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Murder at Madison Square Garden

By Linda Shenton Matchett

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May 1941
New York, New York


Chapter One

Theodora “Teddy” Schafer grunted as she hefted the revolver into her right hand. Heavier than she anticipated, its cold steel sent a shiver down her spine. So much power in such a small package.
“Come on, Schafer. You gonna shoot or not?”
Teddy turned to the voice and scowled. “Sure. I just wanted to make sure you gentlemen were ready.”
“Yeah, that's what it was.”
Teddy raised the weapon and pointed it at the target hanging on the far wall. She squeezed the trigger, and the gun recoiled in her hand. The explosive noise reverberated through the room. She laid down the gun as she studied the hole in the center of the man's paper outline, a smile tugging at her lips.
“Lucky shot!”
“Better watch out for her!”
“Who knew a girl could shoot so good?”
“Where'd you learn that?”
“Beginner's luck!”
One of the police officers gave her a congratulatory clap on the back, and she nearly fell to her knees, but managed to keep her balance. “Now, can we finish the photo shoot? The police academy training commander wants these developed toot sweet.”
The beefy sergeant crossed his arms. “First, you're going to tell us where you learned to shoot like that.”
Teddy picked up her camera and fiddled with the winder.
“Must be some kind of story.”
She looked up at him for a long moment. “I knew a cowboy.”
“A cowboy?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
She gave a noncommittal shrug before ducking around the man to retrieve more camera equipment. It wasn't exactly a lie. No need for him to know her twin sister, Lisa, and her had been bounced around to more relatives than they could count after their parents died at the end of the Great War. And that one of those relatives was a mean-spirited rancher who couldn't keep his hands to himself. She had to learn to shoot to protect Lisa.
Ancient history. Teddy shook her head to sweep away the memories then reached in her canvas rucksack and pulled out a second Kodak Brownie. The sooner she finished this assignment, the sooner she'd get paid. Too bad she wouldn't have the new Ektra she had her eye on to photograph Lindbergh at the America First rally.
The aviator had it all wrong. America should help England. Otherwise, Hitler would crush all of Europe. Every time she picked up a newspaper there was another story about a country German had overrun.
She didn't need to agree with Lindbergh. She just needed a photo spread good enough to sell to Life. “I'd do anything to get them to take my stuff again. I wish I knew who started the rumor that the last photos I submitted weren't mine.”
a
The telephone rang, yanking Ric Bogart into consciousness. He scrubbed his face with callused hands before glancing at the small wooden clock perched on the end of his desk. Ten o'clock in the morning. He was already so bored with his case notes he had fallen asleep. The phone trilled again, and he snatched the receiver off the cradle.
“Bogart Investigations.”
“Ricky!”
“Harry?”
“None other!”
Ric sighed. A New York City detective, Harry Boyle only called him Ricky when he needed a favor. What was it this time? He’d find out soon enough.
Harry's voice boomed as he regaled Ric with the latest antics of his four-year-old son. Sure the little guy was bright, but Harry acted like the kid was a genius. Ric's heart tugged. At least Harry had a child.
He sighed again. That was the only regret from his sham of a marriage. But Beatrice had wanted none of that—didn't want to mess up her figure. What kind of woman doesn't want a family? He frowned. Women like is ex.
“Ricky?”
“Huh?”
“Are you listening to me?”
“Absolutely. Your kid is a regular Einstein. No doubt about it.”
“Anyway, I need a little favor.”
Ric rolled his eyes. “Name it.”
“Lindbergh is coming to town to speak at one of those America First rallies. It's at the Garden tomorrow. I'm short staffed. Think you could help me out?”
“Will I get paid this time? You know I can't afford any charity cases since Bea cleaned me out before moving on.”
Harry snorted a laugh. “I told you she was no good. But did you listen to me?”
“Are you going to pay me or not?”
“You'll get paid. Apparently these people think someone might take a potshot at Lindbergh or one of the other bigwigs, so they put up some dough for extra security people.”
“Okay, count me in. What time?”
“Three o'clock.”
“See you then.”
“Thanks. And Ricky?”
“Yeah?”
“Sorry for the crack about Bea,” Harry said. “I shouldn't have said that, especially since the fire was only a few weeks ago.”
“Don't worry about it. Life is all about choices, and she made one bad one after another. It was bound to catch up with her at some point.”
“Okay...well...see you tomorrow.”
“Bye.”
With a clatter, Ric hung up the phone and looked down at the stack of case notes. He swept them into a folder and pitched it into the tray on the empty bookcase. He stood and retrieved his hat and coat from the chair where he had flung them upon his arrival then jammed the black fedora onto his head and slid into his herringbone Chesterfield. He should find out what he could about this so-called America First group.
He hesitated and looked up. Is this from You, Lord? I've been asking for a big case. Is this it? If so, I really appreciate it. I don't have to tell You how slim my wallet is. Just keep me safe. You know how crowds can get. They're as unpredictable as a cornered raccoon. Anyway, thanks again.
Ric went back to the desk and jerked open the top drawer. He rummaged under the clutter and pulled out his Colt .45. He dropped the weapon into the inside pocket of his suit coat then strode out of the office.
a

“...An independent American destiny means, on the one hand, that our soldiers will not have to fight everybody in the world who prefers some other system of life to ours. On the other hand, it means that we will fight anybody and everybody who attempts to interfere with our hemisphere, and that we will do so with all the resources of our nation. It means that we rely on our own strength, our own ability, and our own courage...”
Teddy stifled a yawn and shifted to ease the tension in her shoulders. Lindbergh had a right to his views, but she was already tired of listening, and it was only a few minutes into his speech. She turned a deaf ear to his voice and yawned again. She had managed to secrete herself between a group of large decorative trees and one of the pillars about thirty feet from the stage. She had been run out of her first location by an overzealous, albeit handsome, security guard.
Lifting the camera to her eye, she rotated the focus knob to adjust her view. She snapped photo after photo until she came to the end of the film. She bent to tuck the Kodak into her satchel and retrieve her backup Brownie.
A movement to the left caught her attention. She separated the branches on the tree and peeked through the opening. She gasped then pressed her lips together. Between the next pillar and another cluster of trees stood a wiry man dressed in a long-sleeved blue shirt and dark blue pants pointing a pistol toward the stage.
Her head whipped around toward the platform then back to the man. He stirred among the tree leaves, the gun still aimed toward the dignitaries. Teddy's eyes raked the area near the would-be shooter. How did he get in? Where was that pesky security man? No matter what Lindbergh believed, he didn't deserve to be killed.
The man turned toward her.
She froze. Did he see her? She held her breath.
He pivoted back to the stage. The time to do something was now or never.
Teddy laid her camera into a pot at the base of the tree and extricated herself from her hiding place. She dashed toward the man in blue then launched herself forward, waving her arms and shouting. A shot rang out as her body collided with his. They fell to the floor in a heap.
She untangled herself and rose to her knees. As she scrabbled for the gun, the shooter kicked her legs out from under her. Teddy collapsed onto the wooden planks, stunned. She scraped her hair from her face and rolled over.
The shooter had managed to stand and was bent over the weapon. With a shove, she tipped the ceramic pot that held the tree. It crashed into the man, sending him to the floor.
A crowd surged as Teddy staggered to her feet. She snatched the gun from under the branches, her breath ragged.
Two uniformed policemen and the security guard arrived. In a fluid movement, one of the officers grabbed the pistol from her hand, tossed it to his partner, and wrapped Teddy's arms behind her back.
Her combatant slithered out from under the foliage and slipped into the mass of people.
She struggled against the metal cuffs clamped on her wrists. “What are you doing? He's getting away!”
The policeman tightened his grip and searched the crowd. “Who?”
“The man who tried to shoot Mr. Lindbergh.”
“Is that right? Then why were you holding the gun?”
She continued to push against her restraints. “I was trying to stop him, you idiot. You've got the wrong person.”
“Show a little respect, young lady,” he sneered. “Looks to me like you’re guilty of murder, and you got caught. Now you're trying to blame someone else.”
Teddy wilted. “Murder?”
“Yes.” The policemen pointed to the stage where one of the dignitaries lay, eyes closed, and a bloodstain spread across his chest.
More patrolmen had arrived and pushed back the throngs to clear a path. The policeman looked smug and gestured for her to start walking toward the exit.
“I need my bag.”
“I'm sure you do. Don't worry. We'll bring it to the station. It's evidence.”
Teddy kept her gaze riveted on the floor as she shuffled forward trying to ignore the murmured opinions of the crowd. When she reached the door, she looked up to find “her” security guard intently watching the proceedings.
Their eyes met. His long stare held disappointment before he turned away. Bitterness filled her. Someone else believing lies about her.

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