The Beadle Files: Mystic Sketches

By Ken R. Abell

Mystic Sketches, the fourth installment of The Beadle Files, begins during a sweltering August heatwave in Chicago. A body is fished out of Lake Michigan. Detective Joe Bower, combating the bile of heartburn, is on the scene. LC Beadle is dispatched to investigate. His initial inquiries put him on an evidently uncomplicated trail, but soon there are serpentine twists and turns that keep his instincts alert and on edge.
Sonny Trego joins the inquiry and follows clues to Revelations Church, which is led by Sister Beulah, a strong-willed matriarch who has an iron-fisted hold on her flock--he gets into deep trouble with her. Beadle does a follow-up visit, and immediately discerns that the theology is a skewed interpretation of Scripture based on the proclamation on the sign: "Where God Almighty Makes His Plans and Purposes Known." Tanya Larue, an innocent devotee referred to as the Chosen One, is caught in a web of convoluted doctrines, but in a courageous act of defiance she escapes with Sonny Trego.
On the organized crime front, the Irish mob takes a hit with the sudden death of one of its pivotal leaders. Was it natural causes or the treachery of a sanctioned hit? Either way there are questions to be answered and options to explore.
LC Beadle also reconnects with an old friend--his shock at meeting Sylvia Bower at the Chicago Mission momentarily rendered him speechless. Her story of hope and redemption thrills him, and the bonds of their relationship are quickly reconstructed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Feb 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781725260177

Ken R. Abell

Ken R. Abell is a teller of tales who understands that there is strength in a story well-told and well-lived. A consummate seeker and learner, he’s a transplanted Canadian who resides in Pennsylvania with his wife, Anita. He is currently working on the eighth episode of The Beadle Files. His work can be found at www.danceswithcorn.com.

Book preview

Acknowledgements

For those across the years and miles who have made me laugh aloud, and in doing so, inspired me by sharing their victories and defeats, joys and sorrows.

Also by Ken R. Abell

Nonfiction

An Ordinary Story of Extraordinary Hope

Fiction

Days of Purgatory

Shadows of Revenge

Echoes of Evil

Nightmares of Terror

Pieces of Justice

Altars of Tomorrow

Graveyard Promises

Broken Choices

Outlaw Secrets

Website

www.danceswithcorn.com

I

~Good or Ill~

"Strange fears beset us, nameless terrors sway

The brooding soul, that hungers for her rest,

Out worn with changing moods, vain hopes’ delay . . ."

~Emma Lazarus~

In August 1924 heat settled over Chicago like a Biblical plague. LC Beadle, along with the rest of the citizenry, met the scourge with a staunch resolve that by mid-month was beginning to show signs of withering. The reporter, tie unknotted and shirt sleeves rolled up above the elbows, was in Kurt Baxter’s office jawboning with the editor-in-chief of the Tribune.

What time is it, Kurt?

Five minutes since you last asked.

Not yet nine in the morning and I’m soaked.

Move to Alaska.

Been there done that, Kurt.

Kind of touchy, aren’t you?

Prickly like the temperature.

No harm, no foul, LC.

Speaking of foul, how about those Cubs?

Baxter squinted a dismissal. Good news is they’re coming home. Bad news is it was a long and disastrous road trip. He scratched at his neatly trimmed moustache. Seven wins and eleven losses doesn’t bode well for a turnaround to become a competitor for the pennant.

Philadelphia is here for three games starting tomorrow.

Is that supposed to foster confidence in me?

Maybe the Cubbies can sweep the series.

I’d not wager more than two-bits on that, LC.

Which’d be true to your skinflint reputation.

I’ve seen you pinch a penny or two. Just then the telephone rang and Baxter sat upright to answer it. He listened while reaching for a pen to rapidly scribble notes. Sure. Yeah. Got it. Thanks. He grinned as he cradled the receiver. You looking for some action, hotshot?

Forever and always.

Cops and an ambulance have been dispatched to a waterfront location at the foot of Addison Street, Kurt told him, rising to his feet. The potential for something interesting.

Ironic.

What’s ironic?

Not far from Cubs Park.

Forget the irony. Get on it, Kurt said, a hard-edged scowl creeping across his brow. Take your sidekick Trego and teach him something. That smartass is driving me bonkers.

He’s young and hungry.

And a green tenderfoot.

We were all that once, Kurt.

Too long ago for me to recall.

Getting that way for me too.

Trego has moxie that’s all.

He’s got talent, Kurt.

Talent for getting under my skin.

His gung-ho exuberance can be annoying.

Really? I hadn’t noticed, the ornery senior editor quipped sarcastically. For reasons I cannot fathom Colonel McCormick is in his corner. The big boss man has the final say, but I seriously doubt Trego is going to make the cut at the World’s Greatest Newspaper. Your continuation here could soon be in jeopardy if you don’t presently get your ass in gear.

Gotcha. LC made a beeline for the doorway. As he exited, a familiar flare of intuition came out of nowhere to arrest his attention, causing the downy fuzz on the nape of his neck to tingle electrically. He smiled because if past such episodes were prelude to the future, he had just gotten an inside track leading to a big story. Then, departing the newsroom with Sonny Trego at his side, LC Beadle hurried along the sidewalk and anxiously searched for a taxicab to hail.

Detective Joe Bower, fifty-three and grizzled, had a sour stomach. The scene on the shoreline was chaotic. Gawkers were straggling in from all directions to see the spectacle. A pair of uniformed policemen attempted to manage a crowd of onlookers who were gathering around the ambulance which had just arrived, lights flashing and siren blaring. Four other patrolmen encircled a body at the water’s edge while dissuading bystanders from getting too close.

Lake Michigan had little choppy waves. Bower felt a belch rising. He scratched at a patch of day-old whitish stubble on his chin as he tried to suppress the burp, but indigestion escalated in spurts that twisted his bland expression into a grimace. Acidic bile burned all the way to the roof of his mouth. He pressed a half-fisted hand against his lips and exhaled the bitterness.

An eerie sensation crawled across the small of his back, feeling like a battalion of ants. Bower looked to the left and right, then as he palmed sweat off his forehead, he took a gander at the ever-growing crowd of standers-by twenty feet behind him. He searched faces—despite the heat a shiver touched him when he ascertained that a dark-haired woman was staring at him.

Just then a bespectacled gentleman standing close to her began walking toward him. He wore a black bowtie and was aided by a cane that could not disguise a lopsided limp. His left leg dragged as though its muscles had been shortened or were atrophied. He came alongside the detective, cleared his throat with a raspy cough and asked, Are you the cop in charge?

I am. What can you tell me?

Nothing much.

Not even scuttlebutt?

Perhaps a tidbit.

What’s your name?

Fred Milroy.

What do you got?

You’re being watched.

By lots of curiosity seekers.

True as far as it goes, detective.

What’s her name?

Whose name?

The dark-haired woman eyeballing me.

You noticed, huh?

Been a detective a long while.

I don’t know her name or her story, but I think she’s screwy, Fred said, leaning heavily on the cane as he shifted and thumbed his glasses up his nose. Can’t put my finger on it to say why. All I can tell you is that she’s got a bit of a spook to her if you know what I mean.

Thanks for the heads up, Fred.

Happy to oblige.

Bower grunted an incoherent response, then gave the dark-haired woman a purposeful once-over while ambling toward the ambulance. Two attendants he didn’t recognize had gotten the body on a stretcher and covered it with a sheet and were now carrying it to the vehicle. The detective called to them and displayed his badge. They stopped for him to have a looksee.

He folded the sheet down to the corpse’s bellybutton to examine details—a naked middle-aged man who had bruises covering his torso like a kind of relief map. His wrists were slit. His right forearm had a wrinkly but distinct marking. Bower studied the face of the corpse, which was bruised and battered, nose flattened. The seasoned cop was fairly certain that he’d seen him somewhere but was unable to identify him due to the bloating and distortion.

Can we get going here, sir? one of the attendants asked.

Yeah. Tell Wolthers I’ll phone him shortly. He moved them along with a backhanded wave, then turned around in such haste that he almost knocked down the man with the cane.

What do we have here, detective?

Not quite sure yet, Fred.

Murder, huh?

Bower gruffly sidestepped past him and started over to the huddle of spectators where the dark-haired woman had been observing him. He abruptly halted. She was gone. A burst of acid mushroomed into his craw. He surveyed the area, pop-eyed and suspicious. He could not see her anywhere. As he went to his vehicle, Detective Joe Bower succumbed to a first-rate foul mood.

Somewhere in Missouri, the train chugged to a stop. Katey Rae Lightfoot rolled her eyes at her husband because their eastbound trip had been a series of such delays. Yaz simply smiled and gave their fraternal twins a jiggle on his knees. The two-year-olds were content—Ace had a striped blanket under his arm while his sister Abbey hugged a floppy-eared redhead ragdoll.

Katey Rae momentarily stood to look toward the front of the near empty car—a few other passengers were seated several rows away from them. Do you know what is so irritating?

No one ever comes to tell us anything, Yaz answered, humor in his voice. The stop and go stop and go is aggravating enough but not hearing any reason for the why of it is worse.

Katey Rae giggled softly. Have I complained that much?

Word for word a few times.

I have not.

Yeah-huh, Katey Rae.

I’m anxious is all.

About what?

Things. Stuff.

Yeah-huh. Like what?

We’ll never get to Chicago.

Tomorrow.

Are you certain, Yaz?

Yeah-huh.

And the other matter?

Meaning what, Katey Rae?

Your hunch.

Yeah-huh. I have no uncertainties, the Lakota Sioux man said, giving the children a gentle squeeze. My ill feeling in regard to my brother’s safety is real. LC is coming up against some kind of spiritual warfare. He needs me, Katey Rae. I truly need to be there for him.

I understand that, Yaz.

But?

I worry for you.

Why?

Your dislike of cities.

Yeah-huh.

Especially large ones.

I must be loyal to LC.

The bond you share.

An abiding connection. The train lurched twice, then began to steadily roll forward. He leaned closer to the brunette. You cannot fool me, Katey Rae. What else is troubling you?

Same old same old.

People are ignorant, is that it?

I get tired of the stares.

You need to disregard ignorance.

As you’ve told me many times, Yaz.

Yeah-huh.

I do my best trying.

Try harder, Katey Rae.

What about our children?

Ace and Abbey are special blessings.

But what will prejudice do to them?

Nothing, Katey Rae. We will not allow it.

Yes, at the cabin and in Durango, she agreed, somewhat flustered. But we cannot always shelter them. Things are changing. We’re seeing and experiencing new challenges on this trip. Chicago may be far too overwhelming. Lots of googly-eyed people watching them.

You’re borrowing trouble, Katey Rae.

Maybe, but what if I’m not, Yaz.

"The definition of borrowing trouble is asking what if, Yaz replied, pressing an eyebrow-raised smile at her. Ace and Abbey have a twofold heritage of which to be proud. You and I walk straight and tall because we are who we are and our love has strength. Our children will follow our footsteps. They will belong wherever they choose to be."

How can you be so sure?

You are their mother; I am their father.

What are you saying, Yaz?

We don’t duck our heads to anyone, do we?

No, I suppose not.

We belong wherever we choose to be.

Yes, I guess so, Yaz.

Ace and Abbey will learn what we live.

You may need to constantly remind me.

My pleasure to do so, Wakíŋyela.

Am I still your mourning dove?

Does the sun still come up in the east?

She laughed and rushed to cover her mouth as her cheeks reddened. A sigh slipped out. She peeked at Ace and Abbey while remembering a distraught time not so long ago when she’d been told she would be barren. Her brown eyes sparkled in delight, and despite the herky-jerky motion of the train, Katey Rae Lightfoot felt as though she was swaddled in contentment.

In Durango, Bonnie Heckert had the house to herself. Her parents were shopping to buy favors and goodies for a going-away party planned for her. Excitement bubbled in her. She was finished making lists of what needed to be packed and all that had to be done in the next week or so. After rechecking each list twice, she made a call to Chicago, eager to have the conversation.

What do you want?

Hey, Bugsy. It’s Bonnie.

Mister go-getter Sonny isn’t here.

I want to talk to you, Bugsy.

Ain’t that fancy.

I’m glad you think so.

Why wouldn’t I?

No reason, Bugsy.

What time is it in Colorado?

Ten o’clock.

It’s hotter than blazes here.

Just regular summertime here.

Whatcha calling for, girly-girl?

I purchased my ticket yesterday.

Ticket? For what, Bonnie?

The train to Chicago.

When are you coming?

That’s the thing, Bugsy.

What’s a thing?

I will get to Chicago in the morning on the 26th and here’s the thing. She paused and took a deep breath. I cannot move into the college dormitory until the 28th, which presents a problem I’m hoping you can fix. Will Bugsy House have a room available for two nights?

Hang on a minute. Is this a trick?

A trick? I don’t understand.

You cannot bamboozle me.

Nor would I ever want to, Bugsy.

I’m a hard one to fool, girly-girl.

That’s not my intention at all.

Are you sure-shooting positive?

Yes, ma’am. Sure-shooting positive.

I’ll have no shenanigans under my roof.

I just need a place to sleep for two nights.

Or are you planning funny business?

Funny business, Bugsy?

Hanky-panky, girl. Illicit love.

Are you talking about sex?

Intercourse, don’tcha know?

Bugsy! she exclaimed snappishly. She bit the inside of her bottom lip. Embarrassment and anger vied for dominance within. Her feelings were hurt. She strained to find the proper tone and words to respond. That is not, nor will it be my intention until our wedding night.

Glad to hear it, but let me tell you something, little girl, Bugsy said, snorting a severe chuckle. Men have different ideas about such virtue. Your mister go-getter ain’t going to take kindly to you being a good girl. He’ll sweet talk you and make promises to wear you down.

He’ll be disappointed.

How so?

My heart and mind is firmly set.

Bugsy cackled a gush of laughter. That’s all well and good, but believe you me, men his age are hellbent to get what they want. Their thinking and hormones get whipped together so that plotting and conniving to have intercourse occupies them all the live long day and night. You’re resolve is admirable. I’d be pleased to help any way I can to keep buddy-boy Trego in line.

How could you do that, Bugsy?

For starters he’ll get a thorough tongue-lashing, she answered straightforwardly. The next time I see him I’ll lay down the law and give him chapter and verse about the facts of life. There’ll be no misunderstandings between us. I will be your protector and champion. If he gives you any grief whatsoever he’ll suffer consequences that will make him walk and talk funny.

Will that be sufficient?

You betcha, missy.

Good. I appreciate it, Bugsy.

Hold your horses, girly-girl.

Whatever do you mean?

Bugsy smacked her lips in a whimsical manner. Surely you know that it ain’t just him. It takes two to do the dance without steps, girl. The day you arrive I’ll sit you both down and make clear my expectations. Sonny will know that you and I are of one accord on the topic. My word is final. No hanky-panky will be allowed until after you two stand in front of a preacher.

Thank you, Bugsy. You’re a special one.

I just be a plain old-fashioned lady.

See you in less than two weeks. She clicked the receiver down. The excitement within increased. She had a difficult time concentrating on anything other than the big changes about to take her by storm. Her heart warmed to the thought. She took a stroll around the empty house, and suddenly, Bonnie Heckert realized she was in the midst of her dreams coming true.

At the Kilkenny Social Club on the northside of Chicago, Riley Quinn was sipping his second coffee of the morning at a table near the bar. Gregor McVey, the only other occupant of the barroom, sat across from him smoking a cigarette and ruminating. The lynchpins of Saint Paddy Croyle’s criminal undertakings were on task addressing a sticky internal situation.

What are our options? Riley asked, eyes cold and unyielding.

That’s what we’re here for, ain’t it? Gregor countered, the Irish lilt in his voice thickened by anger. His actions threaten to put our interests in a precarious jumble.

It’s that woman. She’s bewitched him or something.

Who’d a thunk Saint Paddy would go off the rails?

What can be done to solve the problem?

Are we mollycoddlers, Riley?

This is delicate and iffy.

Stop dancing around it.

What’s your counsel, Gregor?

Make the broad disappear.

Whack her?

A cut and dried solution, Riley.

On whose authority, Gregor?

You got balls don’tcha?

What about Uncle Frank, Gregor?

He’d sign-off on your call.

That’s quite presumptuous.

Power is as power does, Riley.

Maybe. What about that church?

A freaking sideshow of tarts and harlots. McVey made a brusque obscene gesture, then jerked a thumb in the direction of Saint Paddy’s office. Is that wench in there with him?

Unknown. She was there last night.

Don’t tell me the obvious, Gregor snapped, annoyance slurring his words. I heard them going at it like rabbits in heat. Everyone here got an earful of their lusty bump and grind.

Ridiculous. Shameful.

What the hell is wrong with Paddy?

I can come up with no explanation, Gregor.

Hellfire, he’s family. I’m his cousin.

We grew up on the streets together.

Aye. I heard some of those stories, Riley.

We got our hands dirty and bloody.

And built an Irish fiefdom to be feared.

Which, make no mistakes, is now in danger.

Maybe bewitched is the way of it, Riley.

Some hex or magic?

An abracadabra? Anything is possible.

So you believe in the occult, Gregor.

The occult?

Supernatural spells and such.

I’m Irish, ain’t I? As are you.

Aye. I guess there’s no escaping the myths and folklore, Riley said, then took several gulps to finish off his coffee. Nonetheless we have shit to deal with here, so I’m going to visit the office. If Paddy is alone, we’re going to have a confrontation that’ll get loud and vulgar.

If he ain’t alone?

A bitch is going to get her ass kicked.

I’ll sit tight until needed.

Quinn gave him a thumbs-up before getting to his feet to angle toward the office. He banged on the door and waited a respectable amount of time, then eased it open to find his old comrade sprawled naked on the couch. Paddy! Wake the hell up and get some clothes on.

There was no response. Hesitation gripped Quinn for the briefest of moments, then he went and took a knee to examine him. There were no evident wounds. He listened closely then placed a hand on Croyle’s chest—the skin was cold and clammy. Life had departed. Quinn clenched his teeth and muttered a sacrilegious oath. He heard footsteps approaching.

McVey entered, eyes narrowing. Heart attack?

Not the slightest chance.

De Luca? Scarpelli?

That woman, Riley replied flatly.

Sonofabitch. What now?

We gotta get busy.

In dress and flamboyance, CJ Beadle would never be mistaken for a flapper, but her outspokenness and barrier-breaking attitude mirrored that quality of independence and energetic liberty. Two years of marriage and living in the big city had not restrained or even tempered her free-spirited personality. Beneath her curves and beauty she remained a consummate tomboy.

Wearing baggy dungarees and a short-sleeved work shirt, the redhead navigated her way around a crushing rush of pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk. Whenever necessary she dodged to the left or right with the sure-footed grace of an antelope. At a hectic intersection near her destination, she had to elbow her way past a gaggle of women engaged in a gabfest.

Perspiration glistened on her upper lip. When she waltzed into the Tribune newsroom, she went directly to the managing editor’s office and shoved the door open. Where’s LC?

Baxter looked up from his desk and shook his head, discernable exasperation showing in the crow’s feet at the edge of his deepset eyes. Excuse me. I’m not bothering you, am I?

Not at all, Kurt. Where’s LC?

On a story with Trego.

Where?

Somewhere in the city.

Hardee-har-har. She started to leave.

Charlene Jane.

She gave him a stink-eyed glare. It’s CJ, Mr. Baxter.

Knock next time, CJ.

Sure, Kurt. Next time. She shut the door, laughing glibly. Mischief sparked in her pretty eyes as she strolled to her husband’s desk, nodding greetings to those in the newsroom with whom she was acquainted. She sat down and fed a sheet of paper into the typewriter, then pecked at the keys to write a note: LC—At predawn Lake Michigan was as still as glass. Caught a string of perch so we’ll be having a fish fry tonight at five. Be there. Bring Sonny. CJ

Riley Quinn and Paddy Croyle were fifteen when a line was crossed that could never be erased because the shedding of blood changes everything. Seven years of experience at misdeeds and petty crimes led to a break-in gone wrong. The incident began routinely enough, but hastily went haywire. Surprised by the proprietor of a grocery store in an Italian neighborhood, events unfolded in such a way that caused forever bonds to be forged around their partnership.

It was wintertime. Wind whipped icy pellets of snow into swarms that stung like bees. The teenagers had cased the establishment for three nights in a row and were weighed down with defiant