Music and Murder

By Jeanne M. Dams

Spirited female sleuth Elizabeth Fairchild is drawn into Chicago's growing jazz scene - and murder - in this compelling 1920s mystery.

July, 1926. When Elizabeth Fairchild's beau, Fred Wilkins, suggests going to Chicago's Sunset Club to see Louis Armstrong, the world's best trumpeter, in action, she faces a dilemma. The burgeoning jazz scene in the city is proving to be controversial, associated with gangsters and scandal. Even her dear friend Susannah refers to jazz as 'the devil's music'.

Intrigued, Elizabeth brushes her fears aside and visits the club with Fred, but an explosion causes panic - the Ku Klux Klan are intent on blowing up the club as part of a race war being waged in the city, and murder soon follows. Elizabeth has made herself a target, but she has a plan to save the club. The only problem is it involves jazz afficionado and the Sunset Club's owner, the country's most notorious criminal, Al Capone . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: Sep 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781448311231

Jeanne M. Dams

JEANNE M. DAMS is an Indiana native. Her first Dorothy Martin mystery, The Body in the Transept, won the Agatha Award as Best First Mystery. A retired teacher, she has degrees from Perdue and Notre Dame, and lives in South Bend, Indiana.

Book preview

ONE

July, 1926

They sat on the grass under the big maple tree. Fred, taking the afternoon off from his law office, had removed his jacket and tie; Elizabeth was wearing her thinnest, coolest dress and wishing it were a bathing suit. For once the cats weren’t trying to occupy their laps. They, too, were seeking respite from the heat, stretched out full length in the shadiest spot they could find.

Elizabeth’s mother, Mrs Walker, strongly disapproved of such informality. Fortunately she was taking her usual afternoon nap and couldn’t see them.

‘This is the hottest summer ever,’ Elizabeth moaned.

‘You said the same thing last summer. And the summer before.’ Fred shifted from one elbow to the other.

‘I suppose. All I know is, it’s too hot to move. To breathe, even.’

‘We could go to Chicago and find a motion picture house with air-conditioning,’ Fred suggested listlessly.

‘Too much trouble. It would probably be broken-down, anyway.’

‘You are feeling negative today, aren’t you? All right, my dear, bestir yourself and we’ll go to Petersen’s for ice cream. They have good big ceiling fans, and we can talk about mountains and avalanches and the North Pole.’

Fred was right. She was being difficult. She hated hot weather, and the Chicago area was suffering their annual bout of it. A thunderstorm on the Fourth had cancelled displays of fireworks all over the area and led to a wave of almost unbearable heat and humidity. Elizabeth wasn’t the only cranky one. Her mother, never good-tempered, complained non-stop, viewing the weather as a personal affront. The colored servants tolerated the heat better than the family did, but even they were sluggish, especially the housekeeper. Susannah was a large woman, slow-moving at the best of times, but even slower lately. ‘It’s my feet, honey,’ she had told Elizabeth, sighing. ‘They swell up somethin’ awful when it’s so hot. You be glad you’re so skinny.’ Even her father, the most patient of men, retreated to his study with an electric fan and endless glasses of iced tea, and discouraged any intrusion.

Elizabeth didn’t really want to go anywhere or do anything, but Fred could be a hard man to say no to. She’d been trying to discourage him for a long time, while she was in her ice-maiden phase. Her brand-new husband, Will Fairchild, had died in France years ago, just a day before the Armistice. That shock brought on the miscarriage that cost the life of her baby, and almost her own. It was too much. She had determined never to love anyone again. Love hurt too much.

But a series of events last summer, beginning with the murder of a friend, had begun to melt the ice, and she’d finally acknowledged that Fred’s love was real, and worth considering, even if she wasn’t quite ready to accept his proposal of marriage.

So she grumbled, but got to her feet and brushed the grass off her skirt. ‘Do we have to walk? It’s not far, but …’

‘No. I have my car, or we could take the tram.’

‘Tram. It’s open, so we’ll get a little breeze.’

Zeke, the gardener, was sitting in the shade of the garage, waving his hat in front of his face. ‘Zeke, tell anyone who asks that Fred and I are going for ice cream at Petersen’s. Or no, don’t mention the ice cream to Mother. I’ll bring some home with me.’

‘Dunno’s you can get it back before it melts, Miss Elizabeth.’

‘I’ll find a way. And I think my mother’s napping, so just you sit right there. This is no day for gardening.’

‘That’s shore enough the truth!’

‘Did Joshua go to work today? That repair garage must be a furnace today.’

Joshua, an orphan who had come to live with her family, was Zeke’s special protégé, living above the garage with him. Zeke had taught him to read and viewed his progress with great pride.

‘That boy, there’s no stoppin’ him. Works as long hours as he can, to save up money. He’s aimin’ to go to college!’

‘Beth! Tram’s coming!’

‘Be right there!’

It wasn’t really any cooler on the tram, but the motion, although slow, did create the semblance of a breeze. ‘It’s almost possible to breathe,’ she said, still irritable.

‘Never mind. You’ll have your favorite strawberry ice cream soda and feel better soon.’

She was in no mood to feel better about anything, but the funny thing was, it worked. The ice cream shop, with its stamped metal ceiling, even looked cool, and the fans were whirring away. Their sodas appeared quickly, along with glasses of ice water, dripping with condensation. Elizabeth held her glass to her forehead and let the water drip down her face.

‘Your mother would have a conniption fit,’ said Fred with a grin.

‘She would. What she doesn’t know …’

‘Won’t hurt her,’ he finished.

They sipped and slurped happily, growing cooler by the minute.

‘Another?’ asked Fred when she had noisily cleaned her glass to the last drop of syrup.

‘Yes, please.’

‘I don’t know why you’re not fat. You eat everything you want and never put on an ounce.’

‘Mother won’t allow it. No daughter of hers is going to be anything but fashionably slim.’

‘Or skinny, as Susannah says.’ He signaled the waitress. ‘And now, my dear, we need to talk about Ravinia.’

‘Oh, Ravinia. I’d rather not even think about it till later in the summer, when the heat might let up. Even listening to opera can be exhausting.’

‘I thought you might say that, so I have an alternative suggestion. How about some jazz?’

‘Jazz! Has the sun gotten to you? Jazz! Me? You must be thinking of one of your other girlfriends.’

‘I know you’re not a flapper, but this is the Jazz Age, you know. Have you ever even heard good jazz?’

‘Frederick Wilkins, you know the kind of music I like. Opera. Symphonies. Gilbert and Sullivan. I’ve heard jazz only when some neighbor had his radio turned up too high. That isn’t music, it’s just noise. Besides, it’s decadent. Everyone agrees to that.’

‘Who’s everyone? I’d expect that opinion from your mother and her friends, perhaps from Dr Edsall, though he’s a reasonable sort of pastor. Who else? Mrs Hemingway?’

Ernest Hemingway’s mother was a notable musician who, though she had auditioned for the Metropolitan Opera and been accepted, had found the stage lights a torment to her weak eyes and had returned to Oak Park to give lessons in piano and voice. Elizabeth had studied both with her, but was now concentrating on voice training.

‘Fred! I wouldn’t even ask her. It’s common knowledge that jazz is a debased form of music, played only in … in places of low repute.’

‘Yes, it is played in saloons. And brothels.’ He watched Elizabeth’s face for her reaction to the word. She looked at the ceiling, eyebrows raised, but didn’t pretend she didn’t know what he was talking about. ‘My dear girl, I’d have expected better of you. You have an independent mind, preferring to judge for yourself rather than accepting the opinions of other, more hide-bound individuals. What’s your favorite orchestral instrument?’

She blinked at the unexpected change of subject. ‘The trumpet, of course. You know how I love trumpets.’

‘Then will you let me take you to a place where you can hear the world’s best trumpeter?’

Elizabeth, suspicious, said nothing.

‘Yes, it’s a jazz club. Yes, the musicians are colored people, and the club isn’t in the best part of Chicago. But people of both races are welcome to come and enjoy the music. The pianist is a man called Earl Hines, and the lead trumpeter is named Louis Armstrong. If you’ll stay and listen for half an hour, and still don’t like the music, I’ll take you home without argument and never raise the subject again. Will you come?’

‘There’ll be drinking.’

‘Yes, there’ll be plenty of illegal booze, but you don’t have to drink it.’

‘Certainly not! But there could be gangsters, and a police raid. It all sounds dangerous and unpleasant.’

‘So far as I know, the Sunset Café has never been raided. As for gangsters, I admit I can make no guarantees. Al Capone likes jazz. But is this the intrepid woman who made friends with a few of his henchmen just last summer?’

‘That was different! It was a quid pro quo. I had information they wanted. Anyway it was here in Oak Park, where some of the gangsters live, not in Chicago where … Oh, all right! They weren’t as scary as I’d thought. And they treated me well after that. But it’s different in Chicago, where the bathtub gin flows and the rival gangs kill each other all the time.’

‘No argument. You’re quite accurate. You do know, don’t you, that Capone has been hiding out in Michigan for a while, after his men killed that man from the state’s attorney’s office?’

‘He’s back. I read it in the Trib.’

‘My guess is he’ll be a good boy for a while. That’s just a guess, of course. He might well go out some night to enjoy good jazz. No guarantees. The café is near the lake, and it might be cool and pleasant there in a few nights. But I’m sure if you decide not to go, your mother will heartily approve.’

Elizabeth started to laugh. ‘Fred, you don’t fight fair! You know me too well.’

‘I’m a good lawyer. I know how to wrap up an argument. Now, unless you want yet another soda, shall we go?’

‘I have to get some ice cream to take home. Maybe if they wrap it up in lots of newspaper, we can get it there while it’s still frozen.’

‘And what’s the matter with you?’ her mother demanded at the supper table. ‘Not coming down with something, I hope.’

‘No, it’s just too hot to eat.’ Susannah’s cold meal was as tempting as always, and if Elizabeth hadn’t been stuffed she would have enjoyed it. She’d given the tin can of only slightly soft ice cream to Susannah, who hid it away in the freezing compartment for a treat tomorrow, and asked no questions. Mother hadn’t learned of the jaunt to Petersen’s; she didn’t approve of between-meal snacks.

‘Zeke said you went somewhere with Fred this afternoon while I was in bed with a horrible headache.’

Oops. ‘Yes. We went for a ride on the tram. The breeze helped a little. Then we spent some time in the shade.’ It was all true, if misleading.

‘Well, I hope you enjoyed yourselves!’ Her tone conveyed the opposite sentiment. ‘I tossed and turned all afternoon. I think my headaches are getting worse, and Dr Hall won’t give me anything to help the pain. I’m going to have to find another doctor.’

The woman had been told again and again that the medicines she wanted were dangerous. She refused to believe that she, of all people, could fall victim to a drug dependency. She was too strong-minded, too righteous, to be caught in that devil’s snare.

In any case, as her doctor knew very well, most of her suffering was imaginary. Or if not quite that, at any rate self-induced. She could work herself into a headache whenever she wasn’t pleased with the way she was being treated, and it mattered little whether the pain was real or not. The suffering she inflicted on those around her was certainly real.

Elizabeth and her father both used to try to reason with her. The only result would be hysterical protests and another headache. They had given up. Now he said only, ‘Perhaps you’re right. Would you like some more iced tea? Or some dessert? How about you, Bets?’

‘Nothing for me, thanks. I’m going to go up and take a cool bath, and then try to sleep.’

She picked up the copy of the Chicago Tribune that her father had discarded in his study and took it upstairs with her. After her bath, which did little to cool her, she sat in front of her window and skimmed the paper. It was, as usual, full of local crime. Gangster activity had become almost routine, as had bombastic speeches from politicians promising to ‘clean up Chicago.’ This time Elizabeth paid a little more attention to the location of the shootings, but all seemed well away from where Fred had said the Sunset Café was located. The economy was booming. The international unrest was no more worrisome than usual, although she shook her head at the antics of Signor Mussolini.

All seemed normal, in fact. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to indulge Fred and go with him to a jazz club.

As long as Mother didn’t find out.

But Mother wasn’t the only one with a decided attitude toward jazz, as Elizabeth found out the next morning. Up early, too hot to sleep, she dropped into the kitchen to pour herself some orange juice. Mother didn’t approve of her fraternizing with the servants, but Elizabeth found them congenial and spent a good deal of time with them. Only Susannah was up and about this morning; Susannah who had raised her, and who loved her with all the warmth of her generous heart.

‘Mornin’ honey. Gonna be another scorcher. How about some iced coffee?’

‘Sounds good, Susannah. I don’t want any breakfast, though.’

‘I don’t aim to cook this mornin’, lovey, lessen your mama wants her bacon and eggs, but you got to eat somethin’. There’s cantaloupe, and peaches, and some cold ham.’

‘Oh, I’d love a peach, with cream if there is any.’

‘Or mebbe some of that ice cream I found in the freezer this morning. Here’s your coffee.’

Elizabeth ate her peach and ice cream slowly, savoring the taste of summer, cool and sweet on her tongue. Turning to the coffee, she said, ‘What do you know about the jazz clubs in Chicago, Susannah? Do any of your friends play there?’

Susannah turned from the sink so fast she slipped on the wet floor and almost fell. Regaining her balance, she said, ‘No friend o’ mine’s gonna have nothin’ to do with that devil’s music!’

Elizabeth was stunned. ‘But – but the musicians are all colored people. I thought—’

‘Then you thought wrong. No respectable person, colored or white, would touch that stuff. You know where they play that trash?’

‘Well … um—’

‘You do. Don’t need to say it, I can tell. Started out respectable music, songs from us colored folks goin’ way back. Songs we sung in church. Then they started changin’ it, till it warn’t fit to be sung in church or nowhere else!’

‘I thought you liked your church music to be lively.’

‘Lively’s one thing. Depraved’s another.’ Susannah took a deep breath to get hold of herself. ‘Down south they started playin’ it in those you-know-whats. Then they brought it up north, and now it’s in every speakeasy in Chicago, besides those other places. Even the young people at my church are itchin’ to go hear it. Even Joshua! I won’t have it. An’ don’t you let me hear of you goin’ anywhere near those places. I’m with your mamma on this one, lovey.’

Oh, dear. And Daddy would probably agree this time, even though he was almost always on her side.

As her family should have learned long ago, opposition brought out all Elizabeth’s determination.

TWO

By Sunday morning she had all but made up her mind. Determination didn’t trump common sense, though. She had decided to get a taste of this controversial music, but on her own terms. She would promise Fred that she would go, but early in the evening when there might be fewer patrons. She would, of course, drink only water or lemonade. (She knew that an order for tea might produce something quite different.) She would stay for only half an hour, long enough to satisfy Fred and to confirm her conviction that this was not for her.

And she would, of course, tell no one where she was going. Time enough to deal with the storm when she was safely back home.

As she walked to church, she debated talking to anyone there about the matter. Better not, perhaps. The only ones who might have an informed opinion about jazz were the organist and choirmaster, and they might not be there, as music was limited for the summer. Besides, they were both very conservative. They all were. In an Episcopal church, what else would one expect? They were good people, mostly, just a trifle hide-bound.

The stone church was at least cooler than the rest of the neighborhood. The organist was there today, but the humidity had rendered the organ slightly out of tune. Even so, the Bach postlude sounded wonderful. Now there was a lively piece for you! You didn’t need jazz to set your toes tapping.

If Bach had lived in the twentieth century, would he have embraced jazz?

Later, in the laziness of a hot Sunday afternoon, Elizabeth pondered that question and decided there was one person she could ask about jazz as music, not just a reflection of culture. In spite of what she’d said to Fred, it couldn’t hurt to talk to Mrs Hemingway, in general terms, about jazz. Tomorrow. There was no point in calling on her on a Sunday. In that household, the Sabbath was rigidly observed.

Monday morning, telling Susannah she had some errands to run, Elizabeth got out her car, the new Ford with the self-starter. She went straight to the drugstore, where there was a public telephone, and called Mrs Hemingway. Yes, she was home and would be happy to talk to Elizabeth.

The big Hemingway house was well-shaded. One couldn’t, Elizabeth thought, say that it was exactly cool, but at that time of the morning it wasn’t too bad.

‘Good morning, Emily. Is Mrs Hemingway in the music room?’

‘No, ma’am,’ answered the maid. ‘She says it’s too hot in there, with all those windows, and told me to take you to the parlor. And would you like some lemonade or iced tea?’

‘Oh, tea, please, Emily. That sounds wonderful.’

‘I’ll bring it right in, Mrs Fairchild.’

Mrs Hemingway was seated in the dimmest corner of the room, fanning herself. ‘Forgive my not getting up, my dear. Too hot. I don’t know how you managed to walk all this way.’

‘Too hot for any exertion,’ Elizabeth agreed. ‘I drove. I need the exercise, but I knew I’d melt before I got here.’

‘Ah, Emily, thank you.’ The maid deposited the tray on the small table near them, and when she departed Mrs Hemingway said, ‘Now, dear, how can I help you? You said you had a musical question.’

‘I’m not sure you’ll consider this musical, but what is your opinion of jazz?’

The older woman blinked. ‘I’ll ask you a question in turn. Why does it interest you? You have entirely the wrong sort of voice for it.’

Elizabeth was ready for that. ‘A friend of mine thinks I have a closed mind on the subject. I’ve talked to several people about it.’ Well, two, but she planned more conversations. ‘They disagree with each other, though. I don’t know enough to have ideas of my own. You’re a musician. I thought you could help.’

‘I’m not sure I can. I’ve listened to it, of course. On the gramophone, mind you. I wouldn’t go to one of those disgusting clubs if my life depended on it. That’s the sort of place my son frequents, or did, when he was in America. I believe jazz also enjoys some popularity in France, and as they have no Prohibition there … but I digress.

‘I can’t say I enjoy the genre. It seems to me to be too easy. The beat is monotonous and the melodies simplistic. However, I do have to admit that it’s lively, rather like folk music in some ways. And some of the players are very talented. There’s one young man who is truly remarkable on the cornet and trumpet. Louis something …’

Elizabeth nodded. ‘Louis Armstrong. I’ve heard about him.’

Mrs Hemingway looked at her sharply. ‘From whom?’

Uh-oh. ‘Fred Wilkins, for one.’

Mrs Hemingway knew all about Fred, and encouraged the romance, but she frowned. ‘And I suppose he wants to take you to hear the real thing. He’s a good boy, Fred, but he’s wrong about this. I can give you some of the recordings – but no, you couldn’t play them at home, could you.’ The older woman also knew about Elizabeth’s difficult mother.

‘I … well, yes, he does want me to go hear some jazz, as a matter of fact. He as much as said that I was being dishonest to say I didn’t like it when I’d never heard it. And like you, he thinks the only way to listen to music is in live performance.’

The older woman snorted. ‘Real music, yes. Recordings are scratchy and miss the nuances. For jazz … well. Are you going to go?’

‘I haven’t quite decided. I’m a little afraid of going to a speakeasy.’

‘As well you might be! Not only are they no places for a well-brought-up young woman, they’re dangerous. You may not know that Al Capone likes jazz.’

‘I do know.’

‘And that he’s back in Chicago after that disgraceful affair of the state’s attorney.’

Elizabeth nodded. ‘Fred told me. He thinks that the man will be careful to avoid trouble for a while.’

‘Hah! Trouble is that man’s middle name.’ She finished her tea and set the glass down on the tray with a thump. ‘I’m not your mother. I can’t forbid you to go. She certainly would, but you’re not going to tell her, are you?’

Elizabeth was silent.

‘No. I’d insist that Ernest go with you if he were here, but he’s off in Paris doing the Lord only knows what. And of course my husband couldn’t be seen in such a place.’

Elizabeth nodded. A doctor’s reputation, in a village like Oak Park, was fragile and all-important. And Dr Hemingway was reputed to be not at all well.

‘I’ve said what I wanted to say. I strongly discourage you from such a rattle-brained idea. Trouble follows that music like the devil who invents it. But do what you will.’

She rang the bell for Emily to show her out. Elizabeth left feeling like a scolded puppy.

Fred called her after supper. The telephone was in the hallway between the kitchen and the dining room, where anyone could hear, so her side of the conversation was brief and cautious. ‘No, I don’t think so. Yes, I’d like that. Soon, then.’

He was at the door in ten minutes. ‘Let’s sit outside,’ she said. ‘It’s cooled off a little, but it’s still stifling in the house.’

‘Your mother—’

‘Upstairs, taking a bath.’

Nevertheless he led her to the wicker chairs farthest away from the house. ‘I’ve checked around,’ he said in a low tone. ‘The best time to go is on a Tuesday evening, early. That’s when they have the smallest crowds. And in this heat they sometimes move the piano to the doorway and have everyone else play outside.’

‘Don’t the neighbors complain?’

‘Some of the old fogies do, but most of them like it. It’s not a wealthy area, Beth. People can’t afford much entertainment. This is free.’

Elizabeth toyed with the tail of Ginger, who had jumped into her lap. ‘Everybody says I’d be a fool to go. A fool, or worse.’

‘Who’s everyone?’

‘First Susannah. I thought she’d be in favor. It’s her people. But she says her friends won’t have anything to do with jazz. She calls it devil’s music. So I went to talk to Mrs Hemingway. She wasn’t quite as scathing as Susannah, but she doesn’t like the music. She did agree that some of the musicians are very talented. Mostly, though, she hates the idea of going to a jazz club. She thinks it’s too dangerous.’

‘Do you think I’d take you to someplace dangerous?’

‘Of course not! But these days, anything could happen.’

‘I don’t think it will. But just in case, I’m taking precautions.’ He reached into his pants pocket.

‘Fred! Not a gun! That could be really dangerous if a gunfight got started!’

‘Credit me with a little sense, my dear.’ He pulled out a large whistle. ‘I won’t blow it for you here and now, but trust me when I say it’s a top-quality police whistle. And a couple of friends of