“Damn this Pru for not helpin’ us. And damn that little minx Paul Avery, too. Thought he could outsmart us by pretending to be somebody else.”
“That Paul Avery very nearly did.”
A voice from below shouted “Where the hell is Florence’s dress? Anyone? Someone better answer me!”
Joe ran a hand through his tangled red hair. “Any idea why he’d pretend to be his dead friend?”
Dash shook his head. “None.”
“Is he the impersonator Walter’s been lookin’ fer?”
“I think so.”
Those emerald eyes stared into Dash’s. “Do ya think he killed the lad?”
Dash remembered the gun in the man’s hand. “It’s possible. But then why be in Tyler’s hotel room? It’s one definite way to be caught.”
Joe dropped his gaze. “Maybe that’s why he killed him. Mr. Smith looked like he had a lotta sugar.”
Dash followed Joe’s train of thought. “Take on a new life. With a brand-new bank account. Finn told us how hard it is to get into the Shelton.”
He paused.
From below, the beleaguered stage manager yelled, “This is why no one should touch the costume rack! Goddammit, we have two hours to curtain and no dress for Florence!”
Dash said, “Mr. Smith must not have had many close friends or relatives for Mr. Avery to pull off the deception.”
“Aye, but there was at least one person who knew him well, lassie. Karl.” Joe looked up at Dash. “Think we might turn over a man like that to a man like Walter Müller?”
I don’t know. I’m not sure what Walter would do to him, given his hatred over his father’s secret.
The voice from downstairs shouted, “Jack, where the hell is Florence? Did she take the damned thing home?”
Dash said, “First we need to know what his role is in all this. And then we need to make sure. I won’t send another innocent into danger.”
He found his gray homburg and perched it atop his head.
“What say you, Joe? Shall we pay Mr., or perhaps Miss, Avery a visit?”
Paul Avery lived in a three-story bright red brick building on the corner of Waverly and Christopher Street, almost around the corner from Hartford & Sons and Pinstripes. Dash and Joe walked up to the stoop and scanned the names written in the small metal box, finding Mr. Avery’s name next to apartment 2A. No other name was listed.
“Wonder what he does for a living that he can live by himself,” Joe said.
“It’s not tending bar, that’s for certain.”
They rang the buzzer for apartment 2A, but there was no answer. They rang once more for good measure.
“He’s not here,” Joe said. “What now, lassie?”
Before Dash could respond, an old woman with a sack of groceries came walking up toward them.
Dash intercepted her, saying, “Excuse me, ma’am, we’re looking for Mr. Paul Avery. Does he live here?”
Seeing her up close, Dash noticed rheumy eyes damaged by time.
“He does,” she said, her voice trembling. “Though I haven’t seen him today. Then again, I don’t see most of anything these days. Can barely see you.” She turned her gaze onto Joe. “Or you, though I can tell you’re tall. Forgive my appearance, I’m just getting over a cold. Don’t you find summer colds to be the most irksome things?”
Joe smiled. “You look marvelous, my dear.”
She chuckled. “Your flattery is insincere but appreciated, nonetheless. May I tell him who was coming to call?”
Dash said the first name which came to mind. “Tyler Smith. Do you know when he’ll return?”
“Mr. Smith! So good to see you again! I don’t know if you remember me. I’m the landlady, Marjorie Norton. Spinster,” she added with a wink. She extended her hand.
The news of Tyler’s death had apparently not yet reached the Village.
Dash gently clasped her fingers, giving a warning look to Joe not to expose his deception. “Nice to see you again, Miss Norton.”
“Please, call me Marjorie.”
Joe said, “You own the building?”
Her chin lifted with pride. “I do. My husband left it to me after he died. There were no other men around in the family to take it from me, so it’s all mine. I’m what they call a ‘working girl’ now and I’m having the time of my life. Isn’t it wonderful that women are able to do so much more now than we did when I was a girl?” She pivoted back to Paul Avery. “Mr. Avery isn’t in, dear, so you can drop off Mrs. Avery’s keys.”
Dash furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry, did you say keys?”
Joe couldn’t help himself. “Did you say Mr. and Mrs. Avery?”
Marjorie’s rheumy eyes slid from Dash to Joe and back again. Her eyebrow arched with amusement. “Why, yes! Mr. and Mrs. Paul Avery have been tenants for years. Then again, you’d know that, wouldn’t you, Mr. Smith,” she added with a wink.
Dash’s words came out in a stutter. “W-w-why would I know all about that?”
Joe talked over him. “Have you seen this wife of his?”
Marjorie looked at Dash. “I can see you haven’t told your friend everything. Discretion is a dwindling virtue in these modern days. Yes, I have, young lad. She’s a gorgeous-looking woman. I’d see her sometimes while she goes out at night or sits on the fire escape smoking her ciggies, I believe the kids call them now.”
“And you’ve spoken with her?”
“Oh yes, on several occasions. Very nice. She seems well suited to our Paul. I hardly ever hear them argue. As you know, Mr. Smith, my walls are quite thin. I hear all my tenants in the building, whether they know it or not.”
A low laugh followed. Dash could only imagine what secrets she’d amassed over the years.
“Yes, they are quite lovely. They always say ‘goodnight Marjorie!’ when they go out for an evening together. Sometimes I see him propping her up when they come home after a night on the town.” More chuckles. “Mrs. Avery sure knows how to have a good time.”
Paul Avery had a wife—making him less likely to be Walter’s female
