by Inga Vesper
‘You don’t think it did, though.’
‘Detective.’ Mrs Crane sighs. ‘I am not sure how honest I should be with you.’
‘Brutally honest, please.’
‘Most of the women here marry out of college. They become homemakers and raise their children and go to church. And that’s it. No one is interested in their wishes and dreams. No one cares about their talents and opinions.’ The kettle whistles. She takes it off the hob and pours the water carefully. ‘Trust me, no one ever asked Joyce Haney what she thought about the world. She didn’t need a change of location, she needed a change of . . .’ She stops, takes the coffee pot and walks back out into the living room. Her frown makes Mick wonder about Mr Crane. He imagines a little man with a moustache. A henpecked fellow banned from this kitchen, who drives a big black Pontiac that gives him the respect on the road he doesn’t get at home.
Mick follows Mrs Crane, looking around for Deena Klintz, but cannot find her. He approaches Mrs Kettering instead, who is standing beside a woman wearing a hat the shape of a meatloaf, gracefully offering coffee refills.
‘Have you seen Miss Klintz?’
‘Oh, she left.’ Mrs Kettering hands him a mug. ‘Sugar?’
He accepts two spoons. ‘Where has she gone?’
‘To work,’ says Mrs Kettering. ‘At the Old Country Inn. She doesn’t often stay for the discussions, especially not without Joyce . . .’
‘Poor Deena,’ says Mrs Meatloaf. ‘Her and Joyce are so close. So alike, you know?’
‘When did Joyce Haney join the committee?’
‘The first time she showed up was shortly after the family moved here,’ Mrs Kettering says. ‘She came twice, or maybe three times, but then she got pregnant with dear, little Lily. Of course, that put a stop to things for a while . . . but then Mrs Crane paid her a visit. From then on, Joyce was a regular.’ A flicker of anxiety crosses her face. ‘I mean, she is a regular, Detective. I’m sorry.’
Ah, the dreaded past tense. Interesting.
‘You believe she might be dead?’
Mrs Kettering shudders. ‘What a terrible thing to say. I’d never . . . I don’t know. But Deena mentioned something . . .’
His ears prick up. ‘What?’
‘Well, I am sure it’s not important.’ She glances at Mrs Meatloaf, and the sparkle in her eyes betrays her words. ‘Deena said that Joyce had one too many slip-ups in the past.’
‘In what way?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’m not aware of any . . . slip-ups.’
‘Wasn’t there something with her mother?’ says the other woman.
‘I don’t know.’ Mrs Kettering’s voice falls to a near whisper. ‘All I know is that Joyce’s mother had . . . episodes of sorts. But that’s all. Deena likes to tell a tall tale to make herself look interesting.’
‘Yes, sadly she does.’ Mrs Meatloaf sighs. ‘No wonder poor Nancy was not at all delighted when that friendship blossomed.’
‘Nancy Ingram, you mean? She wasn’t happy about Deena and Joyce?’ Mick tries to mimic them, raising his eyebrows and throwing them an astonished glance. It works.
‘Of course not,’ Mrs Meatloaf says. ‘A person like Deena is improper company, especially around children. Don’t you agree, Laura?’
‘Indeed,’ says Mrs Kettering. ‘Who knows what Deena might have picked up in that diner, if you know what I mean?’
They nod with purpose.
Mick takes a sip of coffee and burns his tongue. It tastes sweet and bland. Suddenly, he feels afloat without an anchor, surrounded by sharks in starched blouses. He wonders if this is what this place is like for Deena.
He puts down his mug. ‘I should head off,’ he says. ‘Thank you for having me.’
‘Of course.’ Mrs Kettering smiles winsomely. ‘I hope you learned something.’
He finds Mrs Crane again and says his goodbyes. She guides him to the door. In the hallway, another thought overtakes him.
‘Can I see some of Joyce’s paintings?’
‘They are locked up at the art center. But I could bring some round after our next session.’ She opens the door, then looks him right in the eye. ‘I am worried about Joyce. Very worried.’
‘I know. We’re doing our best.’
‘No, you don’t understand.’ She lowers her voice. ‘I encouraged Joyce to open up. To speak her mind. She has so much talent. She could have been a great artist and I thought . . . I thought she ought to try.’
‘So?’
‘Maybe that was wrong. What if I . . .’ She stops herself. ‘Please, call again if I can help in any way.’
Mick wants to say something, but then one of the women calls out from the living room. Mrs Crane slips on her perfect smile and closes the door.
Chapter Fifteen
Mick
O
n the drive back, Mick is in a foul mood. He cannot pin any of these women down. That’s not only an unfortunate figure of speech, but the ugly truth. Especially that Genevieve Crane. She’s outfoxed him. He can sense it.
He steps on the gas. He’s not going to let this happen again. He needs some answers, and fast.
The Old Country Inn is a diner-cum-bar-cum-shelter for the down-and-out. Mick parks the Buick and frets about whether it will melt into a puddle if his chat with Deena Klintz takes too long.
He need not have worried. As soon as Deena sets eyes on him, her whole body tenses in alarm. She looks different here. Tired and cowed. Her pink uniform doesn’t do anything for her skin, and neither does the cheap auburn hair dye growing out at the roots. An imitation of Mrs Crane’s color, he thinks, and files that information away for future reference.
‘I wanted to catch up with you at the committee,’ he says. ‘But you slipped away. Please, just give me ten minutes. I’m sure you want to help your friend.’
Deena gives him an uncertain stare. ‘I’m busy, sir.’
Mick looks around. The diner is occupied by a bag lady and her cold coffee, and two old men sharing a plate of eggs and a newspaper.
‘Maybe we can sit down for a formal interview after your shift.’
‘I work late today.’
‘How about tomorrow?’ He lowers his voice. ‘Miss Klintz, time is a factor here. Joyce Haney’s been missing for five days. I understand you were friends?’
She shrugs, and there is such dejection in her eyes he almost feels sorry for her. What on Earth could make her change so much between Sunnylakes and this place? He came prepared for brash, cunning, spiky Deena.
The answer is provided by the kitchen door, which releases a man who wouldn’t look out of place in an underpass gutter. He’s wearing a greasy shirt and his left eye peers through a throbbing shiner.
‘Whaddya want?’ he grunts.
‘I’m just talking to Miss Klintz here.’ Mick rolls his shoulders back. ‘I’m from the police.’
‘I can see that. You get outta here, mister. Don’t need no cops in my business.’
‘But Miss Klintz—’
‘She not talking to you. You not talking to him, baby, all right?’
Deena nods.
‘That’s right. Take Ol’ Daddy Gene’s advice and don’t talk to no cops without a lawman present. See? We know our rights, mister.’
Mick could insist, of course. He can be persuasive. He made Jason Griggs give up O’Leary’s gang even though they had threatened to blow up his mammy’s pie stall. With her in it, of course. But he has a feeling that while good old threats might get him somewhere with this fellow, they won’t endear him to Deena.
‘When’s a better time for you?’ he asks her.
A shrug is the only answer he gets.
‘She’s smart.’ Ol’ Daddy Gene grins. ‘She not gonna talk to a cop without no lawyer.’
Mick grins back, then turns to Deena again. ‘Then how can I contact your lawyer?’
She stares at him, and her lower lip starts trembling.
‘Look,’ he says. ‘Give me a ring later and
tell me when is convenient.’
He hands her his card, sends a glowering look at the fellow named Gene and leaves the establishment.
The Buick has only stood in the parking lot for ten minutes, yet somehow it has turned into a portal to the fifth level of hell. Unearthly heat billows out when he opens the door. He opens both doors and waits, while sweat seeps through the brim of his hat.
The women are the problem. Mrs Ingram, Mrs Crane, Miss Klintz. Fran is right, he just cannot get with the Sunnylakes folks. And that’s bad. Time is running out for Joyce, if it hasn’t done so already.
The answer to the problem is simple, and yet incredibly complicated. There is no guarantee Ruby will say yes. In fact, he’s pretty sure she’ll slam the door right into his face. But he’s got no other chance. If the women are the problem, maybe a woman is the solution.
He starts the car and hits the freeway. But this time, he passes by Santa Monica and heads right into LA.
*
The Old Country Inn is a Hawaiian vacation compared to South Central. The mayor likes to call the place ‘disadvantaged’. But Mick didn’t expect the broken windows, the trash in the street, the stink of sewage and burned rubber.
He turns into Trebeck Row and stops in front of number 1467, the three-story box that is Ruby’s home. A 49-cents store occupies the first floor, its windows stuffed with pink toilet paper, laundry detergent and cheap matchbox cars. On one side, the wall is blackened as if there has been a recent fire. Paint is peeling from the fire escape, which is missing several steps.
He parks next to an ancient Ford with broken windows. Three little boys in washed-out shirts watch him from the doorway of the house across the road. He nods. One by one, they pull their heads back into the darkness beyond.
The door to Ruby Wright’s home has no names next to the doorbell button. After some determined pressing, the doorbell emits a feeble scream. Across the road, the little boys are replaced by two men who watch him with their arms crossed, unsmiling.
Mick’s throat constricts. He rings again and calls out, half-heartedly. A curtain twitches on the top floor and a woman glances down. She’s wearing a pink duster and rollers in her hair. Her face is round and very sweaty.
‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ he shouts.
The woman ducks away. Mick rings a third time. Then he bangs on the door. ‘Miss Wright. It’s Det— Mr Blanke here. Please, open the door.’
Inside, there is shuffling and the hush of whispered voices. Finally, the door creaks open to a hand-width, revealing a middle-aged man in loafers and slacks. He gives Mick a steadfast stare, but apprehension emanates from him like tobacco smell.
‘My daughter is not in,’ he says, each word carefully enunciated.
‘I need to speak to her urgently.’ Mick digs out his badge and holds it up in his palm, so the rest of the street folk won’t see. ‘It’s regarding the Haney case. When will she be back?’
‘Not for a while,’ says the man, glancing backwards, where the sound of a phone conversation is drifting down the stairs.
‘Look,’ Mick tries again. ‘I need her help. If it’s all right by you, I’ll wait in your place.’
‘I said she’s not—’
A door on the upper landing is cracking open. The face peering out from behind it is familiar.
Mick grins. ‘I’ll wait as long as it takes,’ he says.
The man makes as if to answer, but then Ruby emerges on the stairs and cuts him short.
‘It’s OK, Pa, better let him in.’
Ruby guides him into the kitchen. Here, a young man leans against the counter. He flashes Mick a look of deep-set anger. Ruby’s older brother, perhaps. Or a sweet-heart?
Mick inhales. He didn’t expect a warm welcome, not after Ruby’s arrest on Monday. But that young man’s glance is burning. He’ll have to tread carefully.
Which is a shame, because the place feels familiar, like the hundreds of tenement kitchens he visited in Brooklyn. The sink balances haphazardly on the pipes and the wiring of the gas stove is the stuff of nightmares. But the floor is swept clean and the coffee mugs lined up on the counter are brightly colored and unchipped.
The old gentleman sits down on a chair with arm rests. Ruby plops herself onto a white plastic chair, pushes aside an open book spread out on the table and folds her arms.
‘What do you want?’ says the young man.
Mick turns to Ruby and sets out the case in broad brush strokes. ‘So, you see,’ he says, finally, ‘I’m at a dead end. I need your help. I thought you could give me some inside information on the Haney family. Any clues you come across, and—’
Ruby looks at her father, who flinches. There is a brief moment in which something unspoken passes between them.
‘Nah,’ Ruby says at last. ‘If they find out, I’m gonna lose my job. Plus, what do you think Mr Haney is gonna do when he figures I’ve been snooping? I got arrested once over this. That’s more than enough.’
‘I wouldn’t call it snooping.’ Mick tries a smile. ‘But you must know something about those folks. Something Joyce Haney said or did, or about her family, or—’
‘I know nothing.’
Mick sighs and reaches for the secret weapon. ‘There is a reward,’ he says. ‘A thousand dollars, for whoever provides the information that solves the case.’
A second goes by, in which Ruby, her father and the young man exchange hurried glances.
‘I don’t want your money,’ Ruby says. ‘What good’s that to me if I’m in jail?’
‘That wouldn’t happen, everything will be confidential,’ Mick replies. ‘I promise that not a word will get out about anything you say to me, although you might have to sign a—’
‘She ain’t signing nothing,’ says the young man.
‘Joseph.’ Ruby shoots him a flaming glance. ‘I can talk for myself, you know?’
‘I’m just saying, don’t sign nothing.’
‘And I ain’t. You see a piece of paper in my hand? You know what?’ She jumps up and, gently but firmly, ushers the men out of the room. ‘Let me have a talk with the detective. Eye to eye.’
She closes the door and sits back down. Mick smiles, but Ruby’s face remains unmoved. ‘You saying that you’re stuck with the case?’
‘Well, I—’
‘That’s bad. Joyce deserves better. She’s got two babies, too. I don’t want to help you, but I’d sure want to help her.’
‘I’ve got authority to protect vulnerable sources.’
‘Even colored ones? Or you gonna tell me now how the law doesn’t see color?’
Mick swallows. ‘Well—’
‘’Coz you know, Detective, if you change your mind and you rat me out, then I’m juiced. And if you serve me up as your prime suspect, I’m gonna hang. Simple as. So, how am I gonna know you won’t screw me right over?’
A ping echoes through Mick’s stomach. He prides himself in being enlightened about the race issue. You’ve got to meet their community with politeness and respect , he’s said before to colleagues from traffic and Fran’s bowling club friends, and eventually they will cooperate.
But faced with Ruby’s blazing eyes, this tidy theory crumbles into dust. ‘Because I promise I won’t scr— reveal your identity,’ he says. ‘I mean it. As an honest man.’
Ruby snorts. But then she cocks her head and gives him a smile that could be classed as sweet, if it weren’t for the knife-edge in her gaze. ‘I don’t want your promise. Let’s make a business deal. I’m gonna give you information. But only as much as I think is worth it.’
‘Sounds fair enough.’
‘And if you don’t deliver, mister, I’m going to call on my momma in heaven and she’ll tell God all about it. And he’ll be the judge, because he ain’t seeing color either, and his law is more just than anything we have on Earth.’
‘All right,’ says Mick, and his stomach roils.
‘Then here’s your first purchase. When I found Barbara among the trees . . . well
, we went into the house and I picked Lily up and changed her diaper.’ A nervous flicker runs along her nose. ‘Barbara came out of the kitchen. And she said, “They made a mess”.’
‘They?’
‘That’s what she said. So there must have been someone else in the house.’
‘Did you ask her about it?’
‘No. I . . . I saw the blood on her hands. I thought it was paint but then I spotted what was in the kitchen. All that blood . . . And it was all so weird-looking. I had that same feeling when I was cleaning it up yesterday. The sunshine and the beer bottle. It just didn’t fit.’
Mick’s thoughts flit back to the crime scene photos, the bottle of Blue Ribbon parked on the countertop. He still cannot remember seeing it there when he inspected the scene. Just goes to show, he’s not getting any younger. He doodles a bottle into his notebook with great care.
Ruby watches him draw. Her face pinches. ‘That’s all I’ll say.’
‘Come on, Ruby. What else? What was the Haney’s marriage like? What’s the word in the neighborhood?’
‘It’s Miss Wright. And you think the neighbors talk to me? You gotta be . . .’
Something closes up in her face and Mick knows he’s not going to get any more today. He reluctantly puts on his hat, which is still moist around the brim, and tucks his notebook away.
‘It’s a pleasure working with you,’ he says.
Ruby eyes him carefully. ‘One more thing.’
‘Sure. What is it?’
‘Sunnylakes is a snake pit. Those women like Mrs Ingram’ll say anything for the money. You better make some good choices about who you listen to.’
Mick hesitates. ‘Why are you calling out Mrs Ingram? She’s Joyce’s best friend.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Ruby replies.
Chapter Sixteen
Ruby
‘R
uby, you’re crazy.’
Joseph enters the bedroom just as the detective’s car disappears around the corner. Ruby moves away from the window and steels herself. This is gonna be a tough one.
‘What’s your problem?’ she says. ‘I ain’t doing nothing wrong.’