Murder at Eight (The Dewey Webb Historical Mystery Series Book 7) by Renee Pawlish

Author:Renee Pawlish [Pawlish, Renee]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Creative Cat Press
Published: 2020-01-11T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

The old man had said that Artie Samuelson lived in an apartment on the corner of Elizabeth Street, near the Bonnie Brae Park. Bonnie Brae was near where Gibbons lived. Bonnie Brae–Gaelic for “pleasant hill”–was an upper-class neighborhood, developed in the 1920s by George Olinger, one of Denver’s most prominent businessmen at the time. I drove down Colfax, the volume of the radio turned low so I could think. I glanced in the rearview mirror, and that’s when I saw a dark car several feet back. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I’d seen it before. I slowed down, and so did the other car. I sped up, and it did as well. The driver wore a Fedora pulled down low to obscure his face. I turned on a side street, then sped up, yanked the wheel, and careened into a parking place halfway down the block. I looked over my shoulder. The car didn’t follow me, and I waited a bit. I finally concluded I was imagining things, and I pulled into the street and drove around the block. I got back on Colfax and kept an eye on the rearview mirror, but didn’t see anyone tailing me.

There was only one apartment building on Elizabeth Street near Bonnie Brae Park: a four-story building painted blue, with a large yard out front. I had to park at the corner, then got out and walked back to the building. On the first floor was a lobby with a bank of mailboxes, and one was labeled “Samuelson,” in 302.

I trudged upstairs, went slowly down an outside walkway, and stopped at his door. I listened and heard a radio playing an upbeat jazz tune. I knocked on the door. It opened, and Artie Samuelson stared at me. He’d taken off his hat and coat, and looked casual with his shirtsleeves rolled up.

“Yeah?” he said.

I glanced behind him. A young woman in a tight yellow dress, her hair in a ponytail and sexy bangs, was sitting at a small table by the kitchen. Nearby was a short bookcase, and on top of it I noticed a white envelope.

“You’re Artie Samuelson?” I asked.

“Yes, who wants to know?” His eyes signaled caution.

I decided again it was time to be blunt and see what kind of reaction I got. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Warren Dresel.”

“Who?” he said.

A lie straight to my face. His gaze darted all around.

“Warren Dresel,” I repeated. “I believe you know him.”

“Uh, no, I don’t.”

“He’s friends with Frank Gibbons.”

He denied knowing Gibbons, and his eyes again betrayed him. He glanced nervously over his shoulder. The woman had her head tipped to the side, and she was listening intently. He looked back at me.

“You’re interrupting our dinner,” he said, “and I’m not sure I can help you. If you’ll excuse me.”

My gaze went to the envelope, and so did his. He gave me a curt nod and shut the door.

I stood in the walkway for a moment. That was interesting, I thought.

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