Murder At The Tindari

Chapter 4

At her place in the reporters" pen filled with its desks, the chatter of voices on the phone, and typewriters clacking, Claire O"Conner smoothed her hair before setting her new cloche cap atop her head.

"I"d send Peterson along with you, but he"s doing the photos for this morning"s bank robbery at National with Hamilton and it"s clear across town," said her boss, Harry Dudley, as he walked up to stand beside her desk.

"I"ll be fine, Mr. Dudley," she told him, although she"d never been to this part of town. It wasn’t a safe area for a young, unaccompanied woman to wander about alone, and she worried Mr. Dudley could hear the knock of her knees under the wool skirt.

Harry Dudley pulled the cigar from his mouth and gave her a thorough look-over. "It"s daylight and not much goes on over there in the afternoon. You should be fine. Get the five Ws and get back as soon as you can."

It was the standard reporter instruction—who, what, when, where, why, and how—that Claire knew well enough.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Dudley," she told him, flashing her most confident smile. With only a tiny quaver of her hand, she picked up her notebook and pencil and made her way out. This could be the first of more newsworthy stories, and the prospect thrilled her. Of course, it depended on whether the editors liked what she wrote or not.

On the way to the Tindari, Claire tried to review her notes about the new restaurant and the questions she had penciled in the notebook one last time, but her mind wandered.

She was grateful Mr. Dudley had hired her, but she had longed—had begged, really—for more newsworthy stories. More like covering the armed robbery that had taken place just this morning at National Bank. Sam Hamilton and Mark Peterson had been assigned to that story. She, on the other hand, had been covering young ladies" coming out dances and society women"s causes. This was something slightly more interesting thankfully; the opening of a grand new restaurant. At least it wasn"t writing up birth notices and obituaries. For that she could thank the fact that Mr. Dudley had been high school pals with her dad, Tag O"Connor.

"We"re here, Miss O"Connor," said Clyde, the old n***o driver the newspaper hired to shepherd around reporters to various locations.

"Thank you, Clyde," she told him and stepped out of the car. It was early December, and she tightened her coat against the icy wind. "Come back by to pick me up in, say, forty-five minutes."

"Will do, Miss," he said, touching the brim of his hat.

The maître d" led Claire past unoccupied tables set with white tablecloths and place settings ready for the dinner crowd to arrive, to a man sitting alone at a table. Even in the low lighting, she could see he was handsome with black hair, warm brown skin, strong Sicilian features, and sensual lips.

maître d"Her heart did a flip when her gaze alighted on those lips. He looked a few years older than her twenty but still he seemed too young to be a proprietor of a business such as this. Mentally, she added a question of how he came to buy such an establishment to her list of questions.

When he stood to greet Claire, a strange expression darted over his face. Was he one of those traditional men who believed a woman"s work only involved catering to a husband and the care of children? She had spoken to him on the phone so why the surprise.

Finally, he crooked a smile and shook her proffered hand, holding it a moment longer than might be considered polite. As they took their seats, he seemed flustered, having had to retrieve the cloth napkin that fell from his lap when he stood to greet her. Whatever the reason for his discomfort, Claire could use it to her advantage. It made her feel a little more confident. She took a seat, squared her shoulders, placed her notebook on the table, and opened it to a blank page.

They chattered for a few minutes about the weather and the upcoming holidays. Then it was time for the first topic: who was this new owner?

"Tell me a little about yourself," she asked Anthony after the bartender set drinks on the table; hot tea for her and another of what he had been drinking for Anthony.

He smiled, took a sip. "What do you want to know?"

"Do you own as well as manage the Tindari?"

"Me and silent partners."

Pencil poised over the paper, Claire asked, "Who are the silent partners?"

Anthony gave that grin again, the one that hinted of a private amusement. "They are silent partners. That means they don"t want to identify themselves."

Claire felt herself blush. It was a novice"s mistake and it made her feel she had lost a little ground in the interview.

Anthony tapped a pack of cigarettes against the tabletop but didn"t take one out.

Claire gave him her most confident smile and said, "Tell me about yourself then."

He shrugged. "I came back to my hometown after the war ended, searched around for a business opportunity, and saw it as a good opportunity…a nice place in a good location, seeing how this part of the city is hopping."

She nodded. It was true. When she was able to escape the controlling thumb of her mother, she and her friend, Josie, and Josie"s older brother and his wife went to a nearby dinner club to listen to music. The jazzy mash of trumpets, saxophones, piano, and clarinet, along with the thrum of drums and double bass would jitter through her blood.

"Tell me about Tindari and what the restaurant offers. It"s an unusual name. How did you arrive at it?" Claire asked, even though Anthony"s answer about who he was hadn"t told her much. It was a topic she decided to put aside and pursue later in the interview.

"My family came from Sicily. My father visited the town of Tindari as a child and has fond memories of it. He suggested we name the restaurant after it. Now, to your second question. We"ve been in business since September. We"re located close enough to the jazz clubs that we get patrons both before and during the hours they are open. Our head chef trained in Europe and Italy. Jimmy over there," he pointed to the bartender who gave a little wave, "has a grand selection of liquors, beer, and wine not easily found in other clubs." He leaned over the table to add conspiratorially, "Those bottles, of course, we keep out of sight."

Claire made a note of what he said. Even with her eyes on the paper, she could feel his penetrating gaze as he watched her write. It both annoyed and thrilled her.

"You mentioned liquor. There are, of course, prohibition laws. How does that affect your business?"

Anthony snorted. "A few streets over is the dry Kansas border. Works dandy for us here in Missouri where we are wide open, and it"s a short trip for our Kansas patrons. I don"t see prohibition lasting long. The war is over, the economy is booming, people are getting rich. Those Washington blokes shouldn"t risk slowing the recovery."

Claire wasn"t so certain. Her family lived on the Kansas side and were Baptists. No liquor was ever served in the home under her mother"s stern eye, and stories of ruined lives caused by demon drink were told and retold among her parents" friends. Looking around at the empty restaurant, she asked, "I don"t see a dance floor. Do you have plans to expand and add live music?"

Anthony thought for a minute and then answered. "Maybe in the future but there are no such plans now."

"And that"s your silent partners" opinion, too?" Claire was still curious about these anonymous people. She would need to make a call to the Missouri capital to ask about business records.

Anthony shook a finger at her and grinned. "That, doll, would be a matter to keep between us partners."

She started to say something about being called a doll. She was a professional woman after all but stopped. Time for the where question.

"You"re right. This is a good location. What made you pick it?"

"Because it"s where the action is, as you yourself said."

"You bought the building?" Claire asked. "I noticed there are floors above the club. Or do you simply rent the space?"

For the first time, a cloud passed over his face replacing the cocky expression.

"It was available," he answered simply.

Frustrated by his cryptic answers, Claire looked at the notes she’d made so far. Really, there was nothing of substance for her story. Sure, he had answered her questions, but the answers had been bland with no details or enthusiasm. At least it seemed that way to her, compared to the effusiveness of interviews with the mothers and young women preparing for coming-out events that she was used to. She looked up and sighed.

"So, Mr. Glaviano, why a restaurant versus so many other businesses you could have opened? Especially, with the enactment of federal prohibition laws."

A puzzled expression flashed across his face. She had expected him to say it had always been a dream of his, or that he loved the jazz scene, or here was an opportunity to take advantage of the new lifestyle that had developed after the war ended. Something that showed his motivation other than the boring answers he had given so far.

"I guess I never thought much…."

His attention spun away from her. Something outside on the street had caught his eye. Claire followed his gaze to see what it was. A large black motorcar had pulled up next to the walkway in front of the Tindari. First out of the chauffeured touring car, and not very gracefully, came a portly man with silvered hair. He was dressed in a dark, somber suit and coat. He offered a hand to someone inside and a delicate hand took his. It was followed by the face of an exotic-looking woman with dark bobbed hair and enormous eyes. One long leg snaked out from beneath a short red, shimmery skirt. Leading that leg was a slender foot in a high-heeled, strappy, blood-red shoe. As more came into view, Claire could see she had a white ermine cape wrapped around her shoulders. Claire turned to look back at Anthony on the far side of the table. He sat rigid, watching the couple disembark. Was the gentleman someone he knew or was it the woman who had captured his attention? Was this man one of the silent partners? If that was it, why the tension?

Anthony was still focused on the couple, so Claire turned again to watch the activity.

The woman had nearly completed her exit when a sleek coupe quickly pulled up behind them.

There was a burst of activity as men holding pistols sprang from both doors. They raced toward the couple with guns extended. The man shouted something Claire couldn"t understand and shoved the woman back inside. Just as he tried scrambling back into the car to join her, gunshots rang out.

Claire heard a distinctive pop, pop, pop. Suddenly, Anthony roughly pulled her down to the floor and shoved her under the table, his body between hers and the action on the street.

Another pop rang out, along with the sound of pounding feet and the screech of tires.

"Stay here," hissed Anthony, pushing Claire deeper under the table and dropping the tablecloth to hide her.

Claire heard panting and realized it was her own quick breaths. Blood roared in her ears. Street noise erupted when someone opened the restaurant door.

"Jimmy, telephone my father," Anthony shouted. The door closed, and she heard a clatter as the bartender picked up the phone receiver and ordered the operator to dial a number.

Claire"s heart pounded and heat flooded through her. With a shaky hand, she lifted a corner of the tablecloth to look, but all she could see through the window from her position on the floor was Anthony"s head as he bent over to look at something on the ground.