Chipped Pearls

by Helen Jacey

  ‘Mrs. Loeb? Hell, no.’ Alberta raised her brows. ‘She’s at her sister’s in Miami. I don’t have the address. But, you know, June might know where Agnes went. She’s always friendly with everyone who stays here. Come with me tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh, you don’t know! June’s back in town. She’s rustling up our formals for the party. She’s got six dresses to make in three days so she’s sleeping over at her shop!’

  ‘June is making the dresses?’

  ‘She sure is. My idea. Zetty’s boss is in the big money and June needs the business. I’m going there tomorrow for a fitting. I know she’d love to see you.’

  June threw her arms around me. The job of running up six frocks as a rush order was obviously taking its toll. A needle and thread pinned to her housecoat, her ginger hair falling out of a messy bun and fabric cuttings stuck to her legs. A trundle bed was pulled out.

  ‘Oh, I’ve missed you so, so much! Did you have a wonderful holiday?’ She gushed.

  ‘It’s been fine,’ I said, embarrassed, pulling away slightly. ‘I’m not such a big fan of Christmas. Thanks for the dress. You shouldn’t have.’

  I tried to sound animated, to convey to her how touched I was, but my voice came out flat and strained.

  Will you always be so awkward?

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing. You’ll look wonderful in red velvet with that hair. And I had this idea for that design, so….’ June widened her eyes and lifted her shoulders in a Why wouldn’t I? shrug.

  It was good to see her. She was frazzled but happy, in a uniquely June kind of way. She always tried to present an upbeat veneer, no matter what. June really did see the world through rose-colored spectacles.

  ‘I got you something, too. Here.’ I opened my purse and handed her a small box prettily wrapped with a blue satin ribbon.

  I had dashed out early and hit various departments of Bullocks Wilshire for three gifts.

  For June, I bought a pair of gold hair clips with pale pink stones.

  For Barney, a box of three hand-rolled silk handkerchiefs with orange edges. The print was of toucans sitting amid tropical leaves.

  For Beatty, nothing. It was impossible. Nothing seemed right. I had no idea when she would be back anyway, so I had time to figure something out.

  June loved her hair clips, and immediately put them to use in her hair. ‘They’re just so beautiful! I’ll treasure them forever.’

  ‘Nothing on a velvet dress,’ I said, gruffly.

  We stood on the bare wooden floor of the workshop. It was on the first floor of a two-story building. Downstairs, the dress shop itself was in a better state with a tiled floor, mirrors with brass surrounds lining the walls, and a comfortable changing area behind a satin curtain.

  The storefront had mannequins in the windows, showing off June’s new line of winter frocks and ladies’ suits.

  The only areas downstairs that clients didn’t go into were the small kitchen and another workroom at the back. It didn’t get much light, so just was used for storage.

  June preferred the upstairs room to work. It was airy and looked out over a bustling street. From the open balcony, sounds of the street wafted in. Just inside the door, an array of succulents in Mexican painted pots covered a mosaic table while outside, the dark glossy leaves of a magnolia tree provided some privacy and dappled shade.

  The workshop had a long wooden bench, with three heavy duty sewing machines. Rolls of fabric were stacked on shelves along the walls.

  Several rolls, featuring shades of green and gold, were lying on the workbench.

  ‘Next year, we’ll spend it together,’ she was saying. ‘We’ll go somewhere fun.’

  You and June on a trip? Why not?

  ‘Sounds good.’

  She lowered her voice. ‘I couldn’t wait to get back to the city. My family drove me crazy. Hey, you realize we’re both businesswomen now, aren’t we? ‘46 is going to be our year!’

  ‘Well, I could handle a few more rush orders.’

  ‘Oh, you’ve just gotten started. You’ll be fine! I’m so grateful to Alberta for suggesting me.’

  ‘You’re gonna make the dresses in time?’

  June gave me a pointed look. ‘At the studio, I made forty crinolines for forty dancing Southern belles in one week, and with no help! I can manage six dresses in half that time. And I’ve got Sarah and Maria to help. I don’t think I could pull it off without them. I have a couple of other commissions.’

  ‘I know Maria, is Sarah new?’

  June’s eyes rolled towards a door. Her voice was hushed. ‘She doesn’t like meeting new people.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘She’s Polish. She was in a camp. She got here a month ago.’

  I stared at the door. ‘A concentration camp?’

  June nodded. ‘She’s working on another job in there. It’s okay. She just wants to be left alone.’

  We had all read about the camps and heard the reports on the wireless. We saw the terrible pictures of Nazi horrors: the starving people, the bodies, the gas chambers. From our sunny LA, we were at a safe distance.

  When Barney told me about the devastation inflicted by the Nazis on his family—his cousins, uncles and aunts, both kids and adults—it made the atrocity more real. In the same room as him, I could sense his anguish. His revulsion. He shook when he talked about it. ‘How could Nazis kill all those people? How could they invent that killing machine?’ He just couldn’t believe it.

  The undeniable fact was that if he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time, he could have been gassed alive as well. A Jew and a homosexual. Odds were not good he’d have got out.

  And here, within five yards, divided by a thin wall, I stood near a woman who had somehow survived that hell.

  A woman who couldn’t face people yet, who wasn’t ready to pretend everything was normal. Would this sunshine ever heal her? Make her forget?

  No. Nothing could. My traumas were nothing compared to this woman’s. With so many dead, was she thinking, Why me? Why did I survive?

  Alberta emerged from the changing cubicle, a ravishing sight in long swathes of the dark green and gold fabric against her dark honey skin.

  ‘Feel like a green goddess,’ she grinned.

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘You look fabulous.’

  The shape of the gown was taking place, even if it was loosely tacked together.

  I’d driven Alberta down in Mabel. On the way down, we agreed June didn’t need to know anything about Dolly. She didn’t know her anyway and the case was confidential.

  But really, I was protecting her, in a way. June didn’t need to hear other people’s bad news. Things were going well for her now. I just needed to find out about Agnes.

  But was I under-estimating June? She had just given a job to a refugee, after all.

  June sighed, studying the dress. ‘I think it’s too loose on the hips, isn’t it?’

  Alberta and I looked at each other. It looked pretty good to us. Alberta said, ‘Remember we gonna be playing. We don’t stand like statues.’

  June looked up at Alberta. ‘You’re right. Just a few adjustments.’

  I sat on a high wooden stool, watching as June got down on her knees next to Alberta’s legs. She was feeling the fabric, pinching it up and down from the hem to the hip, marking it with little dashes in tailor’s chalk, then putting a few stitches in. ‘How does it feel? Can you give it a try?’

  Alberta played an invisible sax, arms raised, fingers bent. She moved it up and down, swung and twirled the imaginary instrument.

  She finished with a flourish and bobbed a comical curtsy at us. ‘So far nothing’s ripped or bust out.’ She winked. ‘I can give the horn section’s approval.’

  June was delighted.

  ‘Will you get to keep them?’ I asked Alberta.

  ‘I sure as hell hope so. Don’t want to dress up as an olive tree only once in my life, do I?’

  ‘Olive tree? Why do you have
to look like olive trees?’

  ‘The boss makes beauty products. Out of olive oil.’

  I jumped and then looked at them both. ‘Oliverelle? You’re not playing for Floriana Luciano?’

  Alberta nodded. ‘Mrs. Luciano is Zetty’s boss.’

  Zetty! Of course. Now I knew why I’d recognized her at Joyce’s on Christmas Eve. She was Floriana Luciano’s driver. I’d once seen her in the driver’s seat of an enormous car, with a uniform and cap on.

  Floriana Luciano was the dynamic Italian entrepreneur who had given me the Oliverelle face mask. Her family business produced a bestselling range of luxury beauty care products made from Italian olive oil imported from the family estate. Or so she claimed. I’d done a small assignment for her, helping with a little corporate espionage.

  ‘She’s moved to Santa Barbara?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah. Set up some kind of beauty resort. She’s been restoring a rundown estate, set in thousands of acres. Got its own lake, private beach, the whole deal.’

  June got up, went over to the worktop and opened a large square wooden box. She held the lid open, revealing six flower corsages—fake silk olive sprigs and yellow daisies—works in progress. She handed me one.

  ‘Aren’t they beautiful? Maria is making them for the band. They’ll go just here.’ She pointed at her bust. ‘And we’re doing matching little hair pieces.’

  Alberta smiled. ‘You’re gonna do us proud.’

  I swiveled on the stool, trying to sound as casual as possible. ‘June, do you remember an Agnes Hunniford? She lived in the hotel.’

  ‘Sure. Why?’ It was a reasonable question, but Alberta and I exchanged a glance.

  ‘Some mail arrived for her. Do you know where she lives now?’

  June didn’t answer. She had a pin in her mouth. She ‘mm’-ed in answer.

  ‘So you do?’

  June pulled the pin out of her mouth, looking uncomfortable. She knew something. And I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

  June said, ‘You got it with you? I’ll drop it off later today. I owe her a visit.’

  ‘You’ve got enough to do. All these formals! Just tell me where.’

  ‘No!’ June blurted out. ‘Just give it to me, okay! That’s what Agnes wants.’

  Alberta and I looked startled.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.

  June’s cheeks were red. She couldn’t lie. A penny was dropping in my own mind. It was spinning. Maybe it would land where I thought it would. ‘Is something wrong with Agnes?’

  ‘It’s a private matter.’

  Was it a private matter for Agnes and Ronald Hunter?

  Alberta gave me a You better tell her nod.

  I let out a sigh. ‘June. I wasn’t straight with you. Your pal Agnes might be able to help out with a case I’m working on.’

  June stood up. ‘So, the thing about the mail, that’s a big fat lie?’

  I nodded. ‘I didn’t know what to say. I’ve got to keep things quiet for clients. Like, I guess, you are, for Agnes.’

  June’s eyes went from Alberta to me, pained. ‘You both saved me after my bad time. And Dede. You all know what I went through. I just can’t handle secrets and lies, not from my pals. Kinda hurts. If it’s important for you to talk to Agnes, then sure. I don’t want to know why. But I’m coming with you, to make it right with her first. Okay?’

  We both looked humbled. I nodded.

  June added, ‘They won’t let you see her, anyway, without me.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘You can’t say a word about where she is. To anyone, okay? Swear on it?’

  I swore to June, with my fingers crossed under a sprig of fake olive.

  30

  Sonia Parker would deem this trip improvisation, or “unauthorized activity”. But if I got results, surely she would be impressed? I’d play it safe, coax information out of Agnes Hunniford, and not do anything to endanger the case.

  Far from endangering it, this could be the thing that clinched everything. I felt excited, and proud of myself.

  The Pineview Clinic was a substantial house, built for a big, respectable family sometime in the 1890s.

  Now it housed a big group of unrespectables, at least in their families’ and society’s eyes—single mothers and their babies, expectant mothers who had nowhere to go before their babies were born.

  The clinic had wide stone steps, leading up to an imposing porch supported by four thick brick columns painted white. Conifers grew out of two tubs at the foot of the steps. Window boxes on the dark gray ledges were full of flowers. The windows were shaded in Venetian blinds and sheer curtains. They let light in but kept accusing gazes out.

  The narrow front garden edging the sidewalk was protected by a small picket fence.

  I liked the fact it wasn’t hidden away. The clinic could be anything. Any passersby wouldn’t have a clue.

  Beyond the large double doors, June and I were greeted by a tall woman in her late forties. Mrs. Devine was every inch the pillar of the community type, someone dedicated to putting things right. She had kind eyes, papery-skinned hands, and the permanent pained smile of the do-gooder.

  She was elegant too, wearing a fashionable dove gray suit with blue buttons and a cream silk blouse that just poked over the high collar. This was itself edged by two darker blue arrows, facing in opposite directions, made of curved piping.

  Wasn’t it too elegant? I bet the pregnant inmates didn’t look as good.

  A large Christmas tree stood behind her. On the wall, a plaster bust of a mother and child.

  June’s presence was completely indispensable. Mrs. Devine was very pleased to see her. I was introduced as a good friend of Agnes. Mrs. Devine studied me, pondering whether to let a stranger in. She relented.

  ‘It’s nice for the girls to have friends come by. Please take a seat.’

  She showed us to a waiting room, a small salon on the side. Above the mantelpiece was a delicate oil painting of a child holding a dove. A huge vase of flowers dominated the fireplace. Tinsel hung down the walls, and chains of paper holly looped across the ceiling.

  A mixed-race young woman, wearing a headscarf and checked loose smock, and pushing a small cleaning trolley, was dusting the window ledge. She was pregnant and about seventeen.

  ‘Kitty, would you please fetch Agnes?’ Mrs. Devine’s voice was unexpectedly firm.

  Kitty nodded and left as we came in, her eyes down. Mrs. Devine asked us to sit down, then retreated to her office, leaving us alone.

  ‘How many live here?’ I asked June, who duly sat down.

  ‘Twenty or so. They stay, have their babies.’

  ‘Then what happens?’ Why was I asking a question to which I already knew the answer?

  ‘Well, the babies go to their new homes, I guess. Come sit down. Could be a while.’ June looked around, approvingly. ‘So nice they’ve made it all pretty for Christmas.’

  I didn’t want to sit down. I wanted to ask questions, get answers, and get out.

  The place was starting to make me feel uneasy. The odor was a combination of flowers, pine disinfectant and fake concern. I didn’t like it one bit.

  Did Violet end up in one of these places when I was born? Did they even exist, twenty-six years ago? How on earth did she manage? I had no idea about my mother’s life with me as a baby when she first arrived in America. I’d never allowed myself to dwell on it and I didn’t want to start now.

  I looked out of the window, through the venetians. Mabel sat outside the front of the building, looking comforting.

  Maybe coming here was a mistake.

  ‘June?’ A sweet, high voice. Slightly pathetic.

  I turned towards the door. A young woman, her skin as white as milk, with watery eyes, stood in the doorway, wearing the obligatory headscarf and flannel smock, except hers was covered in tiny flowers. Not a scrap of makeup. There was a slight bulge to her belly, but she didn’t look very pregnant. She looked drained.

&
nbsp; The image of a very different Agnes, in Hunter’s apartment, flashed across my mind. I could see her in a stylish suit, with red lipstick on, getting him coffee in the swanky kitchen and getting fondled, or worse, in return.

  I blinked it away.

  ‘How are you? How is she?’ June embraced Agnes. ‘I got you this for her. Thought maybe you could use it.’

  ‘She’? ‘Her’? Had Agnes had already had her baby?

  Agnes smiled, taking a wrapped gift that June pulled from her crocheted purse. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have. She’s doing so well.’ She gave me an odd look.

  ‘This is Elvira. She’s my best pal. I hope you don’t mind. She understands, and we were passing, so….’

  Agnes gave an uncertain smile. ‘It’s okay. Hello.’

  I arranged my expression into something more friendly. ‘Hi.’

  ‘I’d love to see her,’ June said.

  June had kept Agnes’s secrets on the way down, said I’d find out everything when we met her. She had insisted I took it slow. ‘We can’t put her under any pressure to talk.’

  Agnes was saying, ‘Sure. She’s in the nursery. You can take a peek through the window, if you want.’

  June beamed. ‘We sure do!’

  Agnes looked at me. ‘Want to come see my baby?’

  ‘I’d like that,’ I lied.

  Agnes led us back into the wide corridor and through some ornate, glazed double doors. We passed a heavily pregnant Japanese girl and a skinny white girl pushing a cleaning trolley. Both were clad in the ugly smocks and scarfs. When they saw us, they stopped and hung their heads low as if they were lower class.