The newspaperman focused on the pages from Inez, running a cursory eye over them. “I’m guessing this is a list of the members. I didn’t know them all, but some of the names are familiar.”
“You can read this?” Inez thought back to how both she and Welles had had trouble interpreting the crabbed scribbles.
“Oh, I come across worse than this in my job,” he said. “Besides, I knew Greer and learned how to interpret his hieroglyphs. When you’re a newsman, that sort of thing sticks with you.”
“The numbers, could they be funds?”
“Most likely.” He ran a finger down the column. “Largish amounts. Not typical monthly dues. I wonder. Maybe this is a record of the disbursements to be made when the union dissolved. The numbers are too large to be much of anything else. And original members would’ve received more, while those who joined later would’ve received less. That certainly tracks with what’s here.”
“Since this was in Mr. Monroe’s possession, I am guessing he had some interest in what happened after the demise of the union. Perhaps he was trying to figure out what happened to Mr. Greer and the funds.”
Haskell shrugged. “That’s possible. But if so, that trail is long cold. You know, I felt pretty sorry for Eli’s wife, and for the first year or so after he disappeared, I would re-visit things and ask around, just to see if anyone remembered anything as time went on.”
“And?”
“Memory is a slippery thing, Mrs. Stannert, and the more time passes, the more imagination takes over where memory leaves off. It all eventually devolved into ‘I might recollect something one guy heard from another guy.’ One member thought he remembered Eli saying how if he ever got the chance, he’d head lickety-split for New York where there were more opportunities. Another thought maybe Eli joined the gold rush to Deadwood, up Dakota Territory way. Someone else thought maybe he once mentioned moving to Arizona Territory. When all those vague stories started being passed around, I knew it was a lost cause.”
“If no one got their shares, it could have been enough to start over, if he was so inclined.”
“True. Maybe the temptation was too great. Still, I would’ve thought he’d take the missus with him.”
“Or maybe he was an easy mark for murder.”
“True again.”
Inez pondered on Mrs. Greer and what it must have been like for her. Perhaps her husband had kissed her good-bye one morning, promising to be home in time for dinner, and then…nothing. Much like what had happened to Inez the day her husband Mark had disappeared. “What happened to Mrs. Greer?”
“She stayed in town for a while, hoping he’d surface or that someone would eventually find him. Finally, she went Back East to her kin. I lost track of her then.”
So much for talking to the wife, Inez thought resignedly. If there was anything to be found out about the vanished treasurer and funds, it would have to be through the list that Jamie Monroe had kept hidden under his mattress.
“What about the first name on this list?” Inez asked. “There’s a checkmark by it, in pencil. The mark could have been original on the ledger, but looks more recent to me.”
“Hmmm.” Haskell squinted. “Abbott, S. I’ll bet that’s Stephen Abbott. I remember him. Lost use of his hands shortly before the union went bust. A musician who can’t use his hands has it pretty tough. Haven’t heard about him in years.”
“Any thoughts on how I might find him, if he is still in the city?”
Haskell scratched his jaw. “There’s the city directory, of course. But it doesn’t catch everyone. You could try the Musical Protective Association. They assist sick and disabled members and families. Been around since ’64 and reorganized in the mid-70s, right around the time the union went belly-up. They might know of him, or what happened to him.”
“Where would I find this society?”
“They meet the second Tuesday of every month.” He held up his hand at her exclamation of dismay. “Yeah, you just missed it. But if you’re in a big hurry, and it seems you are, I’d say go talk to the secretary, John Baumann.” Haskell broke off and snatched up his cigar, which was still smoldering on the edge of his desk.
Inez noted that the scarred wood was pocked with old burn marks and now a new one as well.
Haskell stuck the cigar in his mouth and mumbled around it, “Hold on a minute.” He opened a drawer, extracted a battered copy of the city directory, and thumbed through it. “No Stephen Abbott. Let’s try Baumann. Here we go. I’ll write down the address for you.” He turned to a tin can on his desk, bristling with sharpened pencils, took one, and neatly block-printed the address on the top page of the list.
He handed the papers back to her. “There. Now, are you going to tell me what all this is about?”
Inez sighed. “I wish I knew. I am trying to figure out what Jamie Monroe was doing the last few days of his life. This list was tucked away, hidden.” She hesitated. “He had indicated, not directly to me but to someone else, that there was some…danger…coming from his activities in the labor movement. I’m trying to see if that perhaps had anything to do with his demise.”
Haskell crossed his arms over his ample stomach and peered at Inez. “Seems more a job for the local law than the lady manager of a music store.”
She thought briefly of her previous life and the many times—too many times—she had become entangled in murderous goings-on in Colorado. I am not in Colorado now. I must be more circumspect. “You are quite right, of course. But I can’t stop thinking of Jamie, his
