Murder at Madison Square Garden

Chapter Three-1

Chapter Three

Another small room. Teddy shuddered. At least this space didn’t have bars and a lock on the door. She looked across the mammoth desk at Ric. The early-morning sun seeping through the window of his office highlighted the lines of fatigue bracketing his mouth and eyes. He gripped the coffee cup as if it were a life preserver and periodically took a deep swallow. He didn't seem in much better shape than her.

After a fitful night of fighting with the bedsheets, she’d risen at dawn. The lengthy shower may have washed off the cell’s dirt, but the stigma of being jailed still seemed to cling to her skin. Her gaze trailed around the room while Ric made notes on a legal-sized pad of paper.

Bookcases and cabinets lined the walls. Books, papers, and boxes fought for space on the crowded shelves. Bottles of Moxie and Coca-Cola stood sentry on the table in the corner. A spider plant drooped, dry and listless in a bright yellow container.

From where she sat, his writing appeared to be little more than a scrawl. The pinched characters had almost no discerning shapes to indicate which letters they were.

He finally put down his pencil and looked at her. “I've written everything I can remember about yesterday's events. Now it's your turn. How about if you walk me through your day?”

“My day?” She was doing it again. Parroting everything he said. He would think she was a ninny or worse, had some sort of mental problem.

“Yes. Can you tell me what you did before and during the rally? Who did you see or talk with? That sort of thing.”

Teddy leaned forward to speak then got lost in his eyes and sat back before she could make a bigger fool of herself. She stopped herself from rubbing her palms on her cotton slacks. That was becoming a habit, too. “First, I stopped at the photo store to pick up more film. I didn't want to run out. It's important to get lots of shots, since many of them are no good.”

“Do you remember the name of the shop?”

“The Picture People. I get most of my supplies from them when I'm in town.”

“Cute name. They'd remember you?”

“Yes. I've been buying from Hank since I moved to New York. He'd vouch for me.”

“Good. How long were you there?”

“Forty-five minutes or an hour.”

“That's a long time to spend in a photo store.”

She shook her head. “Not when you have a lot in common with the owner. He's from away, too. Grew up in Scranton. Freelanced for years before moving to the city to buy the business. We swap stories and techniques. He's brilliant with a lens.”

Ric rubbed at the stubble on his chin. “Where did you go after that?”

“I spent some time in Central Park. I love to photograph people, and it's a great venue. I was there until I went to the Garden for the rally.”

“I don't suppose anyone can corroborate that.”

“I'm afraid not. We can develop the film, and it will show I was there, but not what time.”

“We'll cross that bridge if we need to.” He gave her a crooked grin. “We know what happened during our discussion about your set-up location. Can you tell me about before and after that?”

She snorted a laugh. “Discussion, right. Anyway, I had only been there a few moments when you arrived, so there's really nothing to say about that. I didn't interact with anyone. I set up my equipment, then you came along. When you walked away, I moved to the third or fourth pillar—I can't remember which—and then pushed some of the trees close to it, so I could hide between them. I needed a good series of shots. Now, no one will buy them.”

He c****d his head. “Maybe everyone will want them.”

“I want to be famous, not infamous. There's a big difference between the two.”

“Indeed. What happened after you got behind the tree?”

“Nothing much for a while. I took pictures and listened to Lindbergh. Truth be told, I don't agree with him, so my attention started to wander. I looked to my left and saw a man pointing a gun toward the stage. I considered my options and realized I was the only one who could stop him. I charged at him, and we got into a bit of a tussle. The tree fell on top of him, and the gun ended up underneath it. I pulled it out, and the police showed up. The shooter disappeared into the crowd.”

“Can you tell me what he looked like?”

“He wasn't a big man—maybe five foot seven. Dark hair, dark mustache. He wore dark blue pants and a blue shirt. Unfortunately, he was nondescript.”

“No unusual characteristics at all?”

Teddy snapped her fingers. “I didn't think of it till now, but his hair and mustache didn't match. His hair was very dark, and the facial hair was light brown.”

“Meaning he could have dyed his hair or used a fake mustache or hairpiece.”

“Exactly.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

She massaged her shoulders and rotated her neck. The tension of reliving the event was growing. “I don't know. Maybe. I think so. At one point we did meet each other’s eyes.” She shuddered. “His were empty as if he had no conscience.”

Ric steepled his fingers. “What else were you up to prior to the event? Anything that could be construed as suspicious?”

“I was at the police academy doing a photo shoot. A boring assignment, but we can’t all be Dorothea Lange.”

“What was the chain of events? Who was the officer in charge? You went in, snapped some pictures, and left?”

Memories of the day flooded her mind, and she ducked her head. “Not exactly. The boys talked me into taking a turn, so I shot a few rounds.”

“And?”

“And I grouped them all in the chest of the paper outline.”

“Proving you’re a sharpshooter and capable of committing murder.” Ric’s voice contained steel.

a

Teddy stopped in front of the hotel. It occupied the entire block. She looked at her windblown reflection in the front window and finger-combed her hair then straightened her coat. She squared her shoulders and walked through the door. Ric tipped the man, and her face heated. She should have thought of that.

Ric caught up with her, and they approached the front desk. She tried not to gawk at her surroundings, but she was not used to the unabashed opulence of the place. The Art Deco circular mosaic just inside the entrance had been designed by some French artist, if she remembered correctly, and the lobby was a veritable jungle of plants and trees. The walls and woodwork were ivory colored, and a gleaming mahogany grand piano graced one corner.

The staff were dressed in crisply ironed burgundy-and-black uniforms. The women wore their hair in tight chignons, and the men were closely shorn. Each worker greeted them as they passed.

The clerk behind the counter simpered, “Good afternoon, sir, ma'am. How may I be of service?”

Ric removed his fedora and leaned toward the man. “Ric Bogart and Miss Schafer. We're here to see Mr. Lindbergh. We have an appointment.”

The man peered over his glasses at them then lifted the receiver of the telephone. After a moment, he spoke into it. “Mr. Bogart and Miss Schafer for Mr. Lindbergh...yes...thank you...I'll send them up.”

He hung up the phone and pointed at a young man who had been standing nearby. The boy snapped to attention and hurried to the desk. The clerk gestured to Ric and Teddy. “Please take Mr. Bogart and Miss Schafer to Mr. Lindbergh's room.”

Ric and Teddy followed the teen to the elevator and stepped inside. Their guide spoke to the operator, “Tenth floor.”

She kept her gaze glued to the closed gate as the elevator rose, the arrow on the dial above the operator’s head marking each floor as it swept past the numbers. The doors finally parted, and they followed their escort as he led them down the hall. The young man stopped and knocked on the door. Ric fumbled in his pocket for some coins and pressed them into the boy’s hand.

An obsequious smile flitted across his face. “Thank you, sir.”

The door swung open. Lindbergh stood on the threshold wearing a cobalt-colored silk smoking jacket, clutching The Saturday Evening Post.

Ric stepped forward with an outstretched hand. “Mr. Lindbergh, I'm Ric Bogart. May I introduce Ms. Theodora Schafer?”

Lindbergh glanced at Ric’s hand and sneered, “The woman who took a potshot at me?”

Unable to find her voice, Teddy shook her head.

“That's what the police tell me.”

Hands stuffed into his pocket, Ric rocked back on his heels. “Miss Schafer has a different story. Do you have a few minutes to answer some questions?”

A skeptical look marked Lindbergh’s face as he stood to one side allowing them to enter the suite. The door closed with a muffled thud, and he waved toward the overstuffed sofa as he lowered himself into one of the channel-back chairs. The butter yellow and forest green of the upholstery complemented the sage green of the walls. As with the lobby, flowers, plants, and trees accented the décor.

Teddy frowned. How many staff had the sole responsibility of keeping the foliage watered?

The small coffee table was burnished to a high gloss. A newspaper was folded neatly on top of it, along with several recent issues of Life. A large Philco issued the muted sounds of Dorsey's “I'll Never Smile Again.” She knew how the singer felt.

Perched on the edge of her seat, Teddy gripped her satchel with cold fingers. She looked at Lindbergh. “Thank you for seeing us, sir.”

“Ah, the lady does have a voice!” Lindbergh chuckled.

Teddy’s grasp on her purse tightened. Did the man have to be so flippant? Did he not understand that her life was at stake?

Ric leaned forward. “Mr. Lindbergh, do you know anyone who might have a reason to do you harm?”

“I’m a public figure, not always well liked.” Lindbergh shrugged. “You know I’ve already talked to the police about this.”

Ric nodded. “Yes. They gave us permission to pursue the case on our own. It's unusual, but I have a friend on the force.”

“I'll tell you what I told them. My views aren't popular with everyone. Maybe it was someone who disagrees with me. New York is a big city full of angry people who might shoot someone they don't like. Or maybe no reason at all.”

Teddy cleared her throat. “Could someone be jealous of your celebrity status? Could this have anything to do with your flying career?” Her voice softened as she continued, “Or your son?”

Lindbergh seared her with a look. “No, on all issues.”

Face warm, she held his stare.

He narrowed his eyes and glanced at Ric. “Do you have any legitimate questions for me?”

“Certainly, sir. What other activities are you involved with? This might have nothing to do with America First.”

“I'm a simple man, Mr. Bogart. I have a family, and I periodically conduct speaking engagements.”

“What sorts of topics do you cover?”

“You'd be surprised what I'm asked to talk about. It's as if people think I'm an expert on everything because I'm famous.” He gave a wry grin. “But I try to stick to subjects I'm familiar with such as aviation and engineering. And yes, to the chagrin of some people, I offer my opinion about U.S. foreign policy.”

Teddy said, “Have there been any incidents at other lectures about the US?”

A lock of hair felt over his forehead as Lindbergh shook his head. “Not of any importance. I've been booed and shouted at, but no one has attempted any physical injury.”

“How about threats by mail?”

“Yes, I receive hate letters. When I get them, I turn them over to the police. They've never caught anyone, but a Detective Keith Irwin is working the case. You could check with him.”

Lindbergh crossed his arms. “Have you considered that I might not be the intended subject? I'd like to think I'm important enough to assassinate, but maybe the target was some other dignitary on the stage. Perhaps the president of the local America First chapter was the actual target. Maybe his death wasn’t a mistake. He seemed to be a nice enough fellow, but one never knows what sorts of skeletons lurk in another man's closet.”