by Donis Casey
Yes, that had crossed Oliver’s mind. He had already been figuring how far he was going to have to run. But to Bianca, he said, “Why would Ruhl be worried about me? Even if I do come across this red ledger, I’m going to give it to him. I’m not going to tell Dix about it. I don’t mind being a snoop, but I don’t relish being an accessory to murder.”
“He’ll do anything to keep his secret from Dix, and the best way to keep a secret is to make sure you’re the only one who knows it. If I were you, Oliver, I’d forget about the body and the ledger, change my name, and take a permanent trip to China. I told you that I’d pay you to keep me informed, and you’ve done that. Wait here while I get you some traveling money. Fee, get Mr. Oliver that drink.”
“Wait a minute, I can take care of myself,” he said, but Bianca had already disappeared down the hall. Oliver didn’t know whether to be scared stupid or royally pissed. He took the shot of Scotch that Fee offered him and slugged it down.
Fee’s expression was a combination of amusement and sympathy. “I’m afraid Miss LaBelle is something of a force of nature.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like dames telling me what to do. Not K.D. Dix and not Alma Bolding and not Bianca Freaking LaBelle.” He stood up.
“You might as well take your money before you leave,” Fee said. “And don’t pack your bags just yet. I have a feeling that you’re not going to have to go anywhere.”
“What’s up, Fee? Do you know what the hell is going on with all these broads? If you do, I’d sure appreciate a heads-up.”
The soft-spoken giant shrugged. “How should I know? Miss LaBelle is smarter than me. Even if she burned down an orphanage on Christmas Eve while the whole town watched, you wouldn’t be able to pin it on her because she’s smarter than you. She’s smarter than most of us. All I know is that Miss LaBelle always figures out how to take care of everything.”
1921, Los Angeles, California
Valkyrie
The women rolled Peyton up like a blintz in a Turkish-style area rug that was not quite long enough to conceal his entire body. They had to decide whether to let the top of his head hang out one end or his brown Oxfords hang out the other. They chose the shoes. Mrs. Graham hung a towel over his toes, which looked odd but effectively disguised the fact that the rug they were transporting had feet. There was only one exit in the bungalow, and it led directly into the courtyard. They considered stuffing the body through the kitchen window and letting it fall onto the sidewalk between houses, but the three of them weren’t strong enough to lift the dead weight high enough.
In the end, Blanche took a nonchalant midnight stroll through the courtyard and determined that no one was about. Alma stood sentry while Blanche and Mrs. Gilbert manhandled their burden out the front door, around the side of the house to the curb, and heaved him into the boot of his own car. In case they were seen, they had concocted a cover story about picking up a carpet that they had bought from a resident and the only time they could do it was after midnight. It sounded fishy even to them, so they were fortunate they didn’t have to use it.
The three women crawled into the front seat of the Pierce-Arrow together to catch their breath and come up with part two of their body disposal operation.
“Mrs. Gilbert,” Blanche said, “I’ll drive the Ford and you follow me in the Pierce-Arrow. Alma, you ride with Mrs. Gilbert. If she gets stopped for some reason, nobody is going to question her if you’re in the car.”
“Where are we going?”
“I know just the place.”
The two cars left Los Angeles, drove west to Ocean Park and up the coast highway to Santa Monica. The moon had risen by the time Blanche pulled off the highway onto a secluded beach below the palisades and parked behind a rocky outcrop where the autos couldn’t be seen from the road. She got out of the Ford and directed Mrs. Gilbert to park the Pierce-Arrow behind her.
The three stood on the sand with their heads together and whispered, as though their dead passenger might hear their plan if they spoke up. “I’ve been here with Jack Dempsey a million times,” Blanche said. “Autos only drive by on this road in any numbers on holidays, heading out of town, and I’ve never known anyone to stop here. You could sit behind this rock until doomsday and nobody going by on the road would see you.”
“Do you plan to bury him here?” Mrs. Gilbert sounded doubtful.
“I figured we could throw him in the ocean.”
That idea met with general approval. After all, where could secrets be buried deeper than the ocean?
They hauled the body out of the boot of the Pierce-Arrow and lugged it to the water’s edge. “Oh, my God, he moved!” Alma dropped his feet and danced around in disgust. “Did he move?”
Blanche and Mrs. Gilbert struggled not to drop their bundle onto the sand. “No, for heaven’s sake, Alma, he’s dead as Moses,” Blanche groaned. “He’s just limp and squiggly like noodles. If you aren’t going to help, then get out of the way.”
The ocean’s breath was cold, the water black, vast, and forbidding. Blanche and Mrs. Gilbert waded out into the deep, carrying Peyton as far as they could manage and still stay on their feet, then let the ocean take their burden before they slogged their way back to shore. They stood on the sand, wet and bedraggled, and watched the dark form of the rolled carpet float on the somewhat less dark water for several minutes.
“Surely the rug’s pile will get waterlogged and drag him down.” Mrs. Gilbert sounded hopeful.
Alma dashed any hope. “Damn, he’s coming back! The tide is coming in. Shee-ut, we chose a great time to toss him in the drink.”
“If we just leave him here, won’t he wash out to sea when the tide goes out?” Blanche was not entirely sure about the workings of the Pacific Ocean.
“No,” Mrs. Gilbert said. “That won’t be for hours and hours. And until then he’ll wash up on the beach, here. We can’t take the chance that somebody will find him before the tide takes him out.”
Alma turned to Blanche. “But you said nobody ever comes here.”
Blanche shrugged. “I’ve never seen anyone, but what do I know? I’m not here twenty-four hours a day.” She put her hands on her hips. “Where are the sharks when you need them?”
“If we had a rowboat,” Mrs. Gilbert said, “we could fill his pockets with rocks or something and row him a long way out before we dropped him over the side.”
“Well, we don’t have a boat,” Blanche pointed out.
“Drag him out again,” Alma suggested. “Then stab him in the belly a few times and let all the air out of him so he’ll sink.”
Blanche’s lip curled. “Oh, Alma, ick. Besides, I forgot my shiv.”
By this time the body had washed back up onto the beach, a sodden carpet roll with feet. Blanche snagged the roll and pulled it out of the surf and onto the sand. The rug slowly unfurled as she tugged. Peyton flopped out on his back in the lapping waves.
“Oh, Lord,” Alma moaned. “He’s gone all white. His fingers twitched, I know he twitched!”
“Will you relax?” Blanche said. “It’s just the tide coming in.”
“I’ll roll him back up.” Mrs. Gilbert leaned over the body, but before she quite realized what was happening, the presumed corpse’s hand shot out to grab her ankle and jerk her off her feet into the surf.
~It’s Alive!~
Alma shrieked. “Delphinia! Save her Blanche oh my god he’s still alive kill him kill him!”
But Blanche had disappeared.
Peyton rose up on his knees like a sodden ghoul, straddled Mrs. Gilbert’s supine form and got his hands around her neck.
Mrs. Gilbert pried at the fingers to no avail, desperate for air, while Alma pounded ineffectually on the living corpse’s back. But he was unstoppable.
Alma may as well have been an annoying fly for all the impression her pounding fists were making as the undead Pe
yton pressed Mrs. Gilbert’s head deeper under the rising water.
Blanche reappeared out of the night like an avenging angel with a tire iron in her hand, and whacked Peyton across the forearms. He made a feral sound and loosened his grip long enough for Mrs. Gilbert to gasp air, but he didn’t let go. Blanche drew back again and hit him in the head with everything she had, and was rewarded with the sound of cracking bone and a howl as he fell over sideways into the surf. Mrs. Gilbert rolled out from under him and Alma pulled her to her feet. The two women clutched one another in horror as Blanche kicked the still figure in the side.
“That’s for all them girls that didn’t get away.” Her voice rang out over the waves as she kicked him again. “And that’s for Billy Ray who can’t never be mine!”
She stood over him, poised to hit him again with the tire iron if he tried anything, until the tide had come in so far that his arms began to float. He never moved again.
She calmly stepped away and dropped the tire iron onto the beach before turning toward her appalled companions. “Can y’all help me carry him back over there to the bottom of the cliff? We’ll have to bury him under the rocks on the far side of the railroad tracks.”
Mrs. Gilbert was sobbing, tears streaming down her face. But Alma gathered herself quickly.
“Too bad we didn’t think of that before we lugged the carcass all the way over here.”
“It’s a good thing we didn’t or eventually he’d have woke up and dug himself out. Well, he’s dead now. It’ll be a lot easier to get him across the beach if we drag him.” She picked up one corner of the waterlogged carpet. “Damn, this thing weighs a ton. It’ll take us forever to drag him across on this. Alma, give me your coat.”
“What? I paid a bundle for this coat.”
“You can afford to buy another one. Unless you want to carry him.”
Grumbling, Alma removed her expensive full-length lambswool coat and Blanche rolled the body onto it, its legs sprawled over the hem. She dragged it across the sand, across the deserted two-lane highway, its head bumping over the tracks, to a rockfall at the base of the bluff. Blanche and Mrs. Gilbert and even Alma spent the rest of the night burying the corpse under rocks. The sun was coming up when the wet, dirty, exhausted trio laid the last rock over the final resting place of Graham Peyton.
Alma stretched and groaned. “I feel like I’ve been pounded within an inch of my life. I’m going to take a four-hour-long bath and sleep until next June.”
Mrs. Gilbert, who really had been pounded within an inch of her life, wasn’t so sanguine. “What if they find him?” Her voice was a painful rasp.
Blanche sat back on a rock and tucked a strand of dark hair back behind her ear. “They won’t find him. Mrs. Gilbert, do you suppose I’d be able to drive that big Pierce-Arrow?”
It was a relief for Mrs. Gilbert to speak of something normal. “It’s easier to drive than my auto. I’m sure you could.”
“Alma, drive Mrs. Gilbert home in her car. Call your doctor friend to have a look at her tonight. Try to get some sleep before you have to be on set this afternoon.”
Alma gave her a sharp look. Blanche had taken charge. Alma was happy to let her. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to drive this auto up to the top of the cliff and abandon it. If they ever do find him, maybe they’ll think he fell.”
“How will you get home?”
“Don’t worry about me, Alma. I’ll get home. I can take care of myself.”
Alma laughed. “No kidding.”
~Our little girl has Teeth and Claws.~
Neither Mrs. Gilbert nor Alma had much to say as they drove back to Hollywood. They had been traveling for half an hour before Alma said, “Delphinia, how do we get ourselves into these things?”
“You have to stop bringing home strays, Alma.”
“I thought she was a pussycat, Delphinia. I didn’t realize that we got ourselves a lioness. Who’s Billy Ray?”
“Her little baby. That’s what the sister named him.”
“Ah,” Alma said, enlightened. “Well, no wonder. Did you see how beautiful she looked while she was mashing the bastard’s head in? She was lit up. She was on fire.”
Mrs. Gilbert shot her an incredulous glance. “Are you serious? It was horrible. Alma, are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Delphinia. She saved your life. La belle dame sans merci.”
* * *
Blanche did not abandon the car right away. She stopped at a dump and got rid of the Turkish rug, then drove back to Peyton’s bungalow and shimmied through the window to clean away all evidence that anyone other than Graham Peyton had been there that evening. She cleaned herself up as well, washing her filthy face and hands, brushing the dirt from her clothes and boots, combing and arranging her dark wavy hair. She took a silk scarf from Peyton’s closet and tied it around her neck to hide the bruises. She took the small suitcase with her when she left, along with the remainder of the fifty thousand dollars, a snub-nosed revolver, and lying right on top of the money, one red leather-bound ledger. She drove the Pierce-Arrow back to Santa Monica, up the California Incline, along Palisades Park to the very end, and off the road to a secluded spot behind a stand of palms. She parked the vehicle close to the fence by the cliff edge, removed the license plate, and threw the key over the side.
She walked back through the park and made her way down to the trolley stop, casually swinging the small suitcase like a girl who had just returned from a trip to grandmother’s house. No one cast her a glance.
1926, Santa Monica, California
Everybody, sooner or later, sits down to a banquet of consequences. —Robert Louis Stevenson
Another early morning knock on his door roused Oliver from a troubled sleep. His first conscious thought was, Oh, lordy, not Ruhl again. His heart took a leap as his last conversation with Bianca LaBelle came back to him. Was Ruhl here to shut him up for good? Oliver briefly considered not answering but dismissed the thought quickly. That would only delay the inevitable. He pulled his loaded .38 from his bedside table and slipped it into the pocket of his robe before he took a deep breath and went into the front room.
He flung open the door and his eyes traveled down from where Ruhl’s head should have been to look into the sweet face of K.D. Dix, standing on the landing in all her black-clad glory. A brick-shaped man with a crooked nose was behind her, looking distinctly large and protective.
Oliver’s mouth flopped open like a hooked fish. He couldn’t think of anything to say, but stood aside as she pushed past him. He was provisionally comforted by the fact that she was looking pleased with herself.
“Where did you find the ledger?” she said.
Oliver blinked at the unexpected question. “I didn’t.”
Dix made herself as comfortable as she could on his seat-sprung sofa. “Well, your snooping around must have shaken it loose because it showed up in my mail yesterday. It’s in code, but not much of a code, so now I know who was using Graham to cheat me. Graham always was an easy mark. Why he did it I don’t know. I’d have given him anything he wanted. The package was postmarked Los Angeles, so I’m guessing one of the people you questioned either had it in his possession or mentioned your visit to whoever did. And I’m also guessing that one of those people is responsible for my son’s death.”
Oliver swallowed. “So what do you want me to do now?”
“Keep digging, for now, Oliver. Find out who killed my boy and don’t stop till you do. I’ll let you know if I want anything else.” She opened the drawstring handbag on her lap and dug around in it, just like a normal woman would do. She withdrew an envelope and handed it to him. It was full of cash.
And that was that. Dix left, along with her jumbo-sized companion, and Oliver stood for a long time with the envelope in his hand, cold as ice. He felt like he was in a vise, unable to escape, squee
zed between a black widow and a woman called Dangereuse.
He was still standing there when the telephone rang, two shorts and a long.
* * *
The man’s arm swayed back and forth as though he was waving goodbye to life. It was the last movement he would ever make on this earth. Long strands of Brilliantined hair on the top of his head bobbed slightly in the tiny waves of the incoming tide. He lay facedown in the sand. He had not been on the beach very long. The back of his expensive serge suit was barely damp.
Oliver looked back at the cliff behind the beach, across the road and beyond the railroad tracks. The body lay only yards from where Peyton’s skeleton had been found.
“Help me turn him over,” Officer Poole said.
Turning over a corpse is harder than it sounds, especially if it’s a wet corpse. It took both of them to flip the dead man onto his back. His steel gray eyes were open, his face mottled. A bullet hole creased the center of his forehead. The water had washed away most of the blood.
Poole took stock of Oliver’s expression. He looked sick. “You know who he is?”
Oliver nodded. “His name was Ruhl.”
~And now, who is the villain of our tale
and who is the hero?~
Will Ted Oliver have to choose between his soul and his life?
And what of Bianca? Will she ever have a relationship with her son? Will her family forgive her and welcome her back into the fold? Can she save Alma Bolding from destroying herself? Can she even save herself?
Will the evil K.D. Dix discover who killed her son?
Join us next time to find the answers to these questions and many others as we continue…
~The Adventures of Bianca Dangereuse, Episode 2.~
Real or Not?
Many of the people, places, and circumstances mentioned in this book actually lived, but neither Bianca LaBelle or her movie alter ego, Bianca Dangereuse, ever existed. Nor did the actress Alma Bolding. I did name Alma after my aunt, Alma Bolding Bourland, a sweet, country woman with simple needs and desires who would NEVER have behaved as outrageously as the fictional Alma. My aunt would have enjoyed being famous, however. Other completely fictional characters include Dephinia Gilbert, Ted Oliver, director Elmo Reynolds, Zelko the cameraman, Del Burke the publicist, actor Daniel May, Bianca’s costar Damian Kirk and his movie character Butch Revelle.