Half-Title
The Fruitcake
Murders
Title Page
The Fruitcake Murders
Ace Collins
Abingdon Press
Nashville
Copyright Page
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
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
Dedication
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
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
Chapter 1
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,