BECK RULES MYSTERIES BOOK 2

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Chapter 1

Driving from the city, I thought I took a wrong turn. For miles it was just farmland as far as I could see. But when I pull into this urban oasis, I knew from the grit on the buildings and the bums on the street; I was in the right place.

Stepping in front of the brick brownstone at 1225 Maple Street, somehow I know it’ll be my home.

From the worn cobblestone steps to the creaking rail, most who cross the threshold probably sneer in disgust at the despair of what was once a charming brick home, but not me.

“Watch your step, Miss Beck,” the agent says with a pursed look on his face. “She’s a dusty old girl, but it’s in your price range.”

Kicking aside pieces of broken clay tiles as we walk through the once golden entry door, it’s obvious the real estate agent only sees a cheap space he’d like to unload.

But the minute I enter, it hits me like a Mack Truck. I instantly feel a rush of warmth all over me. I can picture myself sitting fireside sipping a hot cup of coffee while covered in a warm blanket.

“It has fourteen-foot ceilings and notice the original hardwood floors and eight-inch original woodwork,” the agent says. “Just a little spit and polish and they’ll be right as rain.”

I barely hear him—the room captivates me. As I slowly spin around the living room, my eyes grow bigger with each turn. I can envision everything in place.

The sunlight beaming into the room from the bay window immediately grabs my attention. I move into the light, seeing the dust glimmer around the woodwork. Here’s the perfect place for my desk. I can look out the window while I write. Watching people spurs my imagination.

“Wow, look at this fireplace!” The agent ushers me away from the window, pointing to the giant mantle. “It was hand-crafted in Europe at the turn of the century.”

But the European craftsmanship is far from my mind. I amble toward the fireplace like some magnetic force is pulling me into a trance. It’s just a fireplace, but I’m inexplicably attracted to it. Silently, I run my hands over every inch of the mantle.

“The mantle is floor to ceiling and ten feet wide,” the agent read from the listing sheet. “Notice the intricate Victorian detail. And look, it has these neat little drawers for storage. Just like an apothecary chest.”

I gradually feel every inlaid pattern, every angle of the wood, and every drawer knob. I stand back and look at myself in the large mirror over the mantle. Curiously, I look like I belong here.

When it’s is right, I know it. The hair on the back of my neck rises. There’s just something about this house.

“It’s the one,” I say, smiling. “What do I need to sign?”

“It is?” The agent expresses surprise but quickly rebounds. “Good! Will your husband or father also need to sign?”

“No, just me. May Beck. I’m on my own.”

“OOOKK,” the agent hesitantly says. “Let’s sign the lease right now. I have the papers in my car.”

I’m used to men not understanding me. What can I say? Most of my friends are on the white picket fence program. But that’s not for me.

I grew up with ink in my blood. My pop was a newspaperman too. I started at the Chicago Daily News, but after a year of 50-word obituaries listing a parade of who was left behind and police blotter duty covering every stick up and snatch and grab, I was bored. I had to start over in a smaller pond to be a bigger fish, so I landed 60 miles away from the big magilla papers in Chicago.

Now I’m on the city beat at The News Bugle in a small burb nicknamed “Little Chicago. And I’m moving into my very first home and a new life.

This place is a world away from my one-room hovel in the big city. There are two bedrooms, a living room, a dining room and a small kitchen. But I never have time to eat anyway, so if it can fit a coffee maker, a Frigidaire for leftovers, and a small oven to warm them up, I’m good. It’s little rundown, but to me, this is a palace.

And most importantly, it has a big walk-in closet for my collection of shoes, hats, purses, and smart suits. Just because I have to work with the gang of Oxford shoes and ill-fitting Sears Roebuck suits, that doesn’t mean I can’t be stylish. It’s my thing.

As a woman in a sea of men reporters, I already stick out. I might as well look good while I turn the town on its ear with my expert investigative reporting.

A day later, the movers arrive with my few belongings—a few pieces of furniture and my budding wardrobe, which took most of the space. Coming from a one-room city walk-up flat, all I have is my big 50 pound solid wooden desk and chair, my dad left me, trusty second-hand typewriter, childhood single bed, dresser with mirror and nightstand, and comfy chair.

When they put my desk by the window and chair by the fireplace, I realize the emptiness of the rooms. It’s funny and pitiful at the same time. I don’t have any little tea parties, so I don’t need much, but on the other hand, the echo is tremendous. Typing away at night, my keystrokes will sound as ominous as the “TellTale Heart.”With my first paycheck, I’ll buy a few more pieces of furniture.

Unpacking my coffee pot first, I set it to brew, then light up my first Virginia Slim of the day while I wait. I look around and notice the chipping wallpaper above the stove; without thinking, I begin peeling it. Layer after layer, I discover bits of new patterns.

Curiously, I scrape it with a butter knife, revealing each new pattern. The top layer is a light green and pink pastel with delicate bands of white eyelet. Under that is a sweet white gardenia floral pattern interspersed with blue teapots and beige spoons. The third layer looks like a brown and black geometric pattern on a beige worn background. The final layer is a harsh dark green damask dotted with flattened bits of felt.

I feel like I’m time warping through the history of the house. When my coffee is ready, I take it to my desk along with the scraps of paper. I gaze at them and think about the people who lived here before me. Old houses have many stories to tell.

After I finish my cup, I know I can’t just throw these scraps away. I’m going to tear it all down and paint, eventually, but these stories belong to the house; they’re part of it. I’ll get frames for each of them and then they’ll always be here to remind me of what came before. But now, I have to clean this place.

I scrub the kitchen from stem to stern and move to the living room. The dusty hardwood floors are scratched, but all they need is a good shine.

As I mop the floor back and forth to the width of the room, I find myself drawn again to the giant fireplace. I just can’t seem to get away from it. I contemplate the ornate carvings of leaves and vines cut in profile to make curves all around surrounding the gilded mirror. And the huge firebox seems as if it could hold a small child standing upright.

Then the series of small drawers all around the top of the mantle are calling my name. My curious nature can’t help but wonder what’s inside. So I set down the mop and pick up the duster. The mantle needs dusting anyway and that makes my efficient side feel better about the snooping detour.

I wipe one drawer inside and out; it’s empty. I don’t know why I expected anything to be in the drawers of a vacant home, but damn my tenacious spirit, I had to try again.

I pull out the next drawer and dust inside. But the duster catches on something. So I look inside and see the edge a folded piece of paper in the far back.

I reach in as far as my hand can go and tug on the piece of paper to pull it out, but the paper gets stuck. So I jimmy the drawer with the duster handle and yank it out. Stuck to the back of the drawer is a yellow piece of paper, covered in layers of cobwebs and dust.

I carefully remove it, blow off its outer layer and unfold it. It’s a crude child’s drawing of the house. The wax crayon colors are barely there mere hints on the page, but I can definitely see the black lines of the house with the steps to the front door and a tree on the other side of the bay window. There are stick figures of a family. At the top, I can make out the words “our house” and “Carrie” in the corner.

“Well, Carrie,” I declare to the picture. “I promise to do my best to make our house something we can both love and be proud of.”

Placing the piece of paper in my pocket, I suddenly feel a whoosh of warmth envelop me again, lovingly wrapping me from head to toe.

“OK, Carrie, I get the picture. I think you need a place of prominence in the house.” I dust off a place on the mantle and prop the picture up.

Hours later, when I finish cleaning, I sit and type up the list of potential stories to pitch to my new editor. In Chicago, I really wanted to dig into the crime syndicate, but was told to stick with obits and police blotters, all with the promise of someday being promoted to write about etiquette and features—lady stuff. What a crock!

My old editor would never listen to “the machinations of a woman”—and that’s a direct quote.

I secretly investigated a small crime cell, but the trail went cold right before pointing a straight line to my new hometown. I need to pick up the trail here. Somehow, I feel it in my bones. The answer is in this town.

Digging through my desk drawer, I find my accordion file of detailed evidence and empty it on my desk.

I need to type an outline of my evidence to show the editor, but I’ll keep it all here. And maybe even hide it. I have trust issues. Rule #38 – Don’t let anyone see your playbook.

My pop used to always say that. I adopted his sayings into my own set of rules of the road for reporting and life. After all, you can’t get anywhere without a roadmap. That’s Rule #40.

My rules are not in any order or anything. I memorize them as I think of them. They’re the strict code of conduct I live by.

When I’m done with my outline, I jerk the piece of paper from the typewriter reel and it makes a screeching whoosh noise. I love that sound. You’re supposed to release it with a lever, but I prefer to savor the sound of accomplishment when I finish a story.

This time, though, there’s no story and nothing truly accomplished. Looking at the list of evidence, I question this tactic.

If I show him this, he’ll think I’m a one-trick pony. Maybe I need to show him my style and earn his respect before I let him in on my theories, so he doesn’t think I’m a nutcase. For once, I need to wade in slowly. But I’m just not sure I can. I’m notoriously impatient.

Rolling a new sheet into the typewriter, I hear some faint laughter and glance out the window. It’s near dusk, but I dismiss it as some neighborhood children playing outside before dinner.

But as I type list of things I need for my new home, and I hear giggling again. I look out the window, but there’s no one there. Then I hear it again—louder—so I open the front door and peer out. There are no children on either side of the street.

I must be imagining things. It’s probably from lack of food. I mostly live on coffee, milk and sugar anyway. But I bought a couple sandwiches on the way here and put them in the fridge. So I head into the kitchen to brew another pot of coffee. When it’s done, I take a roast beef on rye sandwich and sit by the fire with my mug and a new cigarette. I hear the giggling noise again, even louder than before.

I think I’m losing my marbles, but I decide to test a theory. Walking back and forth in front of the fireplace, I realize the sound is strongest in front of the drawing I set on the mantle.

“Maybe the people on the other side of the wall have kids. That’s it,” I reason.

I sit down to take a few more bites and puffs, and I can’t take my eyes off those drawers. I realize I never finished looking in all of them.

Bolting back up from the chair, I furiously open several drawers, feeling all the way back into each one with my hand until I feel a piece of paper and yank on it. This time it comes out easily.

Dusting off the yellowed paper, I unfold it and see that it’s a letter.

My Darling Beth,

It has been 100 days since I gazed upon your loving eyes. In my heart, I can still smell the sweet rose fragrance from our last meeting. I have toiled long and hard creating a little cottage for us. I want to ensure you will feel wonderfully comfortable inside her walls for all of our days together.

I will continue with earnest until my fingers bleed and muscles ache, so I may once again feel your soft skin and see your sparkling smile looking at me. Please be patient with me.

Soon I will lift you across the threshold of our golden door and we will live happily ever after.

Yours forever, Carrie

It’s a bit sappy for me, but very touching.

Then I pause, glancing back over to the drawing. Wait, both have the same name. I assumed the Carrie that drew the house was a girl, but this letter was obviously written by a young man. Is Carrie a boy?

“What boy’s name is shortened to Carrie? Carroll? Carlton?”

I sit down and think of a bunch of names while I finish my cigarette, coffee and sandwich, but my mind races with curiosity about Carrie.

Even later, as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, it occupied every space of my mind. It’s a common occurrence—an occupational hazard of an investigative reporter. Once something permeates my head, I’m like a dog with a juicy bone. I never give anything up until I get to the bottom.

Rule #25 – When something is talking to you, LISTEN. I won’t be able to get this out of my head until I answer all the questions in my ears.

***

My mind must have been thinking for me all night—when my alarm clock ring sounds like a carillon bell, I jolt from sleep with the answer.

Carrington!

I don’t know how I thought of it, but it’s as clear as day. I’m as sure of it as my own name. But I’ll need to verify it with the house’s property records. Reporters don’t work on instinct alone.

I question why it feels so peculiarly right, and I realize the name seems familiar to me. How do I know that name?

I run down the stairs at top speed with the name flashing in front of my eyes and dig deep into my bottom desk drawer.

Hastily, I snatch my father’s research on the Chicago mob scene, painstakingly collected during his long career. It takes the form of a giant web of crime dating back thirty years of all the crime families, disappearances, murders, and suspects who slipped or were “escorted” out of the hands of the Chicago Police Department.

I lay out the paper, covering the entire desk. My father, Herman Beck, uncovered crimes and corruption in the gang-ridden 1930s Chicago mob syndicate. He was both hated and feared by many in city government and the criminal underbelly. It was his mission and life’s work to uncover corruption and exterminate the mob from Chicago.

When he died, I vowed to pick up where he left off in every way. And I will.

I carefully examine every name on the web and finally—pay dirt.

“There—Carrington!”

Carrington was one of the crime lords with a numbers racket radiating from Chicago to the burbs. But he was old. It couldn’t be him, but could it be his kid?

Maybe my house is the next piece of the puzzle. I need more information, but I have to be smart about this.

And it’s time to get to my new job.

I have my favorite Chanel suit already picked up to wear. One thing about me, I wouldn’t be caught dead without my shoes and hats. That and my Chanel suit are my signature.

This work is copyrighted (c) 2024 Suzanne Rudd Hamilton, all rights reserved.