The Fruitcake Murders Read online

  The Fruitcake

  Murders

  The Fruitcake Murders

  Ace Collins

  Abingdon Press

  Nashville

  The Fruitcake Murders

  Copyright © 2015 by Ace Collins

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4267-7189-7

  Published by Abingdon Press, P.O. Box 801, Nashville, TN 37202

  www.abingdonpress.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form,stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website,or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital,electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.

  The persons and events portrayed in this work of fiction are the creations of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Macro Editor: Teri Wilhelms

  Published in association with Hartline Literary Agency

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Collins, Ace.

  The fruitcake murders / Ace Collins.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-1-4267-7189-7 (binding: pbk.)

  I. Title.

  PS3553.O47475F78 2015

  813'.54—dc23

  2015021659

  This book is dedicated to the late Glenda Farrell

  who played the reporter Torchy Blane in the classic mystery movies of the 1930s.

  No one talked faster and entertained any better than Glenda.

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to

  Ramona Richards

  Teri Wilhelms

  Joyce Hart

  Susan Cornell

  Cat Hoort

  And all the Abingdon team who have worked to make this book a success

  1

  Thursday, December 23, 1926

  9:15 p.m.

  It was just past seven, the temperature was in the teens, the north wind gusting to thirty and the spitting snow flurries hinting at a storm that would soon assure every child in Chicago a white Christmas. Though he wanted to stay home with his elderly mother and two children, love had driven fifty-six-year-old Jan Lewandowski out into the cold to make the twenty-block walk through the city’s Little Italy to the small candy factory he’d started when he’d emigrated from Poland in 1905.

  While his teenage son, Szymon, was too mentally disturbed to care about the weather or the upcoming holidays, Lewandowski’s eight-year-old daughter had been praying for snow for weeks and today’s forecast thrilled her. Thus, to make Alicija’s joy even greater, Lewandowski was braving the increasingly harsh conditions to retrieve the small, red sled he’d hidden in the back of his office. Tomorrow he was going to place that outdoor toy under the tree and pretend Santa had brought it all the way from the North Pole. If only his little blonde angel could know the truth. If only he could tell the always-smiling child the sled was not a gift from St. Nick, but a labor of love created by his own hands. Maybe someday he would let her know the time it took him to build it and how much love went into every facet of that job, but for the moment the credit would go solely to the jolly elf who lived above the Arctic Circle. After all, that was a part of the magic and innocence of Christmas that even a middle-aged man like Lewandowski treasured as well as the magic and innocence he felt every child needed to hang onto for as long as possible.

  As the short, stocky candy maker crossed onto Taylor Street, a heavyset, finely dressed man, wearing a long overcoat and wide-brimmed hat and hugging two large paper sacks tightly against his chest, stepped out of Lombardi’s Grocery and Produce and casually ambled toward a Cadillac sedan parked on the curb. A young man, tall and thin and outfitted in a beaver coat and green wool scarf to fight off the wind’s bitter chill, stood by the vehicle’s back door waiting. Arriving at the curb, the big man turned back toward the store, and, as he did, a street lamp revealed a deep, nasty scar on his fleshy cheek.

  Standing in the shadows, under the grocery’s awning, Lewandowski watched the heavyset man intently study Lombardi’s showcase window before the shopper slowly spun and stepped through the large, green sedan’s rear door. After the door was shut and secured, the younger man hustled around to the driver’s side, got in, slid the car into first, and eased forward. As the Caddy made a sweeping U-turn, its twenty-one-inch wooden wheels crunching on the fresh snow, Lewandowski stepped forward and stood under a street lamp. For a moment, his eyes met the driver’s. The men briefly studied each other before the car roared out of sight and the candy maker turned and made his way on down the sidewalk.

  Momentarily stopping to pull up his collar in an effort to gain a bit more protection against the unforgiving north wind, Lewandowski glanced at the tiny store the big man had just exited. The candy maker smiled at the festive holiday display Geno Lombardi had created in his front window. Illuminated by blinking, electric lights were a half dozen children’s toys, a few canned hams, a small evergreen tree, four boxes of Noma Christmas lights, a basket of fruit, a can of nuts, and several rolls of wrapping paper. Circling all the goodies was a brand new Lionel electric train, its black steam engine slowly pulling five cars and a caboose around the oval-shaped metal track. While the holiday exhibit captured the spirit and wonder of December, there was something missing. Where were Lewandowski’s prize fruitcakes? Lombardi had agreed to place five of the tins in the window in order to help the candy maker publicize his newest culinary creation. They had been a part of the presentation for two weeks, but now they were gone. So why had the store owner removed the cans of cake just two days before Christmas? After all, tomorrow would be the most important shopping day of the year and those cakes needed to be there.

  Setting aside all thoughts of his daughter’s present or the coming blizzard, Lewandowski angrily pushed open the glass-paned door and rushed into the small, corner grocery. A bell, mounted just above the entry, announced his presence.

  “Geno,” the visitor angrily called out. When there was no reply Lewandowski roared, “Geno, where are my fruitcakes?”

  There was no still response.

  Figuring Lombardi must be in his office, Lewandowski stuck his hands deep into his overcoat pockets and hurried along a bread rack toward the rear of the store. He’d just passed a display of lightbulbs when a chill ran across his wide shoulders and down his spine. Because a coal stove had driven the temperature in the store to almost eighty, the creeping cold racing along his flesh had nothing to do with the frigid outside temperature.

  “Geno,” he called out, his voice suddenly showing more concern than rage. “Where are you, my friend?”

  Stopping, the confused candy maker turned to his right and studied the now empty store. The glow of six dangling one-hundred-watt bulbs bathed the room in a yellowish, almost surreal light. The fact there was no sound except for the ticking of a Seth Thomas clock made the establishment more like a church than a place of business. The grocery was never this quiet. Something was not right! Lombardi never closed before nine, so what was going on? At the very least, he should be restocking his shelves in anticipation of the Christmas Eve rush. Why was he not answering?

  “Geno, where are you?” Lewandowski demanded. As an afterthought he added, “What have you done with my fruitcakes?”

  Again, no one replied.

  Perhaps the store owner had gone up to the apartment located on the second floor above the main store or maybe he was in the alley taking out the trash. That had to be it.

  It was then that Lewandowski felt more than saw a slight, barely perceptible movement to his right. Shifting his gaze, he noted a small boy, perhaps six or seven, in a center aisle, crouching behind
a five-foot-high stack of canned goods, arranged to form something resembling a Christmas tree. The child was dressed in a blue coat, black gloves, dark pants, and a fur hat. As their eyes met, the apparently frightened boy darted from behind the display clipping one of the cans with his foot causing the rest to fall forward. The sudden noise in the quiet room seemed deafening. As the displaced cans rolled and bounced in every direction, the spooked youngster yanked open the door and raced out into the cold. Once more, the candy maker was alone.

  As the last can rolled to a stop against the front counter, uneasiness entered the store like a late spring fog causing Lewandowski’s anger to dissipate as quickly as it appeared. Now what had been so important just a few minutes before was no longer a concern. Logic had replaced emotion and he felt no reason to stay and find out why his fruitcakes were not in their spot. He could do that tomorrow morning on his way to work. There would be plenty of time then. At this moment, getting Alicija’s sled and taking it home was much more important. Spinning on his heels, he began to retrace his path toward the entry, but managed only two short steps when he spotted the grisly reason his calls to the store owner had gone unanswered.

  His body frozen in place by a vision too ghastly to imagine, Lewandowski’s brain slogged along in slow motion trying to understand what he was seeing. As the seconds deliberately ticked by, the candy maker noted a large pool of blood around the store owner’s body. The next thing that registered was the awkward manner in which Lombardi was sprawled on the hardwood floor. Then, as he hesitantly drew nearer, Lewandowski saw the man’s open, but unseeing eyes. Finally, its shiny red handle catching the overhead light, he spied a knife stuck deeply into the shopkeeper’s back. Now he knew why there had been no answer. Lombardi’s voice had been silenced when his heart quit beating.

  “Nie,” the Polish immigrant whispered in his native language. As he bent closer to touch the grocer’s cheek, he reverted to English, “My lord, what has happened? Geno, who has done this awful thing to you?” As Lewandowski’s fingertips pushed into the victim’s still warm blood . . . blood now slowly seeping out of the man’s body and onto the floor, as the sticky liquid coated his fingers, the candy maker looked toward the store’s open cash register. As he studied the ornate, nickel-plated machine he thought back to the stranger he’d seen just moments before.

  “Did he rob you?” Lewandowski demanded.

  When the grocer didn’t reply, Lewandowski pushed up from his crouching position, yanked off his gloves, dropping them on the floor beside the body, and after grabbing the bloody knife handle in his left hand and pulling the seven-inch blade from the dead man’s back, the candy maker strolled behind the store’s main counter and looked into the cash register. With his right hand, he tapped a large stack of money still secure in the drawer. As he did the blood from his fingers transferred to a five-dollar bill.

  “Why did they not take the money?” he whispered while making the sign of the cross. “What good was it to kill someone for nothing? Surely death had to have a reason?” He turned back to the dead shopkeeper and demanded as if expecting a reply, “Geno, why did they do this horrible thing to you?”

  Lewandowski, too caught up trying to unravel a mystery he couldn’t begin to fathom, failed to note that he was no longer alone. It was only when he heard the bell above the front door ring that the stunned and suddenly terrified man raised the knife over his head and looked up.

  Standing in the entry was not the man he’d seen just a few minutes before or the little boy, but one of Chicago’s Finest. The cop’s stern expression and drawn pistol dictated he was more than ready to shoot first and ask questions later. “Drop the knife down to the floor, then hands up, and don’t move,” came the gruff order.

  Too dumbfounded to speak, Lewandowski let the bloody blade slide from his hand and to the wooden planks. The thunderstruck and silent candy maker then lifted his blood-soaked hands over his head. As he did, the cop stepped closer, glanced down at the dead store owner and back to the cash register. Shaking his head, the policeman noted, his tone as deadly serious as his countenance, “I didn’t get here in time to stop you from killing him, but at least I kept you from stealing him blind.”

  Lewandowski’s jaw dropped and quivered as he whispered, “I did not do this.”

  “That’s what they all say,” the cop grumbled. He then studied his suspect for a moment before noting, “I’ve seen you. You’re that candy maker with the crazy son.”

  “I am Jan Lewandowski,” he admitted.

  “Yeah, the guy who conned Geno into selling the fruitcakes. I guess you and your kid are just as nutty as what you make.”

  The candy maker shook his head. “I swear I did not do this. I swear on all that is holy, I could not do such a thing.”

  “The blood on your hands and that knife tell a different story,” came the quick reply. “They’ll fry you before the spring thaw, you can make book on it.”

  “But I did not do this,” Lewandowski pleaded, tears now streaming down his face. “The child will tell you I did not do this thing.”

  “What child?” the cop demanded.

  “The little boy who was in the store when I entered. He can tell you that Geno was dead before I got here.”

  The policeman shook his head, “Where’s this kid?”

  “He ran out into the night,” Lewandowski explained, his eyes looking toward the door. “You must believe me, I did not do this horrible thing.”

  “I’m betting a court says different,” the cop snapped. “Now, turn around and drop your hands behind your back.”

  Sensing he had no choice, Lewandowski did as he was told. A few seconds later, he felt the cold metal cuffs go around his wrists. Suddenly his thoughts went back to the sled and his Alicija. Why had he gone into the store? Why hadn’t he just kept walking down the street? Then he thought of the big man. That man was not a complete stranger. He knew that face. He’d seen it before. If only he could remember when and where. And where was the child? The little boy could explain everything. As tears filled his dark eyes, Jan Lewandowski’s chin dropped into his chest and he muttered in Polish a prayer learned decades ago in his childhood. It was a plea for a mercy that would remain forever unanswered.

  2

  Wednesday, December 18, 1946

  9:55 p.m.

  For over an hour, Lane Walker had been impatiently sitting on an overstuffed leather couch waiting for a black desk phone on the walnut end table to ring. During that time he’d read the latest issue of Life, worked a crossword puzzle from today’s Herald, and counted and recounted the seven bills—three ones, two fives, a ten, and a twenty—that made up the sum total of the cash in his wallet. Picking up a Montgomery-Ward Christmas catalog, he spent a few minutes considering what might be the best use for those forty-three bucks before tossing the catalog to one side, taking his handkerchief from the pocket of his suit coat and knocking the dust from his black wingtips. As a mantel clock in the mansion’s cavernous living room struck ten, the dark-haired, blue-eyed Walker pulled his lean six-foot frame from the soft cushions and strolled over to a large mirror. Staring into the glass, he studied his reflection.

  He was no Robert Taylor, but he wasn’t Edward G. Robinson either. His jaw was strong, his eyes expressive, and his mop of wavy, dark hair showed no signs of turning loose or gray. While his thirty years of living had etched a few crow’s-feet outside his deep-set eyes and along the corners of his thin lips, he nevertheless still maintained a bit of a baby face. Retaining any kind of appearance of innocence after three years spent fighting battles on a half dozen Pacific islands was quite an accomplishment. During that time, many of the Marines Lane had fought beside aged a couple of decades. Worse yet, more friends than he cared to remember were buried on those islands and would never age at all. So, emerging from the war with a few minor scrapes and some mental baggage meant he was lucky. Yet, if he were so lucky, then why did he feel so guilty for making it home alive, and why did his good fortune e
at at his gut and cost him sleep? Why did surviving carry such a huge cost?

  Checking his watch for the tenth time in the last fifteen minutes, Lane adjusted the Windsor knot on his blue-striped tie and smoothed the lapels of his gray suit before turning away to study something you wouldn’t find in his cramped apartment—a six-foot cedar tree standing proudly in the room’s far corner. On this night, no one had plugged in the lights, so the tinsel didn’t shine the way it should and the blue and red balls looked less colorful, but, even in its darkened state the evergreen still clearly spelled out that the holidays were on their way. Smiling grimly, Lane noted that under the fir’s bottom branches were a half dozen carefully wrapped presents each decorated with red bows that blended perfectly with the green-striped paper hiding their contents. It didn’t take a cop’s keen observation skills to deduce someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make this holiday special. Yet, some things just don’t work out the way they are planned and that was a crying shame. This holiday was going to be anything but bright for the family who lived in this Windy City mansion. Death had a way of stealing the light even from Christmas.

  Just to the festive tree’s right was a console radio. The Zenith was almost four feet tall and at least thirty inches wide. The front veneer featured a half dozen different types of wood including maple, white oak, and mahogany, but the cabinet was mainly walnut. Strolling over to the impressive radio, Walker flipped the set on and waited for the unit’s seven tubes to warm up. Forty-five seconds later the strains of Bing Crosby crooning “White Christmas” filled the eight-hundred-square-foot room and, at least for a moment, it not only looked like the holidays, but sounded like them as well. As the modern carol’s lyrics spoke of hopes that the coming days would be bright, the visitor leaned against the unit’s cabinet and closed his eyes. In a matter of moments, he was transported to a better time and a much happier place when he still believed in Santa Claus and the holidays were filled with wonder, hope, and excitement. Whatever happened to the innocent days of his youth surrounded by family and friends? How had they so quickly evaporated into little more than faded memories? If only his parents were still alive to once more welcome him home with a hug, a cup of hot chocolate, and a cheery Merry Christmas.