves and I dig in. Somehow I know I’m going to find a clue.

And as I cough through opening the first pages, I’m glad to have brown gloves on today, as my white ones wouldn’t have lasted long in this mess.

Book one down. Nothing yet. Book two down. Nothing again. I’m beginning to get frustrated, but I soldier on. Three more books to go.

As I look into the eyes of each of these criminals, I wonder what they were thinking at the time of their arrest. I’m sure they’re not glad they got caught, but I don’t see remorse in any of their eyes. That’s typical for mob types. They think they’re right and the rule of law is wrong, so they’ll do their time and know that their place will be waiting for them when they get out. A stint in the big house is almost like a badge of honor with them.

By the time I reach the last book, my confidence starts to wane. Maybe I’m on the wrong path, but I’m still so sure someone in this picture will be the one to take over. Then again, maybe it’s someone who’s too clever to have been caught yet.

But as I nearly finish the final book, I see one of the faces in the crowd. I put the picture up next to it to make sure.

Yes, he’s a little younger, but it’s an exact match. Rule #51: Never doubt your instincts. Bingo! That’s it—Mr. Frederick Young, otherwise known as Freddy the Fox.

This says his arrest was years ago, almost a decade on a petty rap. But that’s how they get started. I take the book back to Ernie and clap it on his desk, barely missing his coffee cup. Startled, he jumps up and whines a bit.

“May, do ya have to be so rough?”

I scoff at him, dismissing his objection.

“Freddy the Fox.” I smile with satisfaction.

Ernie peeks up at me, puzzled. “This guy?”

I nod with confidence. “Yep, look at that crooked witchy nose. He’s a dead ringer for the guy in this photo.”

Ernie looks down and scratches his head.

“Yeah, he’s a dead ringer all right. But he’s been six feet under for the last few years. I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree, May.”

“Then I’ll just have to find another tree. This isn’t the end of this topic. I’ll get back to you when I have something more,” I say and turn on my heels to leave, spying his disapproving look.

It was a dead end, but that doesn’t mean he had nothing to do with the murder. It just means that Freddy won’t be trying to fill Carrington’s seat. Ernie may not think it’s anything yet, but I’ll make a believer out of him.

With one strike against me, I need a diversion to allow my mind to formulate a new plan. Rule #45: When you hit a roadblock, there’s nothing like buying something new and pretty to make you feel better. Luckily, I know someone on the inside. My best friend, Kat Darby, runs the women’s department at Marshall Field’s, the most prominent store in town.

Kat and I are polar opposites on every front, except fashion. In all aspects of life, she is deliberate and conservative. But where it counts—gossip and fashion—we are the same.

I find Kat in her usual position helping ladies of the town find their couture style at Marshall Field’s prices. It’s no Fifth Avenue in New York, but it’s the swankiest place in our little burg. And without her friends and family discount, I’d never be able to afford it on the measly peanuts The Old Bug pays me.

Waiting for her to be done helping a customer, I roam around the different departments. Shoes usually make me feel the best. But maybe a new hat, purse or blouse will do the trick. With Kat’s knowledge of sales, a few layaway tricks, and her generous employee discount, I manage to look as good as the society ladies… or even better.

Her customer is looking at dresses. Neither of us wears dresses. We both outfit ourselves in stylish tailored suits, although she prefers softer creams and dove grays to my dark browns, charcoals, and blacks. I think suits are more professional and authoritative.

Finally, her customer leaves. When Kat approaches me, I’m trying to decide between a pair of blue peep-toe pumps with a white stripe or a pair of brown slingbacks that almost look like alligator print.

“Hey May, what brings you here in the middle of the day?” Kat asks.

“You know me. When I’m not sniffing out clues, I’m shopping.” I laugh.

“Well, if you’re trying to pick between these two, the blue peep toes go on sale in a few days. I can hold them for you to buy then.”

She knows me so well. I pick up the pumps and gladly hand them to her.

“Sold! Now why don’t we go to lunch?”

She nods and takes the shoes to the back for me and gets her hat and purse, so we can go. We head to our favorite diner to eat.

The Moondance Diner is a local haunt for many because of its vast menu and reasonable prices.

When we sit down with the menus, she looks me dead in the face and smiles.

“After we order, I have a juicy piece of gossip for you.” She grins with a knowing look and I immediately put down my menu.

“Well, don’t keep me in the lurch. What do you have?”

“I don’t have that long to eat. We need to order first,” she insists.

So I grab Shirley, one of our usual waitresses, and give her our order.

“We’ll both have Cokes. She’ll have a chicken salad and I’ll have a tuna melt.”

Shirley gives me a surprised glance, as I usually stick my favorite hot beef sandwich with gravy and mashed potatoes, but I’m trying to mix it up today.

When she leaves, I turn to Kat and lean in close. Kat laughs at my child-like cravings for good gossip.

“OK, Miss Impatient. I had some customers come in this morning who were talking about Elaine Carrington. They said they heard she was coming back to town. And she is rich again!”

That is curious news, given the feds froze or confiscated all her husband’s assets. But with her position as head of local society, and the way she left in disgrace, I can’t imagine she would ever come back unless she had money.

“But where do you think she could get money? She couldn’t have married again. There hasn’t been enough time for her to divorce her jailbird husband,” I wonder aloud.

Excited by the puzzle, Kat theorizes.

“Maybe the feds didn’t take everything?”

We’re several minutes into imagining some pretty outlandish theories when our sandwiches arrive. Kat digs right in. Polite as ever, she finishes chewing before speaking again.

“Well, maybe it’s not new money. You know how these rich people are—they always have money hidden somewhere,” she says nonchalantly.

I stop cold and grab her arm, captured by the idea.

“Exactly! That’s it, Kat. You’re a genius. She had a stash and it took her a while to get it. But why on earth would she come back?” I say, perplexed.

Kat shakes her head while still chewing away. I take a bite of my sandwich but barely taste it. My mind is whirling with possibilities. I buy that she had money hidden, but why would she come back here to the scene of the crime? Anyone with money could easily start over again somewhere else. This is a nugget that I’m going to have to chew on for a while.

After lunch, I walk her back to her store on my way back to the newsroom. Now I have a few fishing lines in the water—Taylor’s murder, Mrs. Carrington’s return to town, and Carrington’s successor. Oh, and Freddy the Fox and the curious picture of the alleged gang.

But all that will have to wait, because when I arrive, I see everyone gathered around in the middle of the bullpen. Buc sees me come through the door and grabs my arm, yanking me toward the others.

“Where have you been? We’ve got a new boss. You missed his introduction already,” he whispers.

As the pack splits, I see a tall, handsome man with black slicked-back hair. He’s not the typical hard-nosed editor that is beaten worn from time and all the miles running around the block of life. Instead, he seems like a spoiled rich boy, maybe an Ivy Leaguer.

From his sleek black suit, vest and red argyle tie, I can tell he’s not the run-of-the-mill editor with rolled-up sleeves and ink in his fingernails. No, this is a gentleman of breeding, something completely foreign to the gritty newsroom.

Standing in front of everyone, he wears a glimmering cordial smile on his square jaw.

“I want to assure everyone I am just here to help captain this vessel to a successful voyage of this town’s salient information to provide the facts to the people of this town. My job is not to tell you what to do, but to let you do what you do best and help you in any way I can.”

Of course, he laps up all the obligatory applause from his new crew. But I have to know how to play the game with him from the start. He seems all nice and cooperative alright, but I’ve learned the hard way, that could be the malarkey they tell you to get off on the right foot. Editors can be a best friend or the bane of existence. If they let me do what I want, it’ll be fine, but if he wants to babysit me and make me answer for everything I do, we’re gonna have a problem.

As all the other chumps stand in line to glad-hand him, I return to my desk. I don’t wanna seem too eager to kiss up. That’s not my style.

I light my cigarette and before I know it, he’s standing right in front of me, leaning over my old Smith Corona.

“I hear you’re the famous May Beck. I’m Edward Blackstone,” he says.

I nod to him while puffing on my cigarette and blowing smoke rings, playing it cool. I need to appear aloof to get the upper hand and show him where I fit in the pecking order.

He chuckles, flashing a movie star grin.

“OK, we’ll get along fine. Just know that my door is always open. Let me in on what you’re working on once in a while and I’ll give you a wide berth.”

I nod again, and he leaves. Sounds like we have an understanding, but there’s one bad thing about new editors. They are eager to make their mark and prove their worth… and that usually means getting in my way.

But it’ll take him a week to get the lay of the land and come up to speed, so I need to get something going quickly. Editors rarely give much time to reporters who are digging in the dirt. You’ve gotta come up with the treasure pretty fast. So I need come up with a valid lead soon.

This work is copyrighted (c) 2025 Suzanne Rudd Hamilton, all rights reserved.