Don't Dare a Dame by M Ruth Myers

they’d been playing. The other two seemed mesmerized by my legs.
     
        “Lord almighty. I haven’t thought about him in years.” Cy’s indulgent smile hinted at memories of youthful hijinks. “What’s this about?”
     
        I leaned forward and slid him one of my business cards. He read it and frowned.
     
        “Sam — track down Wilkins and talk to him about the northeast. You two, go through those records again,” he instructed the two who remained seated. “Use a fine tooth comb. I want something I can use at that meeting.” When all three were gone, he picked up my card and read it again. “What’s Alf done?”
     
        I noted his switch from Alfred to Alf.
     
        “What makes you think he’s done anything?”
     
        The indulgent smile appeared again.
     
        “That’s generally why people come to politicians. They’re in some sort of jam or need some sort of favor.”
     
        “Alf’s not much in need of favors right now. Then again, maybe he is, since from what I’ve heard he may need to do some bargaining with St. Peter.”
     
        Cy’s forehead wrinkled.
     
        “Are you saying he’s dead?”
     
        “Bingo.”
     
        “When?”
     
        “Thursday night.”
     
        He sank back with a sigh.
     
        “Poor old Alf. But I’m afraid I still don’t understand why you’re here—”
     
        “I was hired to find out about a man named John Vanhorn. He went to Dillon’s Drugs on the day it burned down and he never came home. Alf Maguire knew him. I’m hoping you did too.”
     
        He reached for a humidor on his desk, brows drawn in concentration.
     
        “I’m sorry.” He removed a cigar from the humidor and clipped the end. “It’s not a name I recall—”
     
        “Were you there on the day of the fire?”
     
        “Was I...? No. Yes.” He paused to get the cigar going, buying time. The pupils of his eyes had contracted when I mentioned Vanhorn. “Those three days — that whole damn week — is a jumble, if you want to know. But yes, I was there then. Not during the fire, though. Earlier. Everyone was. Everyone with a shop. Moving whatever they could to the attics.
     
        “My old man was exhausted. I made him go home while his horse could still get through the water. Told him I’d carry the rest of the boxes of shirts and some cartons of underwear up and stick them under the eaves before I locked up. It was the best we could do. Someone came along in a boat as I was leaving, shouted for me to get in. I don’t even remember where I got out or walking home.”
     
        He let out a long stream of smoke and regarded me through it. Some cigars smell marginally better than cigarettes. This one brought to mind a hot iron scorching a shirt.
     
        “I don’t suppose you can tell me why you’re asking about something that happened that long ago?”
     
        “No.”
     
        Cy glanced at the doorway into the front of the office. He stood and went over to look out for a moment. When he resumed his seat at the desk, he leaned forward, lowering his voice a notch.
     
        “You knew I was lying when I pretended not to recognize Alf’s name the first time you asked.”
     
        “I’ve had plenty of experience spotting liars.”
     
        His sharp look told me he didn’t like being included in that group.
     
        “I wouldn’t expect you to understand the intricacies of politics,” he said smoothly. “Voters are moody. Especially now that we have to win the votes of you ladies.” He shot me a smile that was probably meant to suggest we gals were all bright as buttons. “Sure, Alf and I had some laughs when we were young. But he isn’t — wasn’t — the sort I’d want people to associate with me now. In and out of debt. Setting up house for a woman half his age while his wife was dying.”
     
        I thought Cy might be overstating his