Chipped Pearls

by Helen Jacey

  I opened my purse. ‘How much she owe?’

  ‘Fifteen dollars.’ Mrs. Olsen wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  I took out a stack of dollar bills and counted fifteen. I handed them to her.

  ‘Does she have a roommate?’

  ‘Willa. But she is not here. This way.’ She led me back up the rickety stairs. At the door she produced a key from her apron pocket and opened the door.

  We entered into the sparse hall of the boarding house. A line of blue painted doors had little white numbers. The wood floor was thick with layers of old wax. To my amazement, Mrs. Olsen handed me a small key.

  ‘Dolly is in room eight. Lock the door after you.’

  I opened the door. There was just enough light to put your mascara on without messing it up. I flicked the light switch on for a better look around.

  The room was surprisingly large, with twin beds with painted metal frames and two closets facing each bed. The beds were covered in faded cerise-colored candlewick bedspreads with garlands of blue and yellow roses. One bed was neatly made, the other rumpled.

  At one end of the room, a large window was covered by heavy festoon nets that were prematurely gray. The drapes on each side were made from simple blue and white floral linen. On the opposite wall, adjacent to the unmade bed, a pale blue painted dressing table and a mismatched dark wood stool with a padded yellow velvet cushion. The dressing table was strewn with the usual scent bottles, makeup, brushes, powder puffs, hairpins and lacquer. A pink cut glass vanity tray was filled with trinkets and cheap costume jewelry. A battered silk corsage of red and pink flowers lay on its side.

  Half the room was clean, tidy and smelt of lemony floor wax.

  The other half was a trashcan. I bet it was Dolly’s territory, and she had claimed the dressing table.

  Discarded dresses were hanging over the open door of the closet facing the crumpled bed.

  All the kinds of things Dolly would wear.

  I just couldn’t see her spending much time here.

  I got to work, searching for any kind of clues about Dolly’s life.

  Inside the closet, a jungle of clothes. A fake fur swing coat, black, mid-length, with a high neck; a row of summery dresses; several satin and sequined formal gowns in various shades of pink, lilac and ivory. A couple had stains around the hem, suggesting Dolly didn’t splash out on dry cleaning until things got bad.

  I rummaged through anything with pockets. I extracted a heavy gold plated lighter, a man’s, with the initial S. S for who?

  On top of the wardrobe, a stack of hat boxes. One was full of stockings, like a tangled mass of snakeskins. I grabbed a handful, lifting them out. At the bottom, a small card with writing on caught my eye.

  Bingo.

  I picked it up. It was in fact a photograph, a small black and white snap of a soldier in uniform. He was light-skinned, maybe mixed race. But whether half black and half white, or something else, I couldn’t really tell. He was very good-looking.

  On the back, somebody had written, ‘To the cutest little kitten. Yours. S.’

  A boyfriend, surely? Was ‘S’ the owner of the lighter? But how recently had he given it to Dolly? Was it Sol, whom Dolly was sweet on? If it was, and his feelings weren’t mutual, why lead Dolly on like this?

  I slipped the portrait into my purse, grabbed the dress. Wait, the lighter. I’d take that, too. If anyone else searched the room, it wasn’t a great idea for Dolly to look like she had another boyfriend.

  I plucked out a frilly pink formal gown. Cheap rose fragrance lingered on the dress.

  Out of curiosity, and wanting to get a better idea of Willa, I peered inside the other closet.

  Three suits in somber colors and five ironed shirts. A couple of dresses, in a large size. So Willa wasn’t a stick. A few pairs of good quality sensible shoes were neatly stacked up, in one corner. A practical girl, organized; one of the many ordinary girls who just wanted to make enough to enable them to live in Los Angeles.

  Before I left, I did a final sweep of the drawers of the dressing table. A few bottles of painkilling tablets, nail lacquer, old restaurant bills and more jewelry.

  I left the room and slipped back down the corridor.

  Outside, Mrs. Olsen was waiting on the other side of the door, hands on hips. She was calling out to somebody, shaking her head.

  She stood by to let me pass her. I followed her eyes; she was watching the back of stocky man in a dark gray suit and blue derby hat. He had almost reached the sidewalk.

  ‘Huh. Someone’s fella, trying to get past you?’ I asked, joking.

  ‘No. He ask for Willa.’ She said, not taking her eyes from him. ‘Strange.’

  ‘Why?’ My voice did its best to sound casual. She was holding the man’s card in her hand. ‘Not her boyfriend?’

  ‘No. He was a private detective.’

  What?

  I recalled Dolly’s fat guy, with eyes on the boarding house.

  ‘And he left his card?’ I asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

  Mrs. Olsen nodded. It was in her hand. ‘He said he would come back later.’

  ‘Seen him before?’ I asked.

  ‘Never. Why?’

  ‘Maybe Willa’s in trouble? I hope not.’

  ‘Willa is a good girl,’ snapped Mrs. Olsen.

  Worry flashed across her face. I got a sense she was the maternal type. She turned to me. ‘You have what you came for? This one?’

  She glanced at the dress, and then me. There was no avoiding the fact I was at least one size bigger than Dolly. ‘It must be hard to play the drums in a tight dress,’ she observed.

  ‘If need be, I can let it out a little. I’ll fix it back up for Dolly.’

  Her eyes swiveled to the man, who was now getting into a dark green sedan.

  Fat guy, green car.

  ‘Well, so long. Thanks.’ I said. I didn’t really mean it and she wasn’t really listening.

  The green sedan headed back towards the city, taking a more direct route than I’d used to come out. He knew his way around better than I did.

  He knew about Willa. What else did he know? And what did he want? This couldn’t be co-incidence.

  Did Willa even know about Dolly’s affair with Ronald Hunter? How friendly were they? Dolly was such a chatterbox, it was hard to imagine she wouldn’t blab to her roomie, but maybe loyalty to her man had kept her mouth shut.

  I kept my distance in Mabel, but the traffic was relatively sparse.

  We were in the vicinity of Culver City, an area I didn’t know so well. Lauder and I occasionally met in a cocktail bar there, the Rouge d’Or.

  Suddenly the green car signaled right, pulling into an underground parking lot of an office block. It was a shabby 1920s affair, covered in gray concrete. I shot past, glancing right. The car was already down the ramp. I made my way around the block. It took about five minutes. I found a space on the street and parked.

  I got out and walked towards the building. The windows were shaded by venetians, some broken. In one window, a sign declared office space was available to lease.

  I pushed the front door open. The lobby was paneled redwood, with a gray tiled floor. Not a dump, definitely deserted. The companies were listed in gold lettering behind the front desk. On the first floor, three doctors were listed. The second floor was taken up by Anville Insurance, Inc. The third floor had quite a few names, but one stood out: Todd F. Minski, Private Investigator.

  My guy.

  The elevator light was stuck on the third floor.

  An elderly guy, the concierge, shuffled out of a side door. In a flash, I dived into the stairway before he could see me. I darted up the stairs, all the way to the third floor.

  I crept along the deserted corridor. Todd Minski’s office was the first door of three. I pressed my ear to it. A man’s voice was just about audible. ‘No. She wasn’t. No. I’ll try again. Sure, I’ll get to her.’ He listened for a while. ‘Yeah, that’s Flanner
y’s style. Smarty-pants tactic. She didn’t say nothing to nobody? You sure about that? Good… No, I got it. Keep it nice and quiet. I’ll tie up the loose ends…Sure, that’s what you pay me for. Nothing to worry about.’

  Flannery? Loose Ends? The PI was definitely talking to someone about the case.

  I had no readymade excuse to knock on the door, nothing that could help me get anything out of him. It would have to wait. He was listening to the other person at the end of the line for a while, probably pacing the floor, since the grunts and ‘uh-huh’s changed direction.

  I could hear the click of a lighter. He inhaled and then coughed. ‘The band? A whole bunch of them. Relax, they’ll be easier to deal with. No… If they know, we don’t have to shell out as much as to the roommate.’

  What?! He must be talking about The Charmettes. Paying them off? Buying their silence? And Willa’s?

  Tying up loose ends?

  Seconds later, Minski hung up. The door handled twisted. I didn’t hang around.

  ‘Hey!’ Damn! He saw me. ‘Looking for somebody?’

  I spun around, acting innocent.

  So here was my male equivalent in the low-rent PI department. Certainly nothing to aspire to. He was mid-forties, with a belly that comfortably sagged over his belt. His suit was baggy, but not the cheapest I’d seen. He had loosened his tie, giving the impression he didn’t expect to see anyone today. On his face, there was the unmistakable booze bloat and five o’clock shadow. His jaw worked up and down, chewing gum.

  If I took Lauder’s advice to take on the nobodies, would I end up the female version of Minski? Overweight, unhealthy and renting out cheap office suites?

  ‘I’m temping for Anville. Covering the telephone lines. I got lost!’ I pulled a pathetic, helpless grin.

  ‘Anville? Wrong floor, doll. Down one.’

  ‘Oh, thank you so much! Happy holidays!’

  I bolted back down the stairs. ‘Doll’, indeed! The cheek!

  This time the man at the front desk saw me. He looked quite frail and lost, with watery eyes and slow movements, in no shape to get heavy.

  I gave him the quickest of waves. He blinked slowly; by the time he realized something was up, I was already out of the door.

  I jumped in the car and took off, driving aimlessly for a while. I could have just winged it, told Minski I was in need of a PI. But I hadn’t. Hopefully, he would forget my face as quickly as he saw it.

  It was perturbing. Someone had paid Todd F. Minski, Private Investigator, to visit Willa. And that somebody had been upset somehow by Detective Flannery, who had done something. Some ‘smarty-pants tactic’. And Dolly had seen him. Twice.

  The same person had concerns about The Charmettes.

  Willa and The Charmettes were going to be paid off for something. But for what?

  My chief suspect for this concerned person? Linda Hunter, surely. Dolly would have told the cops her side of things, all about the affair, it was central to her statement. But maybe Linda didn’t want the whole world to know. Maybe Flannery didn’t want anyone to know.

  Alternatively, the person instructing Minski could belong to Hunter’s business.

  A lot of unanswered questions, but at least I had a lead.

  21

  It had been a long day and it felt good to get back in the office. I had a lot to process and where better than in the bath?

  I flung some more violet bath salts in the running water and watched them slowly descend, settling at the bottom like tiny pieces of blue coral.

  While the water was flowing, I flicked aimlessly through one of Barney’s celebrity magazines. A hairdo like Betty Grable’s poodle would be fun, but I would never have the time or occasion. Too eye-catching.

  Enough with the pessimism!

  I would be sure to find an occasion and I would wear June’s dress. It would look good with a poodle coiffure and diamond earrings. There would be some bash I could go to. There had to be.

  My thoughts soon turned back to the case. Should I warn Alberta about Todd Minski heading the band’s way? That was something I should run past Sonia when I next saw her.

  Now relax!

  I flung off my clothes and threw on my Chinese silk dressing gown. I tied my hair up in a red toweling turban. My face looked puffy and sallow.

  Wait! I had just the thing. I rifled through the cabinet drawer and found a jar. The label read Oliverelle. Eternal Elixir of Youth Beauty Mask. It had been a gift from a client whose line of business was beauty products. The design had sprigs of olive leaves and a swan-necked woman’s profile, applying something to her face with long fingers.

  I twisted off the lid and smeared a load of green goo all over my face. The mask reacted with the air quickly and in seconds it started to feel tight. It tingled, but not unpleasantly, and then seemed to soften again and go warm.

  I stared back at myself in the foggy glass.

  A green ghoul stared back through the steam.

  I turned off the faucet. As soon as I did, the bell to the main office door rang.

  Sonia?

  Who else? She must have fed the caretaker some story that I was expecting her. While the receptionist, Mrs. Loeb, was away, the front doors were locked and callers had to ring the bell. But it wasn’t like Nathaniel not to check first, even if Sonia was at her highest and mightiest. Or maybe she slipped through the front door as some other resident had left the building.

  I wanted to be alone, not see her critical expression again. I hadn’t seen anyone’s face so regularly since I roomed with June for three days when I first arrived in LA. Back then, June had driven me nuts. Now, what I’d give to switch Sonia for June.

  This is what marriage has to feel like. Stuck, staring at the same old face. No wonder men went to bars. But what did women have? The kitchen? Brats? And we were supposed to love it?

  I opened the door. There she was, pale and drawn, the stunning sable coat from earlier now draped over her shoulders. Sonia’s eyes fixed on me, coldly. ‘That’s quite a look.’

  My hands flew to my face. The mask!

  She said, ‘Sorry to interrupt your beauty regime, but I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Of course,’ I mumbled, hardly able to move my lips. ‘Did they charge Dolly?’

  Sonia looked up and down the corridor. She gave a ‘Not here’ look. I opened the door wider to let her in and stepped back. ‘Don’t worry. The place is practically a ghost town.’

  As she passed, she shot me a withering look. ‘I can see that. Is that Oliverelle?’

  I nodded. Clearly, any woman who was anybody in this town bought Oliverelle.

  As soon as she walked in, Sonia’s eyes leapt to the open magazine. ‘You look done for the day.’

  What did she expect? Was she insinuating she would never find a male PI in such a condition? I wouldn’t rise to the bait. ‘No, in fact I’ve got a lot to report back. But what happened with Dolly?’

  ‘Charged, of course. Homicide.’

  She explained how Dolly had got hysterical and they dragged her back to the cells. If she was protesting, it sounded as if Dolly was out of her suicidal funk.

  Sonia explained that after the arraignment she would be held in the County Jail to await trial. She wouldn’t get bail.

  I gulped. ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘Why? We knew it was coming. She’ll be in the papers tomorrow. Mugshot, and whatever dirt they can dredge up. I’ll be interested in the angle they take.’

  Unreadable as ever. I wouldn’t push her. ‘Drink?’

  ‘Sure. Scotch, neat.’

  ‘Er…is coffee okay?’ I was pretty sure the brandy had been drunk.

  ‘Whatever. I’m not fussy.’ She sounded exhausted.

  I put the kettle on. Then I slipped into the bathroom and peeled off the mask. It came off in one piece and I left it on the sink, an eyeless monster.

  When I came back in with the coffees, Sonia was admiring Barney’s office. ‘Nice tree,’ she observed. I laughed inward
ly. Barney had at least achieved his Christmas decorating aim, to please clients.

  ‘Please make yourself comfortable.’

  Sonia sat down in one of the two plush leather chairs. She noticed my fresh face. ‘Look at you. Positively glowing.’

  It was the nicest thing she had said, yet it was faintly mocking. I sat down on the other client chair and told her I would definitely be going to the funeral, thanks to Martell Grainger.

  ‘You haven’t revealed too much, I hope? No point you going if she blabs.’

  ‘She knows nothing. We have an understanding. Anyway, I can trust her to be discreet about who I am. I have a certain leverage.’

  Sonia grunted. I felt a knot in my stomach. Being with Sonia reminded me of standing in front of the teachers who, no matter what I did, would never approve of or compliment my efforts.

  Hard bitches, in other words.

  You’re a professional now. Suck it up!

  ‘Maybe I can approach the secretary there, try to bond with her. Then I can find out more about Hunter and any problems he might have. Did you manage to talk to Dolly?’

  Sonia nodded. She said that Dolly swore blind the lipstick wasn’t hers, and she never bought Mayberry cosmetics. An expensive brand, up there in the Oliverelle league, and totally out of her price range. ‘It’s just the same color that she wears, so anyone who wanted to frame Dolly just had to see her and memorize it. It would be great to find out who wears this lipstick, but that’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack. A waste of time and money.’

  ‘Linda Hunter might use Mayberry lipstick.’ To me, Linda Hunter was Suspect Number One, and I still had to tell Sonia about Todd Minski.

  Sonia shrugged. ‘Of course she might, as well as countless others who knew Hunter. First wife, daughters. Secretaries. Well, maybe the funeral will lead somewhere but I very much doubt it will shed any light on the lipstick question. Drop it for now.’