by P. J. Conn
"No, she was in the bathtub, and I didn't want to disturb her. This will be an awful shock to her as well."
There was a telephone on the end-table beside his chair. He fumbled with the dial and needed three tries to reach his wife. "Doreen, we've had an emergency here. I need you to look in the top drawer of my desk for the canvas bag of keys. Will you please bring me a key for apartment three? No, it's not a plumbing problem. I'll explain when you get here. Yes, of course, drive if you'd rather not walk." He ended the call. "She'll be here in a minute."
"Where is your son at this time of day, Mr. Helms?"
"He's probably having breakfast at the Kappa Sigma fraternity house at USC. He's an excellent student, and has never been in any trouble."
"Like most of the people you know," Lynch observed. "Call him and have him meet us here, but don't provide the details of why he's needed."
Leon stood to remove his wallet from his back pocket, and pulled out a small card with the number. He rolled back into his chair before he reached for the telephone. "He may already have left for class."
"If so, leave a message asking him to contact you as soon as he can," the detective instructed.
The phone was answered by a new fraternity pledge, and it took several minutes for Stuart Helms to be located and summoned to the phone. "Good morning, son, I don't mean to interrupt your classes, but we have an emergency at the apartment building. I need you to meet me here at apartment three as quickly as you can. No, nothing has happened to your mom or me."
"I'll write him an excuse for any missed classes if he needs one," Lynch offered, but his sly smirk made him look more menacing than helpful.
Leon hung up the telephone. "He's on his way."
Joe had met Stuart and remembered him as a skinny kid who wore glasses and looked like he'd be more interested in books than girls. He was surprised Stuart had joined a fraternity, but maybe they were all studious lads rather than loud cutups.
Doreen Helms stepped into the apartment, and her husband rose to meet her. She was petite, and her curly dark hair framed sparkling brown eyes. She preferred dresses in subdued patterns and colors and provided a quiet balance to her husband's far more flamboyant wardrobe.
"I brought the whole bag of keys, honey. Hello, Joe." She appraised the police detective with a puzzled glance.
"Mrs. Helms, I'm Detective Lynch, and I've come to investigate a homicide."
"Homicide? Who's dead?" she whispered, as though unwilling to disturb them.
"A young woman who goes by the name Cookie Crumble."
"The stripper?" Completely confused, she reached for her husband's hand. "What has she got to do with apartment three, Leon?"
Leon shrugged slightly. "Her body is in the refrigerator."
"What! How did she get in there?" She moved closer to her husband, and he hugged her shoulders.
"That's what we're attempting to discover," Lynch responded. "How well did you know the couple who rented this apartment?"
"I met the Thorntons on the day they moved in," she responded. "I introduced myself and welcomed them so if there were ever a problem and Leon wasn't available, they'd know me. I haven't seen them since. They were such a charming couple, not a pair I'd suspect of murder."
"Appearances are often deceiving," Lynch answered.
The coroner's man returned with his partner and a stretcher. "Pardon us, we need to get by. Maybe you'd all like to wait outside." Leon led his wife out the door and Joe and Lynch followed.
Brett Wayne had been out to the mailbox to check his mail, and seeing them standing in the patio ambled over. "Good morning, everyone. Looks like another beautiful day."
"That all depends on your point of view." Lynch introduced himself, got Brett Wayne's name and handed him his card. "Have you seen the couple who rented apartment three in the last few days?"
Brett studied the detective's card. "I saw them sometime last week. No, wait a minute, I just saw him out by the trashcans empting his trash when I was there doing the same. I don't recall when I last saw her."
Joe knew Brett better than his other neighbors, but they weren't buddies by a long shot. He could understand curiosity had prompted Brett to join them, but the man didn't appear to be surprised to meet a homicide detective. Perhaps he wrote so many shoot-outs in his Westerns, he was jaded to death in real life.
Lynch glanced toward Joe. "What are the odds he knows Cookie Crumble?"
Before Joe could reply, Brett did. "The stripper? I've seen her a time or two. Sorry, Mrs. Helms, we shouldn't be discussing that type of woman in front of you."
Doreen pursed her lips as though she agreed and looked up at her husband.
Stuart jogged up to meet them, saw his father and mother appeared to be fine, and relaxed visibly. "What's happened, Dad?"
Stuart had inherited his mother's dark eyes and hair. He'd grown a couple of inches and filled out since Joe had last seen him. With a slight curl in his dark hair and black-framed glasses, he reminded Joe of Clark Kent. He wondered if Stuart could shift personas as quickly as Superman. Maybe there was a lot more to the young man than what he'd remembered.
Detective Lynch introduced himself. "Your father called the LAPD this morning. The tenants have moved out, and left us with some puzzling questions. How well do you know Cookie Crumble?"
An incriminating blush filled Stuart's cheeks. "The stripper? I don't know her at all."
"Yet you knew she stripped for a living," Lynch continued.
"Well, everyone knows that. With a name like Cookie Crumble, what else would she be?"
"Just answer my question, Mr. Helms, don't editorialize."
The young man straightened up. "No, sir, I've never met the woman. Why do you ask?"
Lynch nodded toward the apartment. "Her body is in the refrigerator."
"Her body? My God, she's dead?" Stuart asked in a startled croak. He looked to his parents, but they simply shrugged.
"Cold as ice," Lynch replied. "What do you know about it?"
"Nothing at all. Why aren't you asking the couple who lives here?"
Leon stepped forward. "That's exactly what the police need to do rather than hassle you. Does my son have your permission to return to USC and attend to his classes?"
"For the time being," Lynch answered. "We'll keep in touch."
They all moved back as the coroner's men carried a sheet-wrapped Cookie Crumble out on their stretcher. Joe half-expected to see a slender arm dangle over the side the way dead dames were always posed on the covers of the paperback mysteries he loved to read. He regretted never having seen Cookie Crumble perform, but he did know a girl who worked at Sherry's, and this afternoon might be the perfect time to stop by for a chat.
* * *
Located on the Sunset Strip, Sherry's was a popular hangout for the mobsters who called Los Angeles home. The food was delicious and the strippers gorgeous, even if much of the clientele were on the shady side. Joe had met Mae, one of the bartenders, three weeks ago while pursuing a case. He hoped she'd be working the lunch crowd that day, and she was.
Mae was a pretty brunette, a co-ed at UCLA who used her wages toward her college education. Joe doubted she'd remember him, but she did.
"Hey there. Whatever we've got on tap, right?"
"Right." He'd worn sunglasses on his previous visit to hide a black eye. He took them off now and smiled. "A friend told me I should come by some night to see Cookie Crumble. Why is she a standout?"
Mae was awfully cute herself in black satin shorts and a close fitting white blouse. She leaned against the bar and whispered, "She does a naughty school girl act that lots of men like, but she hasn't shown up since Saturday night, so you may have missed your chance to see her."
"Aren't strippers unreliable by nature?" Joe asked, as though he'd given the subject a great deal of thought.
"Not if they want to work here," Mae answered. She moved down the bar to refill a Scotch and soda for a man seated alone and came back to talk. "I liked
her, but she had awful taste in men."
"How so?" Joe sipped his beer. He'd found appearing to have a casual interest in a subject made people far more talkative than a practiced set of direct questions did.
"She bounced from college kids, who would never take her home to meet their folks, to men who were Mickey Cohen's muscle."
Cohen was a well-known mobster, and Joe didn't care to meet him or any of his stooges. "That's quite a swing," he mused.
"I'll say. You should come in more often."
She smiled as though she really wished he would. He'd met her boyfriend, a mathematics major at UCLA. Rather than believe she was sincere, he took it as practiced encouragement to keep him drinking at Sherry's bar, something the management would insist upon.
"Sure, I'll make a point of it," Joe responded, and he left her a generous tip. He had a natural interest in a murder in his own apartment building, and he might have to come by several times to learn what more there was to know about the late Cookie Crumble.
* * *
The telephone rang as Joe entered his office. Unsure how many times it had already rung, he hurried to answer. "Discreet Investigations."
"Joe, this is Leon Helms. I didn't want to speak with you this morning when there were others listening, but I'd like to hire you to work on Cookie Crumble's murder. Detective Lynch didn't impress me, how did he strike you?"
"We've met, and I also have reservations about him. I've already stopped by Sherry's where Cookie worked." He thought better of mentioning his source had revealed Cookie dated college boys. That was a direction he'd investigate, but he'd not worry Leon needlessly over it this afternoon.
"Would you give me Stuart's telephone number? He might remember more than he did this morning." He waited while Leon again fumbled through his wallet and made a note of the number. "Do you have a contact number for Vince Thornton?"
"No, just Walt Disney Studios. I sure hope you find him there, but I suppose if he killed Cookie, he and his wife would have promptly left town."
"There is definitely something strange about the way they disappeared. Don't worry, I'll check every possible angle. The school district should know where Peggy Thornton is working, if she is a teacher."
"This is an awful mess, isn't it?"
"Leave everything to me, Leon. I'll talk to you soon." Joe hung up grateful he had a more challenging case than usual, but also disappointed it was right in his own back yard.
* * *
Mary Margaret prepared chicken and dumplings for dinner and Joe summoned all his will power to stop at two servings. "If I eat this well after we're married, I'll hit two hundred pounds before Valentine's Day."
She laughed. "I'll serve smaller portions so there's no danger of that. I'd still love you if you were pudgy, but I'd much prefer to keep you lean. Are you sure you won't have another dumpling?"
He raised his hand. "Absolutely not. Say, today I received a post card in the mail for a free dinner for two at the Jumpin' Plate. Let's go Saturday before we go to the movies."
"Sounds like an excellent idea." She blotted her mouth with her napkin.
"Are you going to be such an agreeable wife?" he asked.
"As long as you prove to be an agreeable husband. Did you take on any new cases today?"
They'd finished eating so a mention of murder wouldn't spoil their meal. "You could say one dropped into my lap." He recounted the morning's story while she stared at him big-eyed, but he didn't mention how closely Stuart Helms might be involved.
"Let's go to Sherry's Saturday night," she suggested. "I've never been to a strip joint, and it's a classy place, isn't it?"
"Some might say so, but I doubt many men take their girlfriends there." He was appalled by the idea, but she was such a good-natured sweetheart, he didn't want to refuse her suggestion out of hand.
"We'll be working your case," she insisted. "Scouting the place where Cookie worked, and you might learn something to help you solve the case before Detective Lynch even gets around to looking into it. Please?"
She left her chair to cuddle in his lap, and he hugged her tight. "I don't suppose there's anything wrong with stopping by Sherry's, but if you're shocked, or insulted, we'll leave right away."
"Agreed."
His arm began to itch, reminding him of his stitches. "I don't see any reason to go back to the hospital just to have my stitches removed when you could do it here, couldn't you?"
"After you've been so nice about taking me to Sherry's, I don't see how I can refuse." She gave him a quick kiss and hopped off his lap to fetch her scissors and tweezers. Not only was his beloved a wonderful cook, she was a great kisser, and he considered himself one lucky man. Now all he had to do was solve a stripper's murder and collect his fee to pay for their honeymoon.
* * *
Thursday morning, Joe searched the Los Angeles Times for a mention of Cookie Crumble's murder. The article, titled "Popular Entertainer Found Dead", was buried inside the first section and gave few details. Her name had been Alice Reyes, AKA Cookie Crumble. She'd been strangled, and her body had been found in a vacant apartment. There was a headshot that could have come from her agent, identified as Archibald Sutton, rather than a suggestive photo to advertise her routine at Sherry's. Sutton described her as a beautiful girl who'd been on the verge of stardom.
Joe wanted to talk with him, but he'd not call ahead and give Sutton a chance to refuse an interview. Instead, he looked up the agency address in the telephone book, and arrived at 11:00 o'clock.
The secretary, her desk nameplate read Charlotte Stafford, greeted him warmly. "You're exactly the type Mr. Sutton wants to represent." She checked a list on her desk. "Do we already have your name?"
"I doubt it. I'm Joe Ezell. What type would you say I am?"
The secretary wore her blonde hair in a riot of curls and blew one out of her eyes before she replied. "You've got rugged good looks and could play a variety of roles and be believed. Do you have any acting experience?"
As he saw it, he frequently disguised his identity to get information on a case, and this was such an example. He prided himself on being convincing and played along. "Mainly live theater," he responded.
"Great. I'll ask Mr. Sutton if he can see you now." She left her desk to approach the agent's door. She had a shimmy in her walk, as though she were the one auditioning.
Joe caught only part of their brief whispered exchange, but it worked and Sutton welcomed him into his office. The agent stood to shake Joe's hand and looked him up and down. "I like your looks. We see too many pretty boys who work as models, and it's good to see a real man. Did you bring photos?"
"I'm picking up some new ones this afternoon." The agent's plaid suit was too loud for Joe's tastes, but it probably went unnoticed in the entertainment industry. Archibald looked to be in his late forties, with brown hair and eyes, and the intense gaze of a scientist observing a critical experiment. However, Joe had never trusted a man with a thin mustache. Archibald's was so perfect, he might have pasted it on that morning.
"Good. You have to stay current. I can get roles for you in half a dozen films preparing to shoot. War movies need men who look like they actually served."
"I did, in the Coast Guard."
"You ought to have photos taken in your uniform, and you'll have more work than you can do. Before I send you out on an audition, I'll need you to sign our agency contract." He opened a side drawer on his desk and withdrew the document.
Joe took it. "What's your cut?"
"The standard ten percent, and you'll work often with me representing you. How did you get my name?"
"From Alice Reyes, Cookie Crumble, mentioned you, but I never expected her to turn up dead before we met."
"Awful shame. She had it all, face, body, and talent. The one thing she lacked was good judgment about men, present company excepted, of course."
"You think a boyfriend killed her?"
"I'm sure of it. She dated more than one of Mickey Cohen's goo
ns, and they aren't known for their manners."
"What do you suppose happened?" Joe asked as he flipped through the contract.
Sutton shrugged. "She probably broke up with a creep who didn't take it well. More than one man has killed a woman he'd sworn he couldn't live without."
"He must have had a terrible temper," Joe observed.
"I'll say."
The secretary peeked in the door. "You have a luncheon engagement at Ciro's."
Joe stood. "I want my attorney to review this, and I'll come to see you next week."
"Don't wait too long," Sutton advised. "Guys who can play weary war veterans are in high demand, next month it might be cowboys."
"I can ride a horse," Joe promised, and he meant it.
* * *
Marty Streech, a reporter with the Los Angeles Examiner, came down Joe's office stairs just as he started up. "I'm glad I caught you." He turned to go back up the stairs and waited for Joe to unlock his door. As usual, Marty's clothes were rumpled, and his shoes could use some polish.
"I've got a theory about the dead stripper, Cookie Crumble. The papers didn't say so, but a reliable source told me they found her naked in a Frigidaire."
Joe took his chair behind his desk. He preferred to listen rather than share his own inside information. "What's your theory, Marty?"
The reporter leaned back in his chair, stretched out his legs, crossed his ankles, and consulted his notes. "Clearly she knew a man capable of incredible violence."
"You're thinking of the Black Dahlia's killer?"
"I am. Elizabeth Short loved to party, and she may have gone to Sherry's multiple times. She could have been a friend of Cookie's. Maybe the murderer feared Cookie could identify him."
Joe could think of no reason to dispute Marty's supposition. "It's possible."
"It is. The police don't often find dead women in refrigerators. That's way past peculiar, so the man must have a sinister bent."
"You plan to link the murders in a story?" Joe asked.
"I do. You proved Georgia Dixon's murder was unrelated to the Black Dahlia's, but that doesn't mean Cookie wasn't killed by the same evil bastard."