The Murderer's Apprentice: The Murderer's Apprentice Mysteries, #1

Chapter 1

April 15, 1966

Whoever said April was the cruelest month wasn’t a baseball fan, and twelve-year-old Dara Burke was a baseball fan. She understood the impossible hope of opening day, when every team was 0 and 0, and even last year’s cellar dweller dared to dream of October glory.

And in 1966 the Orioles were flying high!

I don’t feel good, Mom.

Mrs. Burke, who was not a baseball fan, slapped a palm on the girl’s forehead.

You’re not hot.

Is Dara okay, Mommy?

The woman frowned at the small figure in the doorway. I told you to stay in the car with your brother.

The five-year-old boy didn’t budge.

It’s okay, Alvey, Dara said in a feeble whisper. Go wait with Denny like Mom says.

The boy slumped away, and when Mrs. Burke’s gaze returned to her only daughter, Dara knew she’d won.

I swear if I’m late for work again, it’s your fault.

Is not, Dara mumbled to her mother’s back.

I’ll be home by seven. Do not leave this house, Dara Burke!

When the front door slammed, Dara knelt on her bed to watch from her window. Though it took a few turns of the ignition, the old station wagon wheezed to life. When it was finally out of sight, Dara lifted the screen and poked her head out.

The row houses of Linden Way sat high on grassy embankments, so Dara could see all around—the quiet street, the sidewalk, and the wild expanse of Three Sisters Woods across the way. It was that time of the morning where the fathers are gone to work, the kids to school, and the mothers enjoying a moment of quiet after the morning hubbub.

So where the heck was Fran?

Dara’s plan was perfect, but any plan was only as strong as its weakest link. Which in this case was her best friend, Fran Shirley. He added and subtracted in his head and wrote essays the nuns at Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow loved, but he always got an F in deceit and deception, Dara’s forte. The girl was shutting the window when a tall, dark-haired woman appeared on the sidewalk.

It was next-door neighbor and major pain Mrs. Hooke on the last leg of her morning constitutional. A formidable woman, Mrs. Hooke believed in discipline and hard work. Just last Saturday, she’d forced her nine-year-old twins—Alec and Geoff, docile as trained dachshunds—to scrub their front porch from top to bottom.

But mostly Mrs. Hooke enjoyed sticking her nose in Dara’s business. If that nosy parker spotted Fran, she’d give him the third degree, and then both their gooses would be cooked. But then Mrs. Hooke climbed the steps to her house and was safely inside.

Talk about dodging a bullet.

Dara dressed quickly. After watching the Stooges on TV, she and Fran would hop the number-three bus to Memorial Stadium to watch the Orioles beat the Yankees. If the game didn’t go to extra innings, they’d be back on Linden Way in time for supper.

Racing through the living room, Dara turned on the console TV to Channel 13. The family dog Cleo watched from her pillow in the corner, her sad basset hound eyes mildly curious. In the kitchen, Dara’s stomach rumbled when she spotted the box of crullers on the counter.

Last night when Mrs. Burke brought home the treats, Dara hadn’t eaten any, which had raised eyebrows all around. A natural method actor, Dara played the role of a kid with a sick tummy to the hilt. But when she opened the box, the role came back to bite her.

Denny and Alvey had scarfed down every single cruller—nothing left but crumbs and the smell of fried fat and sugar. As Aunt Marion said, beggars can’t be choosers. Dara took the box to the sofa and was scooping up crumbs left and right when Three Blind Mice blared from the TV.

Dara snorted when she saw Shemp’s mug on the screen. He was about as funny as an old shoe. As Fran often said, the Stooges weren’t the Stooges without Curly. Oh well, she didn’t have time for TV. She had to find Fran.

After tossing the empty box in the trash, Dara went out back. Next door Mr. Bentley was searching his backyard for any errant balls some poor kid might have tossed in by mistake. The old grouch must have a million balls inside his house. Across the alleyway, Mrs. Henry watered pansies while her idiot son Willy watched, mesmerized by the water spouting from the hose.

Mr. Bentley shot her a nasty look before returning to his lair. Dara was about to go inside herself when she heard scraping from under the stoop.

A moment later, a skinny boy with freckles and light brown hair scampered out, knapsack hiked on a shoulder. Dorky green pants and a white shirt marked him as a student of Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow.

What you doing under the stoop, Fran?

Hiding, Fran said, a little breathless. I was almost at your house when I saw Mrs. Hooke. I jumped your fence and hid here. She looked mad.

She always looks mad. Come on in.

At the kitchen table, Fran unzipped his knapsack. Along with a pair of jeans and tee shirt, he’d brought strawberry Pop Tarts. Dara made two glasses of Tang to go with the Pop Tarts. When she returned to the table, a thick braid of orange and black yarn waited.

It’s a necklace, Fran said. I made it myself. It’s called macrame. Put it on!

I’ve never seen a necklace like this. And it’s in Orioles colors!

Fran blushed with pleasure. Dara slipped on the necklace, her first real piece of jewelry. This was going to be the best day ever!

* * *

Several hours later, the number-three bus moved along Hillen Road in fits and starts through the Friday afternoon traffic. Dara gave the cord two hard yanks. The doors wheezed open, and the two friends hopped onto the pavement.

I’m glad we stayed to the end.

Me too. Dara pushed chestnut brown hair from her face. Those idiots who left early missed the best part.

Every baseball game was different, and this one had settled into a classic pitcher’s duel. Bottom of the ninth and the O’s were down two runs, with the top of the order due up. With one swing of the bat, the Oriole’s new outfielder Frank Robinson sent a fast ball flying out to left field. It brought the Birds to within a run of tying it up, but the O’s lost anyway.

But Dara didn’t take it to heart. In the endless summer of baseball, one loss was like a single drop in the ocean; there was always another game, another tomorrow, another shot at victory.

What excuse did you give your parents for being late?

Glee Club practice, Fran said, shoulders slumping.

A lame excuse, but Fran wasn’t a good liar. Dara tried to teach him, but he didn’t like to lie, not even to his parents. She always had to work extra hard to get him to go along with her latest nefarious plan. But he was worth the trouble.

Let’s race, Dara said. First one to the alley wins!

They were off like the horses at Pimlico, sneakers slapping concrete. Fran reached the alley first, with Dara skidding to a stop several steps behind. Fran couldn’t hurl a football or hit a baseball to save his life, but he could run faster than anybody else on Linden Way. Which was lucky because Fran had to run fast a lot.

The alley was quiet with most kids already called inside for supper. But it wouldn’t stay quiet for long. Summer was just around the bend. Loud, boisterous, juicy-fruit summer that tasted of strawberry ice cream, sweet watermelon and hot dogs off the grill. She felt a rumble in her stomach.

What’s your mom fixing for supper?

Seafood for sure, maybe rockfish with a salad.

Macaroni salad? Dara liked macaroni salad.

Instead of answering, Fran stopped short, his gaze riveted on the corner house where the Johnsons lived.

Following his gaze, Dara saw Mrs. Johnson in a frumpy housedress. She stood like a statue in her leafy backyard, tangles of auburn hair peeking out from a green-striped kerchief. Then she raised her eyes and looked right at her and Fran.

She gives me the creeps, Dara said.

She’s lonely, Fran said.

Well, duh, Dara thought. Of course Mrs. Johnson was lonely, but whose fault was that?

Since moving to Linden Way two years ago, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson had set themselves apart. Mr. Johnson never attended their neighborhood cookouts, though he always had time for his weekend jogs in Three Sisters Woods. And Mrs. Johnson avoided the other housewives like the plague. She rejected their morning coffee klatches and afternoon cocktail parties, even though she liked a nip now and then.

I’m gonna say hi to her, Fran said.

Before he could act, the back door opened. A teenage boy in horn-rimmed glasses stuck his head out. It was Johnny, home for the weekend from his fancy military school in the county. He said something to his mom, and they both went inside.

Come on, it’s getting late, Dara said.

Shoot! If I don’t hurry, I’ll be late for supper.

But hurrying was out of the question. Plodding toward them was the biggest and ugliest station wagon Dara had ever seen.

Gosh, it’s like the Queen Mary, Fran said.

With a squeal of brakes, the behemoth ground to a stop. A second later, a man with graying red hair and sky-blue eyes hopped from the driver’s side. His right eye bore the remains of a remarkable shiner.

Uncle Tommy! Dara said. Her uncle’s frequent presence at Linden Way was one of the nicer consequences of Daddy’s absence.

How do you like my new car?

It’s big, Fran said.

She’s a 1950 Crystal Royal Town & Country station wagon with ash embellishments and leather interior. An uncommon beauty rarely seen on the road!

More like an uncommon beast, Dara said.

Tommy clapped his hands. The old gal might be more beast than beauty, so that’s what we’ll call her, the Uncommon Beast. He opened the passenger’s door.

Hop it, kids. I’ll give you a spin around the block.

Fran took a rain check and ran home to supper. When Dara slid into the passenger’s seat, her uncle’s face took on an uncharacteristic seriousness.

Your mom was worried sick, Dara. When you didn’t answer the phone, she sent me out to look for you. It’s been hard on your mom since Kevin joined the Army and then this thing with your dad.

The two blows had come back to back. First her oldest brother Kevin joined the Army, then her father left Linden Way. Though Uncle Tommy had no right to bring up these family disasters, she wasn’t mad. He was a pawn in her mother’s game, same as she.

Where are we going? Dara asked dully.

We’ll pick up your brother from the sitter, then have dinner back at the house.

Mom’s not home?

No, the boss asked her to work late.

A small reprieve, but Dara took what she could get.

* * *

Alvey’s eyes got big as Uncle Tommy piled the last of the Kraft Spaghetti in the box onto his plate. You’re light as a pound of feathers, Alvey. Eat up!

The boy moved the spaghetti around, then brightened. Your car’s the biggest car I ever seen.

While Tommy helped himself to another National Boh, Alvey twisted spaghetti on his fork and dropped it into Cleo’s waiting mouth.

My new car has a name. Your sister christened her the Uncommon Beast.

Alvey’s grin revealed two missing front teeth. Your car’s a lady?

All cars are ladies. A hiss as Tommy popped the top. I purchased this fine vehicle from Mr. Levinson of Levinson and Brothers funeral home in Reisterstown.

Is it a hearse? Dara asked.

What’s a hearse? Alvey asked.

A hearse lugs dead people around, Dara said, pleased when her little brother’s lower lip trembled.

Alvey looked so pathetic Tommy told him he didn’t have to finish his plate. Though her uncle had to remind him about all those starving children in China. Why did adults think that made kids eat? Kids didn’t care about the starving children in China.

After Alvey left to watch TV, Dara dawdled at the kitchen table. Uncle Tommy fiddled with the radio, searching for the Friday night fights. She wanted to ask him something, but wasn’t sure how to go about it.

Last Sunday was Easter Sunday. Like always, the extended Reilly clan gathered at Uncle Osborne’s farmhouse in the Maryland countryside. Dara liked going there even though Osborne was a grouch and Aunt Pearl was no prize. The big attraction was the rambling house and Lucello.

Pearl and Osborne never had kids, which Mrs. Burke always called a blessing, but they did have Lucello, a foul-mouthed mynah bird. Uncle Osborne brought Lucello home from Italy after the war. At first the bird only spoke Italian, but picked up English quickly enough. From its perch in the living room, the old bird had overheard hundreds, if not thousands, of arguments between Osborne and Pearl. Which Lucello repeated constantly.

God damn you, Pearl!

You bastard, Osborne.

Go to hell.

I’ll take you there with me, old man!

It was fun to eat dinner while Lucello recited years of drunken spats and squabbles. The bird alternated between Pearl’s high-pitched whine and Osborne’s deep grumble, just like a real tape recorder. Once Dara tried to teach Lucello to say, Hi, Dara, but all she got was a Screw you.

Dara also liked visiting Uncle Osborne because he let kids run amuck. Once he gave her a .22 rifle to shoot, but her mother took it away before she got a single shot off. On this last visit, she’d hoped to try a pistol, but the Easter brawl ruined everything.

Another dead soldier. Tommy placed the empty can of National Boh next to the others, then surveyed the line of empties with satisfaction.

Uncle Tommy?

Tommy looked up, as if surprised she was still here. What is it? You look as if someone just walked over your grave.

I want to ask you something.

Ask away, Tommy said.

Why was Uncle Osborne so mad on Easter?

Tommy touched the purple flesh around his right eye.

It was about Ireland.

I know, Uncle Tommy, but what about Ireland?

How about I dig out the projector, and we watch the old home movies?

Uncle Tommy knew she loved the Burke family movies, which she studied with a concentration she never showed in school. But tonight Dara refused to be distracted.

Why did Uncle Osborne get so mad?

Tommy turned off the radio and pushed himself from the table. I think I’ll see what Alvey’s up to. Can you put the dishes in the zink?

So the Easter brawl was another thing she wasn’t supposed to talk about.

Like most disasters, it started quietly when Uncle Osborne mentioned the Easter Rising, which sounded like a proper subject for Easter dinner, but wasn’t. Words grew heated until Osborne thumped the table with his fist.

You’re a fool, Thomas! Six days of violence did more for Ireland’s freedom than years of protest! The British understand violence—it’s the only thing anyone understands. Time to pick up the sword and make Ireland whole!

Whatever’s won with the sword, much more is lost, Tommy said.

Voices rose until Uncle Osborne pushed back his chair and came at his younger brother. In the ensuing hubbub, all Dara recalled clearly was the end, with Osborne standing triumphant over Uncle Tommy.

You see, brother, violence does work! It shut you the hell up!

Sometime after midnight, Dara heard her mother’s slow tread on the stairs. Later still, Mr. Hooke’s sedan rumbled home after a long day with his nose to the grindstone. But each time Dara closed her eyes, she saw Uncle Osborne’s fisted hands and hateful face.

Only it was Dara and not Uncle Tommy who cowered at his feet. His hateful words screaming in her ears: You know violence works, my girl! It’s the only thing that does.

Was Uncle Osborne right?

As a little girl, Dara had believed that goodness and kindness prevailed. That Glinda the Good Witch won over her wicked green sister, and Dorothy always got back to Kansas.

But that was a movie, a fairy-tale for kids. In the real world, it was the Wicked Witch and the Crimson King who ruled, and lost little girls never, ever found their way back home.

Chapter 2

April 16, 1966

Dara woke to find her Easter dress dangling on the door hook like a hangman’s noose.

An indifferent housekeeper and uninspired cook, Mrs. Burke’s true genius lay in making her children miserable. Her primary weapon was ridicule, a dagger that cut both ways. That innocent-looking dress was the opening salvo of today’s battle.

Dara pulled on her usual Saturday outfit of shorts and tee shirt and went down to breakfast. Alvey sat on the sofa eating handfuls of dry Captain Crunch from the box, his eyes glued on Mighty Mouse’s heroics.

Where’s Mom? Dara plunged her hand into the box and grabbed a fistful of sticky-sweet cereal.

With Mrs. Hooke.

Maybe there was hope after all. When her mother and Mrs. Hooke got to gossiping, they could go on for hours. Since Mrs. Burke hadn’t yet imposed a punishment, Dara was a free agent. If she slipped out before her mother returned, she might grab a few hours of play before the sword fell.

In the kitchen, Dara found a squishy loaf of Wonder Bread on the counter and apple juice in the fridge. The girl dropped two slices in the toaster and was gulping apple juice straight from the jug when the kitchen door opened.

Don’t drink from the bottle, her mother snapped. None of you kids have any manners. I should have sold the lot of you to the Indians years ago.

Dara rolled her eyes at the old threat. Living with the Indians couldn’t be any worse than living with her mother.

Am I grounded, Mom?

For starters. Her mother scooped a tablespoon of Nescafe instant into her mug.

Maybe getting grounded wasn’t so bad. In her bedroom, Dara could read comics and listen to the baseball game. As sometimes happened, Mrs. Burke read her daughter’s mind.

Oh, and there’ll be no TV or radio.

But I’ll miss the Orioles game!

The kettle screamed. Mrs. Burke poured just enough boiling water over the Nescafe instant to dissolve the crystals, then filled the cup with hot tap water. She joined Dara at the kitchen table.

It’s for your own good. You’re obsessed with baseball. I swear, it’ll be the ruin of you.

Mrs. Burke was always identifying the causes of her children’s future ruination. Before baseball, she claimed comics would ruin her daughter, and before that it was monster movies. Mrs. Burke played the same game with Dara’s older brothers. Too much reading for Kevin and too much lacrosse for Denny—in other words, anything her kids enjoyed would ruin them. The toast popped up. Dara stared at it without appetite.

Her mother tapped a Virginia Slim from the pack. Go on and eat your breakfast. You’ve got a ten o’clock appointment at the Beauty Box.

I’m not getting a perm! Dara said. When she was eight, her mother had gotten Dara a Beauty Box perm. For months she’d run around looking like a deranged Shirley Temple.

We’ll see.

Mrs. Burke finished her coffee, but before going upstairs got in the last words. I hope your little escapade was worth it, Dara.

Heck yes, it was worth it!

When Dara went to dump the cold toast in the trash, she noticed last night’s News American sitting on top. Great, she could read what John Steadman had to say about yesterday’s game.

The Burkes loved newspapers, especially Mr. Burke who read every word of every newspaper that came his way, though his preference was for the Sunpapers. Dara and Dennis stuck to the sports pages. Mrs. Burke enjoyed Mr. Peep’s column, but also scoured the local news and obituary pages for any catastrophes that might have visited her friends and neighbors.

Dara frowned at the headline: Birds Drop Home Opener. Kinda negative, but John Steadman’s column was more upbeat. He focused on Frank Robinson’s home run, his first in Memorial Stadium. But then Steadman had to ruin it by questioning the strength of the Orioles’ pitching staff. Given that the O’s had traded Milt Pappas—the winningest pitcher in Oriole history—for Frank Robinson.

But the Birds had decent pitching and the best third baseman in baseball in Brooks Robinson. Okay, their catcher Andy Etchebarren was light on experience, but give the guy a chance.

Gosh, it was hard being a baseball fan in a football town.

Dara was about to return the paper to the trash when she noticed the local section folded open to the obituaries. Someone had drawn a big circle around a picture of one of the dear departed—an old lady named Margaret Santini.

Her mother was up to her old tricks.

Reillys had lived in Baltimore since the 1850s. Since then they had multiplied like Irish rabbits, extending tentacles throughout the city and beyond. It wasn’t unusual for a distant relation or forgotten friend to turn up in the morgue.

No doubt Mrs. Santini had some tenuous connection to the Burkes—perhaps a cousin, twice removed, or even the mailman’s mother. As the self-appointed Emily Post of funerals, Mrs. Burke insisted on paying respects to her dead. Almost always, she dragged Dara along on these macabre missions.

Smiling, Dara tore out the obituary page and folded it into a neat square.

* * *

It was a man’s world, but the Beauty Box belonged to the girls. To Dara’s relief, she escaped with nothing more serious than a trim. Not so her mother, who unwisely gave the stylist carte blanche. After touching up Mrs. Burke’s brown roots to an ashy blonde, she arranged and sprayed the pile of hair until it looked like a pterodactyl’s nest. Any second, Dara expected Rodan to come flying from her mother’s head!

By now the cigarette smoke was thick as fog as housewives puffed on Marlboros and Virginia Slims. Thankfully Dara’s nose had grown blind to the strange smells from the witch’s brew of chemicals the stylists used to lighten, brighten, curl and straighten. And while she liked the ladies’ high-pitched chatter, there was something sad about the whole thing.

The women went to so much trouble and for what? There were no Marilyns or Jaynes among these Baltimore housewives. And it’s not like the Beauty Box beauticians were the cutting edge of fashion. By the time they’d worked their magic, most of the ladies resembled Donna Reed or June Cleaver, which Dara doubted made the men in their lives any happier. The girl knew for a fact Daddy never appreciated Mrs. Burke’s efforts. He either ignored the new hairstyle or berated her for wasting his hard-earned money. Dara walked over to her mother, whose head was contained inside the impenetrable shell of an industrial-strength hair drier.

Can I walk over to Read’s to look at the comics?

Read’s Drug Store was just a few doors down, smack dab in the center of the Hillendale Shopping Center. Mrs. Burke’s lips poised to say no, but then she filched a crumpled dollar from her purse and mouthed coffee.

Can I get a candy bar?

Mrs. Burke’s eyes flickered darkly.

Dara grabbed the buck and ran right to Read’s. When she spied the comics rack, she couldn’t believe her eyes. The cover of the latest issue of Justice League of America was crammed with superheroes: Batman and Superman front and center, followed by Wonder Woman, Aquaman and The Flash, with Green Lantern and Martian Manhunter bringing up the rear. She was reaching for the comic when a reedy voice stopped her cold.

This ain’t a library.

Dara glared at the clerk, a bald-headed man who looked like he’d just sucked a basket of lemons.

Where do you keep the flash cubes for Instamatics? she asked.

Dara came to Read’s all the time, so she knew exactly where the flash cubes were stocked. But she wanted the grouch to know she was a paying customer.

Aisle 2 and you pay for it here. He tapped a yellowed fingernail on the counter.

Dara was at the door with her purchase when she remembered her mom’s coffee. She ran back to the lunch counter. The regular waitress looked up from scribbling on her order pad to wink at the girl.

What you having today, hon?

Dara told her. Sometimes waitresses were nice to kids, unlike clerks and cashiers who were always rude. The waitress was fixing the coffee when Dara waved the rumpled dollar.

Is this enough for a frozen Milky Way bar?

Sure is, with a whole quarter to spare.

Keep the change, Dara said, feeling like a big shot.

With the Beauty Box in the wagon’s rear-view mirror, Mrs. Burke announced they had a few errands to run before returning home.

Dara knew what that meant. Though a practiced hand at the game she and her mother were about to play, the girl always felt a little uneasy just before it started. She was pretty sure Father Kelly wouldn’t approve.

Much less the police.

In late January Mrs. Burke started kiting checks, with Dara often enlisted in the role of accomplice. Today’s first stop was at Eddie’s supermarket, where her mother wrote a check for thirty bucks, made out to cash.

At the service counter, Dara presented the check and her mother’s check-cashing card. The cashier slid on reading glasses and eyeballed the check like it was made out for a million bucks. Dara was cool as January when he cast his rheumy gaze on her.

Will it be long? Mom’s in the car with my baby brother.

With a wheezy breath, the cashier opened the cash drawer and promptly counted two tens and two fives.

If he'd continued to dilly dally, Dara would have let it slip that her brother didn’t feel well. She’d learned the hard way that simple lies were the best.

Dara repeated the song and dance at the Acme on Harford Road, only this time the take was fifty bucks. When she returned with the loot, Mrs. Burke sat in the car for several minutes, adding and subtracting in her checkbook. Finally she slid a twenty into a bank envelope, to be deposited first thing Monday to cover the bad check at the Giant she’d written last Thursday.

Money had always been tight in the Burke household, despite her father working long hours selling insurance. Since Daddy left, the money crunch had become a bind so tight that now