A Case for the Ladies: Dot and Amelia Mysteries, #1

By Maddie Day

Amid Prohibition, Irish gangs, the KKK, and rampant mistreatment of immigrant women, intrepid private investigator Dorothy Henderson and her pal Amelia Earhart seek justice for several murdered young women in 1926 Boston. As tensions mount, the sleuths, along with their reporter friend Jeanette and Dot's maiden aunt Etta. experience their own mistreatment at the hand of society and wonder who they can really trust.

This novel brings a pre-fame Amelia Earhart to life in 1926, when she lived in a Boston suburb and worked as a teacher and social worker at a settlement house founded to help immigrant women. After Amelia meets fictional lady PI Dot Henderson, and more than one young immigrant woman is found murdered, the two put their heads together to seek justice for the less powerful. Meanwhile, Etta Rogers, a founder of the settlement house and a Wellesley professor, works with reporter Jeanette Colby to investigate the Irish gangs who are not only running illicit liquor but also seeking to take over the settlement house real estate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edith Maxwell
• Release date: Mar 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224665631

Book preview

PROLOGUE

November 2, 1947

The letter from Amelia Earhart slid out of a book Dorothy Henderson plucked off one of her bookshelves.

Stunned, Dot gazed at the slit-open envelope, with the San Marino address written in her friend’s usual careless scrawl, and the postmark dated 1932. It had been fifteen years since Amelia had last written, and ten since she was lost to the world.

They’d spoken on the telephone a few times before the fearless pilot went missing, but her brilliant flying career had absorbed her time too much to write. Dot hadn’t minded. She’d closely followed Amelia’s aviation feats in the newspapers and loved watching newsreels showing her friend’s gap-toothed grin.

Dot mixed an Old-Fashioned and carried the drink and the letter out back to the stone patio. As the mother of three lively and inquisitive children, a moment to herself in the late afternoon was rare. But the two older ones were now in high school and busy after classes. Ten year old Joanie was at a friend’s. A chicken slow-roasted in the oven, and her husband Allan wouldn’t be home until six.

Anyway, she wanted to sit with her memories for a bit. She took a sip of her cocktail and lit a cigarette before unfolding the letter.

Dearest Dot,

I had a poke of nostalgia yesterday after I took a lady up for a jaunt. She was as terrified as you were that time you went aloft with me in pursuit of those wretched men. Can you believe it’s been six whole years since our crime-fighting adventures in Boston?

She’d added the word whole above the line and crossed out fun, replacing it with adventures. Amelia Earhart, an equality-minded and driven visionary, had moved too fast to take much care with her handwriting. The corrections made Dot smile.

She found a photograph in the forgotten envelope, too.

Look at your nervous smile, my friend. But all was well that went well, wasn’t it? And I do believe our flight went very well.

Dot sat back in the slanting November sunshine, gazing at the grainy photograph with the white edges, the picture a reporter had taken minutes before Dot flew for the first time. She and Amelia, wearing matching coveralls and flight helmets, had posed in front of the Kinner Amelia so loved. The plane looked even flimsier now compared to the sleek new aircraft many people traveled in these days instead of by automobile or train.

Dot shifted her gaze to the nearest orange tree in their Southern California backyard grove. Two decades had passed since she, Amelia, and their reporter friend Jeanette had succeeded—where the police hadn’t—in putting criminals behind bars.

Dot’s brief career as a private investigator had ended nearly as long ago, when she’d yielded to love and societal expectations. She was happy as a wife and mother, a tender of family and garden, solving only the mysteries of missing socks, leaf-eating pests, and guava jelly that didn’t set. Still, she’d enjoyed her successes in the pursuit of justice back then, with Amelia as an able co-conspirator during Dot’s East Coast stay. The brave pilot’s disappearance had been a loss to the world and had brought even more pain to Dot’s own heart.

She swiped away a tear and closed her eyes to better remember those days when the two of them had been a team.

CHAPTER 1

The man’s hand rose, thick and meaty, ready to slap the woman’s cheek. She cowered, a kerchief covering her hair, shrinking back on the path next to the road.

Stop the car, quickly, Dorothy Henderson urged her friend Amelia Earhart that Thursday afternoon in late July, 1926.

Dot suspected this wasn’t the first time the man had abused his wife, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last. The woman looked about her own age of twenty-six. No one should ever be maltreated like that, as Dot herself had been long ago.

I can’t stop, Dot. Amelia steered her bright yellow Kissel Speedster along the narrow road that wound through Boston’s long stretch of parks and streams. There’s nowhere to pull over, with loads of motorcars behind me. What did you see, my sleuthing pal?

A poor thing being slapped around by her man.

And you wanted to intervene.

Of course.

I can try to turn around, Amelia offered. They might have already disappeared, though.

Dot let out a sigh. That’s all right. We don’t need to go back. She twisted in her seat to glance back.

The burly brute now had the woman by her skinny shoulders, shaking her so hard her head looked like a rag doll’s. Dot faced front again, desperately wishing she could help, as Amelia picked up speed. Dot grabbed the bucket hat off her bob so she wouldn’t lose it in the wind. Amelia never wore a hat and seemed to prefer the wind tousling her short locks. Dot clutched her topper with both hands and squeezed her eyes shut.

You can’t fix everything, you know, much as you might wish to, Amelia said in a soft voice.

I know. Dot watched the pedestrians along the tree-lined pond. Mothers pushed babies in prams. A trio of schoolgirls giggled arm-in-arm. A group of young men in tennis whites jogged along, holding their racquets. All appeared to be treating each other with respect, as any decent person should. If I’d tried to stop the assault, that monster might have attacked her even worse once I was gone.

Indeed. That’s one reason why we have Denison House, you know. Amelia took a glance at Dot. The settlement house offers refuge, education, and companionship.

Sure. I’m aware of how important it is, and no one’s a bigger champion of the effort than my aunt Etta. Etta Rogers was a Denison House founder and still served on the board of directors.

Miss Rogers and her Wellesley pals had quite the brilliant idea when they started the settlement house, Amelia said. Say, Dot, it’s a pity you have to get back to Pasadena so soon.

I do have an investigation agency to run, my dear. Dot and her friend Ruth Skinner had operated the HS Agency, a successful business with a mission to help women being abused and threatened, for six years now. She glanced in the side mirror. Listen, that blue Nash sedan has been behind us for some time now.

Do you think somebody’s tailing me?

Why would anyone do that? Dot asked.

Amelia flashed her typical grin. I can think of a few reasons.

I hope they aren’t worrisome ones. The two of them, plus a reporter friend, had helped put a criminal behind bars earlier in the month—and temporarily his boss, as well.

I doubt it. Tell you what, Miss Henderson. We have an open stretch of road ahead along the Emerald Necklace. Let’s forget the weight of the world for a bit. I’ll show you what Gold Bug can do when I really open her up. Amelia patted the Speedster’s luxurious dash.

You know I love cars as much as you do. Dot tried to smile back. Her friend was right. They could do nothing at this very moment about that poor woman being mistreated. Denison House—where Amelia was employed as a teacher and social worker—was a thriving establishment, teaching and supporting poor and immigrant women in need. If the kerchiefed lady found it, hopefully she would also find help.

All right, Miss Earhart. Dot straightened her spine. Show me what this yellow machine can do.

CHAPTER 2

Jeanette Colby crept around the corner of the brick warehouse in the waning light of the day. If her prey didn’t emerge soon, it would be too dark to capture a clear photograph, but she was determined not to leave until the man appeared. The showy black Chrysler Six parked behind the warehouse was an incongruous sight amid the surrounding grimy factory buildings. Still, it meant the gang boss was in there somewhere.

Despite the still-warm evening, Jeanette had donned her oldest dark jacket and trousers and pulled a tweed cap low on her brow. It wouldn’t do to be spotted looking like the well-off young lady she was, albeit one gainfully employed as a journalist. She’d dreamed of earning her living as a writer since she was a bookish child.

Jeanette half wondered if she should have brought along Dorothy Henderson, with Dot’s experience investigating criminals. Dot was tall, at five foot seven, and could be intimidating to men. But this was no place for someone new to town, even an intelligent and fearless lady like Dot.

At a rustling noise, Jeanette crouched behind a rusted-out delivery wagon, its traces now embedded in the dirt, the horse that formerly pulled it long dead. Something smelled wretched. Jeanette’s heart thudded, and she took in a long breath to calm herself. With a creak of door hinges, a skinny man in a battered trilby appeared and lit up a cigarette. He wasn’t the ruddy-faced gent Jeanette awaited. Damnation.

Smoke finished, the skinny one tossed the butt and went back inside the structure. Its faded lettering, Cleeves & Sons Import and Export had to be from the last century, as did the broken glass in a second-story window. Surely the owners would have freshened up the building’s appearance if the business were thriving.

The gloaming deepened. Jeanette had lucked out after Dot, Amelia, and she had caught a would-be arsonist two weeks ago. The illumination from a streetlight had lit up the face of the man who’d organized the crime as he fled in an automobile. Jeanette had snapped the photograph and immediately taken it to her employer, then batted out the story. The perpetrator’s picture was plastered on the front page of the Boston Herald the next day, over a story bearing the byline of one Jeanette Colby.

Tonight she would not be so lucky. The inky night was upon her, and this lot wasn’t graced by a single lamppost. Jeanette packed away her camera in her satchel and began her trudge toward a better-lit side of the historic city. Before she rounded the corner, she glanced back. A face stared at her from that broken window.

CHAPTER 3

That evening Dot sharpened her focus downward into the twilight’s shadows, spying a trousered figure across the cobblestone street. The man, wearing a newsboy’s cap, leaned against a lamppost with arms folded, studying her aunt’s Beacon Hill three-story row house. Dot rose to get a closer look, but the man disappeared with a furtive move.

Huh, she murmured.

Did you see something, Dorothy? Etta Rogers asked.

I thought a man was out there spying on you. Dot sat again at the elegant dining table, the remnants of a piece of blueberry-and-peach pie streaking her plate.

Spying on me? Her aunt uttered her deep rolling laugh. A stalwart maiden lady? That’s a hoot if I ever heard one.

Stalwart, Etta might be, and it was true, she’d never married. But even in her late fifties she maintained a trim figure, wore her hair in an elegant chignon, and always looked attractive in the latest styles.

Maybe you have a secret admirer, Dot added.

Stranger things have happened, Etta murmured.

Say, that pie was the bee’s knees, Dot said.

Wasn’t it? Georgia’s crusts are as short as they come. That housekeeper of mine could bake professionally if she chose.

Dot smiled at wise Etta, a Wellesley College professor and her mother Irma’s eldest sister, then carried their plates and silverware into the kitchen and set them to soak. Etta, she began when she returned to the dining room, it’s a shame I need to get back to Pasadena and the agency so soon. Ruth could be contacted anytime now about a new case, some fresh crime against a woman, and we always pursue justice for our clients together. But I’m enjoying spending time with Amelia, and I do love becoming better acquainted with you.

I shall miss you when you’ve gone, darling. Etta had shifted to an easy chair in the sitting room. She flung a hand into the air. You’re a bright sight for old eyes. Do you know, you look so much like my sister? And we all have the same hazel eyes.

Mother has often said the same, when she isn’t trying to convince me in the least subtle of ways to abandon my livelihood. She’d prefer I stay at home to raise babies, not pursue criminals.

She and I have certainly been in disagreement over the years about a woman’s place in the world, but I’m sure she means well, Etta murmured. And she does love you.

I know she does. I miss my brother and sisters, but I moved away from home for a reason. For several reasons, but Dot didn’t want to go into them with Etta at this moment. My nearest sister and I have had our own share of butting heads, I must say. She very much takes Mother’s life as a model.

Well, I’m delighted to have a competent young woman around. That you’re my relative, to boot? So much the better.

And I’m delighted to be here.

You can always come back, you know, Etta said. Now, be quiet and let me read my evening papers, will you?

Suppressing another smile, Dot returned to the kitchen. She quite thought she and Etta were related beyond things like brow width, eye color, and a fondness for fashion. Her no-nonsense aunt was exactly the kind of woman Dot liked to spend time with, as was Amelia.

What’s a four-letter word for ‘stables around an open space’? Etta called out from the other room.

You’re doing the cross-word?

Yes.

Yard? Dot replied. That doesn’t sound quite right, though.

No, it doesn’t. Don’t worry. I’ll apply myself and cipher it out.

Etta did the cross-word puzzles in the newspaper every day, saying it kept her mind sharp. Not that anything was wrong with her mind.

Dot scraped and rinsed the rest of the dishes, but Georgia Hamilton always insisted that the ladies not do their own washing up. Dot lit a ciggie and took a long first drag. It always helped her think. She stood at the window, gazing out into the back garden. The evening light had turned the trees and shrubs golden, transforming the scene into an Impressionist painting. She returned to the window in the dining room and peered out, but the lurker had not reappeared. Good.

Oh, my stars and nightgown, Etta exclaimed.

What is it? Dot hurried to her side.

"Dorothy, would you take a gander at this story in the Boston Globe?"

Dot peered over Etta’s shoulder and read aloud from the article under a screaming headline concerning a spate of attacks on immigrant women. Body of Jamaican lady, recently arrived from Kingston, found next to Mystic River in West Medford. Police suspect foul play. Officer on the scene overheard to mutter, Just like all the other dead girls. Authorities ask witnesses to come forward. Name of victim, nineteen years of age, withheld pending notification of next of kin. She straightened. That’s awful news.

Indeed, it is. Etta shook her head. The poor young thing. I wonder how they knew she was Jamaican, and whom to notify.

She must have had her passport on her, or some kind of identification. West Medford, an area to the north and west of Boston proper, was where Amelia made her home, although Dot didn’t think her friend resided near the river.

Etta tapped the paper. This might be pure coinkydink, as your grandmother Rogers used to say, but Georgia’s niece Hattie Nelson arrived not that long ago from Jamaica. Georgia lives in West Medford, which has quite a large Negro population. I pray the victim isn’t poor Hattie. Our Georgia would be heartbroken.

I should say so, and the girl’s family back on the island as well. Dot reread the headline and opening paragraphs of the story. Etta, what is this about a spate of attacks? An officer mentioned ‘all the dead girls.’ What dead girls?

Etta sighed. Ever since the weather warmed for the summer, it seems young immigrant women have been the targets of attacks and even homicide. No one’s quite sure if it’s xenophobia rearing its ugly head again, which seems to happen regularly in this country, or if the assaults have some other cause. Either way, the cases are mounting. Etta glanced up. It’s a pity you have to return home, Dorothy. You could apply your investigative prowess to find out who’s behind this mess.

Dot smiled. I’m sure Boston’s finest will do an excellent job.

Her aunt snorted. Unless they’re the ones with the dirty hands. Mark my words, Dorothy, dear. You can’t always trust those boys in blue.

CHAPTER 4

Awakened by the alluring aroma of coffee the next morning at eight, Dot slid into her dressing gown and slippers and padded down the stairs. But Etta wasn’t sitting at the dining table perusing the morning papers, and Dot didn’t hear the usual morning symphony of Georgia clattering pots and dishes. She had the worst feeling about this silence.

In the kitchen, Etta sat at the table, holding Georgia’s hand. Seated catty-corner from Etta, Georgia patted away tears from red-rimmed eyes. Both women had cups and saucers in front of them. Etta’s was empty. It appeared Georgia hadn’t touched hers.

What’s happened? Dot asked in her gentlest voice, peering first at Etta and then at the distraught housekeeper.

Oh, Dorothy, Etta began. That news article we read last evening? The poor girl was, in fact, Georgia’s niece, Hattie Nelson.

What terrible news. Dot’s heart broke for Georgia.

The worst, Etta murmured.

Georgia gave a sad nod. Let me get you some coffee, Miss Dorothy. She sniffed and pushed back her chair to stand. After she’d arrived in Boston, Dot had asked the housekeeper to call her simply that—Dot—but Georgia had refused, saying it wouldn’t be proper.

Don’t even think of it, Dot protested. Please sit, Georgia. I am perfectly capable of pouring my own. And let me freshen yours. She delivered three full, hot cups to the table and dropped onto a chair on the other side of Etta.

Etta busied herself stirring sugar into Georgia’s cup. You’ll need it, dear, she murmured.

Georgia sank her face into her hands. Her shoulders heaved.

I’d give you a stiff shot of brandy if it weren’t so damn early in the morning. Oh, the hell with it. Dorothy, would you do the honors, please?

Dot fetched the brandy and watched as Etta poured a glug into Georgia’s cup and two into her own. Etta had told Dot she’d laid in quite a stash of alcohol down cellar at the first mention of the Volstead Act, popularly known as Prohibition. At her aunt’s gesture, Dot covered her cup with her hand. Eight-thirty in the morning was too early to commence imbibing.

I daresay the criminal was one of those nativists. Frowning, Etta rapped the table to emphasize her words. Those with their anti-immigrant fervor.

Do you mean the Ku Klux Klan and their ilk? Dot asked.

I do, indeed, and others, Etta said. They have a stronghold west of here in Worcester. They’re against Roman Catholics as well as anyone with skin darker than their own pasty linen complexions. They’re despicable people.

Georgia sat up straight and wiped her eyes again. Her brows rose as she took a sip of coffee. Then she took another. The thing is, our darling girl entered the country with all her correct papers. She passed the required literacy test and managed to secure a visa, all legal and such like. She’s my husband’s sister’s girl, but her daddy’s granddaddy was English. That probably helped. She arrived only three weeks ago.

I’ve read about how hard it’s been for the last two years to secure a visa under the Johnson-Reed Act with its two-percent limits, Dot said. Your niece must have been one of the very few from her island nation to be allowed entrance.

She was. Georgia took another sip of her sweet and now-doctored coffee.

Those idiot men in Congress and their quotas, Etta scoffed. They want this place to look like it did in 1890, almost forty years ago. At least Jamaica isn’t in their dreaded Eastern Hemisphere. Why, we all call the Caribbean the West Indies.

True, but wasn’t that because Christopher Columbus thought he’d reached part of India? Dot asked.

Just another fool male, if you ask me. Etta waved away the thought.

Dot was glad to see Georgia give a small smile at her employer relegating the famous explorer to her ever-enlarging class of fool males.

Was Hattie staying with you and your husband, Georgia? Dot asked.

She was. The girl was only nineteen. She wanted to take classes at Jackson Women’s College, to study to be a lady doctor.

That’s attached to Tufts University, isn’t it? Etta asked. Right there in Medford.

It is, and they admit Negro students. I’ll tell you, we welcomed Hattie with open arms. We told her she was family and could live with us as long as she needed to.

May I ask, do you have children? Dot didn’t know the first thing about the housekeeper’s life, outside of her employment.

No. Georgia raised her chin. We have not been so blessed. But we have many young ones to whom we are a special Auntie and Uncle, in our church and neighborhood.

That’s lovely, and they are fortunate to have you both. Etta changed to her most gentle tone. Have they told you how your niece died, Georgia?

No. Mr. Hamilton asked them, but they couldn’t say.

Or wouldn’t reveal the details to the next of kin, more likely, Dot thought.

Etta folded her hands and fixed a steely gaze on Dot. Now, Dorothy. Let’s hear of your plan for tracking down this wretched killer.

Georgia winced but kept her gaze on Dot.

My plan? But homicide is an affair for the police. Dot sat back, folding her arms. Aunt Etta, you’re aware I have a business to run. On the opposite coast.

Of course, of course, Etta said. But can’t your associate manage things for a little longer? Surely the able Miss Skinner can conduct business without you.

I’d be ever so grateful if you stayed on, Miss Dorothy. Georgia’s eyes pleaded with Dot. My husband and I would feel much more confident in the outcome if you were to at least look into my niece’s.... She brought her hand to her mouth as her eyes filled.

The cold truth of Hattie’s murder was clearly too much for poor Georgia to bear. Dot couldn’t refuse her.

CHAPTER 5

Dot took her coffee and cigarette out to her aunt’s tiny courtyard and garden behind the brick row house. It wasn’t yet mid-morning, but the humid air already foreshadowed a scorcher. Still, Dot had a lunch date with Amelia and would have to get her pins stirring before long.

Inhaling the sweet, thick smoke of a Balkan cigarette, Dot stretched out her long legs as she read a letter from Ruth Skinner, her partner.

You picked a good time to travel to Boston, Dot. I’m wrapping up that last case now, and we haven’t received a single new inquiry for assistance. Just don’t think of setting up shop as HS Agency East with your pal Amelia, my friend.

Dot and Ruth had named their lady PI business after both their surnames. The HS Agency had had a good run for over six years, with a string of investigative successes. She and Ruth had found men—and sometimes women—at whose hands less powerful women had come to harm. For homicide cases, the two PIs delivered the guilty party to the police. In lesser instances, they could normally persuade the wrongdoer to cease his abusive treatment. Usually the persuasion came in the form of showing the perpetrator photographic or other evidence of their crime and mentioning how interested the police would be. Physical threats from Dot were rare, although petite Ruth flashing her firearm had been effective more than once.

Dot read on.

I might run up to San Francisco and spend some time with Richard, since things are quiet. He’s been pestering me to do so.

That was a good idea. Dot wished she could have chatted with Ruth over the telephone, but the cost to call across the continent was prohibitively high.

There was no danger of Dot opening HS Agency East. Her home was in Pasadena. Anyway, she was quite sure Amelia would have no interest in sleuthing on a regular basis. By now Dot knew how important flying was to her friend.

Aunt Etta served on the Denison House Board of Directors and had introduced Dot to the aspiring aviatrix. Dot’s investigative expertise had been one reason why Etta had invited her east. When an arsonist was bent on destroying the settlement house on Tyler Street, Dot—with Amelia and their friend Jeanette Colby’s help—had caught the wretch in the act. Dot was delighted to meet both women, and the trio had worked well together.

With any luck, Amelia would have an idea or two of how to proceed in West Medford. Perhaps she or her mother was acquainted with someone on the police force. At the very least, Amelia knew the town and could show Dot the area by the river where Hattie’s body was discovered.

Newly-arrived Hattie couldn’t have made enemies yet. That anyone would accost and murder a young woman because she was weak or had darker skin than the Yankees who had settled the city—immigrants themselves, back then—was indeed horrid, as Ruth had put it. It was an outrage that needed to be put right.

Dot had confidence in her investigatory skills, and Amelia was an eager and willing collaborator. The teacher and pilot was also a fun gal to pal around with, as was Jeanette. If anyone could help Dot put things right, it would be the Misses Earhart and Colby.

CHAPTER 6

Dot and Amelia placed their orders for soup and a sandwich at the lunchroom counter and sat at a table in the front window to wait for their food.

I am ravenous for something to eat. Amelia, attired in one of her several brown frocks, eyed Dot’s straw boater with a mischievous look.

Oh, no, you don’t. Dot laughed and placed her hat in her lap, tucking her chestnut bob behind her ear.

After she’d met up with Amelia at the Denison Settlement House a few minutes after noon, the pilot had led the way to the new lunchroom where she and Dot had dined once before.

Listen, Amelia, last night my aunt alerted me to a terrible situation. And it got worse this morning, Dot began.

A situation?

Take a look at this. Dot pulled a newspaper clipping of the story Etta had shown her out of her bag and laid it on the table.

We can’t eat first? Amelia’s tone was plaintive.

No. Dot tapped the paper.

Medford Murder Caps Spate of Attacks, Amelia read the headline out loud. She continued to read the lines below it. Immigrant ladies targeted, police claim lack of hard evidence. Investigation stymied. She went on to read the first paragraph outlining the fate of poor Hattie Nelson, then stared at Dot. "Why, she was killed