Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Historical Note
About the Author
Copyright © 2016 by Beth Fantaskey
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to
[email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
www.hmhco.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Fantaskey, Beth.
Isabel Feeney, star reporter / by Beth Fantaskey.
p. cm.
Summary: In the 1920s, a ten-year-old newsgirl who aspires to be a reporter at the Chicago Tribune investigates the murder of a gangster.
ISBN 978-0-544-58249-1
[1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Reporters and reporting—Fiction. 3. Newspapers—Fiction. 4. Gangsters—Fiction. 5. Chicago (Ill.)— History—20th century—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.F222285IS 2016
[Fic]—dc23
2014048445
eISBN 978-0-544-78766-7
v1.0316
Chapter 1
“MURDER ON HALSTED STREET!” I HOLLERED, waving a fat copy of the Chicago Tribune in front of the last few people hurrying home for dinner, their heads bent against a wickedly cold wind. The streets were dark and dusted with snow, and I knew nobody was going to stop, but I had to sell as many newspapers as possible, so I kept trying. “Read all about it!”
The truth was, though, murder wasn’t big news in my city. It seemed like somebody—usually a gangster—got killed pretty much every day. People could hardly be bothered to read about a homicide in Chicago in 1926. Even ladies were carrying guns—and using them. A whole part of the county jail, called Murderess’s Row, was set aside for women who’d done somebody in.
“It’s Prohibition,” my mother always said with a sigh. “That law has made the city crazy!”
I didn’t know much about laws, but I knew when to give up peddling papers. Setting my unsold copies on the sidewalk under a streetlamp, I used my teeth to yank off my dad’s old wool gloves, dug into my pockets, and counted my meager profits.
Nine lousy cents!
Then I glanced at the pile of papers at my feet, checking to see who had written the murder story on the front page, and sure enough, I saw the name Maude Collier. I bet she got paid a lot to write news. Just like I would when I was a famous girl reporter, which would happen. I wouldn’t be a stupid newsgirl forever. Maybe I’d even go to school again, someday . . .
“Isabel! Isabel Feeney!”
The sound of someone calling my name interrupted my daydream, and I looked up to see one of my regular customers, a pretty young lady named Colette Giddings, hurrying toward me. She was smiling and waving a fist that I knew held coins.
“Hey, Miss Giddings,” I greeted her. She wore a fancy white fur coat instead of her usual wool one, so I added, “You look really nice tonight.”
“Why, thank you, Isabel,” she said, handing me some money. More money than the paper cost. Miss Giddings was just a clerk at the big department store, Marshall Field’s, but she never asked for change. Then she frowned at me, concern in her wide brown movie-star eyes. Honestly, with her dark curly hair and her sweet smile, Miss Giddings could’ve gone to Hollywood and been an actress like Mary Pickford. Why couldn’t I ever get my mousy brown curls to look that nice? “Where are your mittens, Isabel?” she demanded. “Your hands are turning blue!”
I’d jammed my gloves into my pocket, and I pulled them out to show her. “I’ve got these. They used to be my dad’s, but with the fingers cut halfway off, they work okay.”
“Oh, Isabel . . .” Miss Giddings’s frown deepened. She knew all about how my father had died in the Great War, and the few times I’d mentioned him, it always made her sad. Then I’d wish I hadn’t done it. “Here.” She tucked her newspaper under her arm and started to remove her own leather gloves. “These will fit you better. I have another pair at home.”
“I am not taking those!” I cried, my fair, freckled cheeks getting warm in spite of the cold wind. She held out the gloves, and I stepped back. “I won’t!”
Miss Giddings opened her mouth to protest. Then she stopped herself, folded her gloves away in her purse, and apologized quietly. “I’m sorry, Izzie. I just worry about you, working out here in the cold. You know, having a son your age, I have a soft spot . . .”
I didn’t know much about Miss Giddings’s personal life, but she had mentioned her kid, Robert, before.
How come he was never with her?
And where was her husband?
Had he died in a trench in France, like my dad? Because the war had taken a lot of men.
I didn’t feel like I could ask. And I didn’t want her charity. “My mother will probably get me some mittens soon,” I fibbed. “She’s got a new job, cleaning a hospital at night.”
Well, the part about the job was true. But it wasn’t going to buy new mittens. I just hoped we could heat the house a little
better.
“All right, Isabel,” Miss Giddings said—still sounding worried. “You just be careful out here.” Then she glanced down the street and suddenly seemed distracted. “I’ve got to run now, Izzie. Take care, okay?”
“Yeah, you too,” I said, watching as she hurried away, toward whatever—or whoever—had caught her attention.
That was when I realized a man was waiting for her a few yards down the street. A tall guy who stood in the shadows, his hat pulled low and his hands jammed into the pockets of a long overcoat. When they met up, he took Miss Giddings’s arm, and at first I was happy for her. She was a good person, and if her husband had been killed, it would be nice if she met somebody new.
A moment later, I wasn’t so sure about that, because Miss Giddings and her friend were obviously arguing—though I couldn’t hear what they said—and the man was rough with her as they walked into the darkness. He tugged at her fur coat, and she wobbled on heels that were higher than her usual shoes.
I kept staring even after Miss Giddings and the man turned a corner. Then, because I couldn’t exactly interfere in a spat between two adults, I bent to pick up my stack of papers before the rising wind blew them away. But that winter wind, as strong as it was, couldn’t drown out the sound of a gunshot. A single, sharp report that echoed from the alley into which Miss Giddings and that man had just disappeared.
No. I’d be able to hear that for the rest of my life.
Chapter 2
I PROBABLY SHOULDN’T HAVE RUN TOWARD A GUNSHOT, but Miss Giddings always looked after me, if only by buying a paper she probably didn’t even want, and I couldn’t seem to stop my feet. They just kept flying toward that alley. And as I skidded around the corner, I was ready to scream at the guy in the overcoat, telling him to leave Miss Giddings alone, even though I had a bad feeling it was way too late for that.
But when I practically stumbled over the two of them, huddled in a heap by some barrels full of garbage, my warning turned to a . . . what?
Because it wasn’t Miss Giddings lying stretched out on the snow, bleeding. It was the man in the overcoat.
Miss Giddings was kneeling over him, and when she turned her face to me, I could see by the moonlight that she was scared and confused, as if she didn’t know what had just gone wrong. Our eyes met, and it seemed like she was asking me, a kid who hadn’t seen anything, What just happened?
I also noticed, lying right next to her knees—her nice clothes were going to be a mess—a black object.
“Miss Giddings?” I ventured uncertainly. “Where did that gun come from?”
Chapter 3
SHE DIDN’T ANSWER MY QUESTION, AND I MOVED CLOSER TO HER, real slowly. In her white fur, wide-eyed and crouched down, she looked like a cat that might run away if I made a sudden move. “What happened?” I asked, glancing at the man, who was very still. His hat was a few feet away, in the middle of the alley, and there was a puddle of blood near his ear. Then I looked away, not wanting to see more, and met Miss Giddings’s eyes again. “Is he . . .”
I couldn’t seem to say dead. But she knew what I meant, and she nodded.
“Yes,” she said softly. I barely heard her, because there were sirens blaring now, getting louder. Somebody must’ve called the police. Miss Giddings turned her face away from me, and her hand shook when she rested it on the dead man’s shoulder. Aside from the missing hat, his clothes looked perfect, as if he might stand up and tell us both it was all a joke. But when I dared to look at his face—the blood—a second time . . .
“What happened?” I asked again, forcing myself to move closer and kneel down too. I’d never been that close to a dead person. Hadn’t even seen my father’s body, because he’d been buried in Europe, “with honors.” At least that’s what everybody told me, probably so I wouldn’t feel bad knowing he was really in a trench somewhere, forgotten. I focused on the man’s chest, not wanting to look into his eyes, and asked, “Who shot him?”
She didn’t answer that question, either. She was staring past me, toward a car that was screeching to a halt, blocking the alley, and suddenly I felt kind of trapped. I also realized, for the first time, that there might very well be a killer still wandering around the alley. In all the excitement, I hadn’t even thought of that.
As headlights from the police car caught me and Miss Giddings huddled like rats near the trash bins, it also struck me that I was pretty close to that gun, too.
Maybe a little too close.
Chapter 4
MISS GIDDINGS AND I STOOD IN THE SNOW, SILENT AND SHIVERING, while more and more police officers and men from an ambulance joined us in the alley. Everybody around us was in motion, but the first officer who’d arrived had let us stand up, then told us not to move a muscle.
“The new Homicide Division don’t like anything touched,” he’d warned us. “And no chattering, either!”
I hoped that officer hadn’t meant my teeth, because they were starting to chatter like crazy, while Miss Giddings seemed to be getting as numb and frozen as the corpse. She clutched her bloodstained fur coat with both hands, staring blankly, and the coroner had to ask her twice who the dead man was before she whispered, “Charles. Charles Bessemer.”
Then, just when I thought I couldn’t be a statue one second longer, a big dark sedan arrived, and I got my first glimpse of the Homicide Division. A man who had to be seven feet tall got out of the car and, as if he didn’t even notice anyone standing there, parted the excited crowd that had gathered at the end of the alley. The automobiles’ headlamps were behind him as he strode toward us, so I could see him only in silhouette, but the way his overcoat was flapping, he looked for all the world like the Grim Reaper. Like a guy who was gonna see somebody hang for what had just happened.
“I’m Detective James Culhane,” he told me and Miss Giddings.
“Hey,” I greeted him. “I’m Izzie. Nice to meetcha.”
Apparently he didn’t really care about making my acquaintance. He began pacing around the scene, studying everything—while I studied him. He wasn’t as tall as I’d first thought, but he was at least a six-footer. And though I couldn’t see much of his face, because his hat was pulled low, I could tell he wasn’t smiling. He seemed to take forever examining the body, and I was relieved when he finally looked at me and Miss Giddings again—until he pointed to the weapon lying in the snow and asked, point-blank, “So, which one of you fired the gun?”
Chapter 5
“I WASN’T BEING A SMART ALECK!” I PROTESTED AS A UNIFORMED officer hauled me into a bright, busy police station. “I was just answering the detective!”
I still wasn’t sure what I’d said to make Detective Culhane so angry. Well, except maybe the part about him being crazy if he thought me or Miss Giddings could kill anybody. I probably shouldn’t have said—or shouted—that.
“Will you please let me go?” I begged, trying to shake free. “Please?”
“Just keep your mouth shut, kid,” the policeman suggested. He continued to drag me along, so I wasn’t sure if I was officially under arrest. It seemed that way. “You’ll get plenty of time to talk when Detective Culhane questions you,” he promised. “Save it for then!”
I thought the cops were also mad because I wouldn’t tell them how to find my mother. But if she had to leave her job to help me, she might get fired, and then what?
Squirming, I looked over my shoulder to see that Detective Culhane was entering the station too, with a very frightened Miss Giddings in tow. I tried to give her a reassuring look, but she stared down at the floor, her shoulders hunched. The bloodstains on her coat had dried to brown, but they stood out even worse under the electric lights.
Ugh.
And just when it seemed like things were hectic enough, a bunch of men came out of nowhere, crowding around us and asking questions all at once.
“Who are they, Culhane?”
“What’d they do?”
“Look at the blood! The lady killed somebody, right? Ano
ther murderess!”
“Quiet down,” Detective Culhane ordered them. “You’ll get your story. Just be patient.”
I understood then that the men were reporters—and they were following us deeper into the station, circling us, and jockeying for position while Detective Culhane ushered Miss Giddings into a chair near a messy desk. I was left standing, and the officer who’d escorted me kept one hand lightly on my elbow.
As I got my bearings, I looked closer at the reporters, only to discover that not all of them were men. There was one woman in the group. A lady I recognized from selling—and reading—the Chicago Tribune, which sometimes printed her picture.
Maude Collier, one of the only women in the entire nation who wrote about crime and other real news, just like men did. The woman I wanted to be someday.
Too bad I was finally meeting my heroine under such bad circumstances. And how the heck was I going to make a good first impression when Detective Culhane was insinuating that I was a cold-blooded killer? He leaned back against the desk, crossed his arms, and said to me and Miss Giddings, “Now, let’s figure out how you two ended up in a dark alley with a corpse and a gun. Because I’m pretty confused.”
He wasn’t confused, though. He thought he knew the whole story—even if he was wrong.
Before Miss Giddings and I could defend ourselves, though, Maude Collier piped up, addressing Detective Culhane but managing to insult me.
“What are their names, Detective? And how is the boy involved?”
Chapter 6
“HEY!” I CRIED, FINALLY SHAKING FREE OF THE OFFICER AND yanking off my cap so my brown curls sprang out in fifty different directions. “I’m a girl! My name’s Isabel Feeney!”
More than once, I’d imagined what it would be like to meet Maude Collier in person. In my daydreams, I was a Tribune reporter too, and she stopped by my desk—I figured I’d have a desk—to congratulate me for scooping her on some big story.
I guess you’re the star girl reporter now, Isabel Feeney, she’d tell me. Nice work!
In none of my fantasies did Miss Collier laugh at me, the way she and all the reporters did there in the police station. Even when she apologized, her mouth twitched, and there was an amused twinkle in her dark, intelligent eyes. “I’m very sorry, Miss Feeney. Please forgive me.”