City of Dark Corners

I slid across a photo of Carrie. It was a straight-on shot taken from Ezra’s house in Prescott and showed her to best advantage, straight blond hair with bangs, expressive eyes, a white button-down blouse, and knees showing below a tan skirt.

“That’s Cynthia,” he said. “Lovely girl. She worked here last summer as a waitress. The slow season but we have air-conditioning. She was a good employee. Never missed a day. She’s in college in Tempe.”

Cynthia.

I slid the photo closer. “This girl was Cynthia? You’re sure?”

He flicked ash off his cigarette. “Yes, of course.”

Not only was she staying in Phoenix instead of going home, she was using a false name.

I asked him for her address, but he told me she was allowed to use a room at the hotel itself, deducting the rent from her earnings

. It was off-season, so the Biltmore had extra space.

“Did she have gentlemen callers?”

“Absolutely not.” He drew himself up to his full height, which was a good head shorter than me. “We have rules, and she always abided by them.”

“Like the rules about liquor.” I smiled. “Did she serve in the speakeasy?”

He nodded.

Then I asked to speak with anyone who worked with her and might have been a friend.

“I hope Cynthia is okay…”

“I’m afraid not. This is a homicide investigation.”

He went pale. “Oh, my.”

In a few minutes, he produced a willowy brunette named Margaret. She sat in the chair beside me.

“This is Detective Hammond,” he said. “Of the Phoenix Police. I’m afraid something has happened to Cynthia.”

“Oh, dear,” she whispered, her plain face contorted in a frown.

I nodded at the manager. “Would you mind giving us a few minutes?” He hesitated. I added, “Alone.” He reluctantly shuffled out, closing the door.

“Margaret, I want you to be straight with me.” I leaned in. “Nobody needs to know anything you tell me.”

She nodded.

“Tell me about Cynthia.”

“Well, she was good at her job. She very nice to me. I wasn’t used to such a pretty girl treating me well. She gave me money when I was broke. She always seemed to have cash.”

“Where did she get this money?”

“Her father was in mining. I don’t know why she had to work. But she was a hard worker, never made out like she was a rich girl.”

I took a chance. “Her last name was…?”

“Thayer.”

Like father, like daughter? Had Ezra Dell come up with this scheme, or had Carrie taught him to use it?

Margaret caught my mind wandering. “What’s going on, Detective?”