The Boy in the Red Dress

by Kristin Lambert

  Marion stood up straighter, looking alarmed. “Can I?” he said uncertainly, glancing at Cal.

  “Go ahead, kid,” she said.

  I took Marion’s elbow and dragged him out of the room. We didn’t speak again until we were upstairs.

  “It’s . . . I tried to clean it up, but I couldn’t remember where everything went . . .”

  Marion jerked open the door. The room was definitely not as bad as it had been when the cops left, but it still looked like a child had picked the whole thing up and shaken it. Marion paused for a moment, his teeth set, then started to reorganize the mess without a word.

  I shut the door behind us. “I’m sorry this is happening, Mar.”

  He made a small sound. “Me too.”

  “But also . . . I need you to tell me the whole truth now.”

  Marion sniffed, his fingers deftly winding thread around a spool that had been knocked off his sewing machine. “I told you last night.”

  “But what you told me doesn’t make sense. How did you know Arimentha McDonough? Why did you get so upset when you talked to her?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Marion. What did that note say?”

  He turned his back to me and began to steadily rearrange his makeup. “I haven’t read it yet.”

  I blew out a sigh, my frustration rising. “Then what did you do last night? I went to Mrs. A’s and you weren’t there. She said you hadn’t come home yet.”

  To my surprise, a bright red blush crept up Marion’s neck, and in the mirror, I saw a shy smile pull at the corners of his mouth. “Lewis . . . took me to his place.”

  I punched him in the shoulder. “You dirty dog! What happened?”

  Marion’s blush deepened. “We just talked.”

  “The color of your neck says different. Spill it.”

  Marion ducked his head. “I . . . I was upset about Arimentha. I wanted to forget.” He peeped at me guiltily. “I took a bottle of gin on the way out. I’m going to pay Cal back, I swear.”

  “Oh.” It was nothing I hadn’t done before myself. Nothing we hadn’t done before together. But a sharp tweak of jealousy pinched me under the ribs. The whole year and a half since he’d come to us, it had been me and him. He was the first best friend I’d ever had, and I liked being the only one allowed into his dressing room and into his heart. “So, you went to Lewis’s apartment?” I said, pushing my jealousy down.

  Marion bit his lip to hide his expanding smile.

  “And drank too much?”

  He covered his face and peeked from between his fingers.

  I raised my brows and gave him a hard look, a trick from Cal’s interrogation playbook. “But you just talked?”

  He dropped his hands back to his lap. “That’s all, I swear!”

  I laughed, unexpected relief flooding my chest. Marion, who turned pink at the mere thought of kissing the boy he liked, never could have killed someone in cold blood and left her to rot in a damp courtyard. The truth was, I couldn’t stand here two feet away from him, looking into his eyes for more than a few moments, and believe he’d done it. One high-hatty girl couldn’t change everything about who he was.

  But I also needed to know the whole story of how he knew her if I was going to find out who’d done her in. I had never pressed him for details about his past before, but I couldn’t solve this mystery without them.

  “Marion,” I said, and he froze as if he heard the question coming in my voice. “I need you to tell me about Arimentha.”

  Now Marion whipped around, eyes narrowed. “What are you asking me?”

  “You know what.”

  “I didn’t kill her. She was—” His face crumpled, and he abruptly whirled back around.

  “She was what, Mar? You said you weren’t close, but the way you’re acting . . . Was she an old girlfriend or something?”

  Marion snorted. “You know better than that.”

  “Then a friend.”

  Marion sighed heavily, and his hands stopped moving. “Yes.”

  “A close friend?”

  He sank into the chair that had held our detective books before the cops knocked them to the floor. “Yes, my best friend . . . once.”

  “Best friend.” I tried to take that in, tried not to sound envious. “But you didn’t exactly look happy to see her. Did something happen between you two before you came here to the Cloak? Was she part of why you left home?”

  Marion nodded slowly. “But it’s a long story.”

  I pulled my armchair next to his stool and propped my elbows on my knees. “Okay, I’m listening.”

  Marion shifted in his chair and sighed heavily. “We were friends a long time, since we were little. I loved her, but eventually we grew up and Arimentha wasn’t content to be only my friend. I tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. I hoped it would pass. But it was her debutante year, and she asked me to be her escort to the ball, so of course, I said yes. But she must’ve thought it meant more than it did.”

  “Eek. Did she try anything?”

  He gave me a be patient look. “There was bootleg champagne, and we’d never had any before. Arimentha said she was getting overheated in the ball and asked if I’d come with her for a stroll in the garden.”

  “A walk alone in the moonlight, huh?” I said.

  “I know.” He shook his head. “If the champagne wasn’t making me giddy, I might’ve known what she was up to. But I’d been making eyes at this waiter all evening across the room, and I felt as if I might fly off the edge of the world.” The lilt in his voice dropped. “Then Arimentha invited me to sit with her on a bench. She pointed out the full moon, said what a beautiful night it was, a perfect night for romance, and I agreed that it was. I was daydreaming about that waiter. Then she said she was cold and snuggled up against me.”

  “I thought she said it was too hot,” I said with a smirk.

  Marion ignored me. “I was about to offer her my jacket when she grabbed me and planted a kiss right on my lips. I tried to move away, but my back was against the bench, so I stayed put, waiting for her to stop.”

  “Ack, nightmare!”

  “Yes. When she realized I wasn’t kissing her back, she pulled back, looking confused . . . hurt. ‘What’s wrong?’ she said. I shook my head, horrified that things would change between us, horrified that she would discover what this meant about me.

  “She leaped to her feet, her face twisting into this ugly mask, and yelled, ‘Something must be wrong with you. Every boy at this party would love to kiss me.’ She tossed her head and flounced off into the house.”

  Marion’s eyes focused on his thumbnail, where he was scraping it against the edge of the dressing table.

  “She’d never spoken to me that way before. Never. I was upset. I wandered to the back of the house, and then I saw him—the waiter, leaning against the wall by the kitchen door, sipping from a flask.”

  “Holy smokes,” I said, and a small smile flashed across Marion’s face.

  “The waiter grinned and offered me a drink. I leaned against the wall beside him, much closer than I would’ve normally been bold enough to do, and sipped, my lips where his lips had been. And the next thing I knew, we were behind a hedge kissing, our bodies touching from shoulder to toe, and my God, it was the most fantastic thing that had ever happened to me in my entire life at that point.”

  The glimmer of excitement in Marion’s eyes dulled, and his shoulders sagged.

  “Then Arimentha came back, maybe to say sorry, maybe to yell at me some more, I don’t know. She was calling my name, but I was so entangled with the waiter I didn’t hear her until she burst through the hedge and saw us. The two of us broke apart, and he made things worse by smirking at her. The shock on her face turned to rage and disgust, worse than before. She held my life in her hands, and she knew it.

 
; “I left the waiter and chased after her. I grabbed her arm. Said ‘Arimentha, please.’ But she said, ‘Don’t say my name. Don’t touch me.’ Then she shook free and ran into the house.”

  “Oh, Marion,” I said. “That must’ve been awful.”

  He nodded. “But it got worse. I watched her through the window as she made a beeline for my older brother and dragged him away. I was afraid they were coming after me right then, afraid they would make a scene and everyone—everyone—would know. I didn’t wait for the car. I ran home alone and hid in my room, afraid of what would happen when my brother returned. He was always cold as ice until he’d suddenly explode.

  “But when he came home, he didn’t come to my room at all. I lay awake all night, waiting and hoping that somehow Arimentha had changed her mind at the last minute and kept my secret.”

  “But she hadn’t?” I said quietly.

  “No, she’d told him exactly what she’d seen. Every minute detail, down to the fact the buttons were broken loose from the top of my shirt. In the morning, my brother came and told me I wasn’t returning to school. That he had made other arrangements for me. I was stunned. For a moment, hope flared again—perhaps he was sending me to Europe with the other wayward sons sowing their wild oats—but he had other plans.”

  My belly filled with dread. My mouth went dry. “What did he do?”

  “He sent me away to . . .” Marion stared at his lap. Swallowed hard. “To the Louisiana Retreat for the Insane.”

  For once, I had nothing to say. I reached for Marion’s hand, my heart aching.

  “Everything was stolen from me,” he said without taking his eyes off his lap. “My books, my friends, my schoolwork, my life. I’d thought to be a lawyer someday. Can you believe it?” He laughed, but the sound was bitter, broken. “Instead, I spent seven months of my sixteenth year in an asylum, being treated as if everything about me was a disease to be cured.”

  Rage rose in my throat, suffocating me.

  “The doctor and nuns thought they could persuade me out of my ‘deviance’ by telling me night and day how wrong and disgusting my ‘proclivities’ were.” Marion’s voice and face grew harder, angrier. “They told me how much richer and fuller my life would be if I quit these abnormal ways and married a nice woman and had children.”

  “But they failed,” I choked out. “They didn’t convince you.”

  Marion shook his head fiercely. “The only thing they convinced me was that I could live without luxury or family. That I wanted nothing more than to be free, no matter the cost.”

  “So you escaped?” I said. “What did you do, carve yourself a weapon out of soap?”

  “No.” He smiled faintly. “I lied. I convinced the doctor I’d seen the error of my ways, that I could never look upon another man with lust in my heart, that I was disgusted by everything I had been before and would never return to it. They were so proud. They believed their methods had changed me.”

  “And they let you out?”

  Marion nodded. “My brother came to get me, pleased as punch, absolutely convinced of his own rightness in sending me. He said Arimentha was eager to see me again, and I pretended to feel the same. He took me to my room, and I stood there in the space that was once mine, and for a moment—just one moment—my resolve shook. If I left, all of it would be gone. No soft bed, no fine shirts with my initials embroidered on the cuffs. I didn’t know where I was running to or where I would sleep that night.”

  “But you ran anyway,” I said, remembering the vague story I knew of Cal and Mama running away from home to do vaudeville years ago. The inside of my nose stung with tears, and I wished hard that I’d been there to run away with Marion, so he wouldn’t have been alone for even one night.

  He took a deep breath and let it out. “Yes, I ran anyway. I didn’t want their money, not if I had to be someone else to get it. I stole a little jewelry and money from my mother’s dresser, shimmied down the lattice, and left with the same suitcase I’d brought home from the asylum.” Marion looked at me and squeezed my hand. “It was entirely worth it.”

  I squeezed back, tears stinging my eyes. “But what about your mother?” I said gently. “Do you miss her?”

  His back straightened. “She let him put me in there.” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but I knew something about mothers who did nothing but disappoint you. I knew how they stuck under your skin like splinters.

  “But why did you keep the asylum a secret?” I said. “Even from me? Did you really believe I would judge you?”

  “I don’t know.” Marion bit his lower lip. “When people hear something like that about you—that you’ve been to an asylum—even if they know you, even if they think they love you, can they help wondering if there is something wrong with you?”

  “I already know who you are, Marion,” I said, wrapping an arm around him. “I know you’re not insane or deviant or whatever they called you in that place. I’m just sorry your own family didn’t. And that awful Arimentha.”

  Marion nodded slowly. “I think she was trying to apologize to me last night, but I didn’t listen. I was angry, because of the past and because she was wearing my grandmother’s necklace. She gave it to me, but then my anger turned to panic. The only way she could have that necklace was if my brother had given it to her. I was so afraid she’d run back and tell him about me, just like she did the last time. I was afraid I was going to have to run again, go back to being alone.” He looked urgently into my eyes. “That’s why I tried to scare her into going away and never coming back. But I didn’t kill her. I would never have harmed her. I would’ve run away if I thought she was coming back. That’s all.”

  The thought of him leaving sent a bolt of fear through my chest. He was beautiful, generous, funny. Never cruel, not the way I could be when I was riled. He was better than me, kinder than me. He could never have pushed Arimentha off that balcony.

  “I believe you, Marion.”

  Tears filled his eyes, and he flung his arms around me, making me feel guilty that I’d ever doubted him even a little. “Thank you, Millie. I knew you’d stick by me, if anyone did.”

  “Of course. Of course, I would.” My heart ached as I patted his back.

  Once, not long ago, this boy had been lost and alone. We’d found him—I’d found him—and by God, I wouldn’t let him go. Now I’d do more than stick by him, more than hope for the best. I wouldn’t rest until I found out who the real killer was, until I proved it and cleared Marion’s name.

  I released him and leaped out of my chair.

  “What is it?” he said.

  I paced back and forth across the small space, mind whirring. There were so many loose ends dangling, so many paths I could take next. Which was the right one? Which was the easiest? I’d have to talk to all the regulars at the club, try to find out what they’d seen. But what about Arimentha’s Uptown crowd? How would I find out the dirt on them?

  I rubbed my temple, chewing over the possibilities. “Who would know all the gossip about Arimentha?” I said aloud.

  Marion looked up, a light in his eyes. “I know exactly who!”

  He fished through a stack of old magazines and newspapers on the floor and thrust a copy of the paper into my hand. It was folded to the society page, a page I never read if I could help it. It was nothing but articles about debutante balls and pink teas, whatever those were.

  Marion jabbed at an article. “Kitty Sharpe.”

  “Who?”

  “She’s the best gossip columnist in the city! I don’t think that’s her real name, because she keeps herself absolutely anonymous, but she knows everything!”

  “If she’s anonymous, how do I find her? And how do I get her to tell me anything?”

  Marion grinned. “You’re Millie Coleman. You’ll figure it out.”

  A shrill whistle blew down the street at the fish-packing
plant, signaling the end of the afternoon shift, and we both jumped. The first wave of customers would come straggling in soon. We needed to get Marion out of here.

  I folded the paper and stuffed it in the waistband of my trousers. Hurriedly, I helped Marion pack an old carpetbag with everything he’d need for a long stay in hiding, including three detective novels to keep him occupied. I glanced at his face as he concentrated on rolling up a set of silk stockings. Without his makeup and dress, with the freckles on his nose showing, he didn’t look like a star; he was just my friend, a kid like me.

  I would save him. I had to.

  CHAPTER

  10

  BUSINESS WAS USUALLY respectable on Wednesday nights, but this night the crowd was thin. Maybe all the regulars were hungover from a mid-week New Year’s Eve, but just as likely, the winning combo of a police raid and an unsolved murder had scared them off.

  On top of that, our star performer was out of commission. In his place, Cal had hired a singer at the last minute who was caterwauling like a drunken circus tiger. Cal leaned against a column with her girlfriend, Rhoda, watching the singer with a disgusted expression and a whiskey glass held halfway to her lips.

  I nudged her with an elbow, sloshing her drink. “Could be worse. You could’ve hired Mama.”

  Cal licked the spilled whiskey off her hand and gave me a careful look. We hadn’t exactly apologized for our harsh words to each other, but then, we never did. We had dustups, then pretended nothing happened. That was the Coleman way.

  Cal took a sizable swallow from her drink. “Gladys is miles better than this gal.”

  I barked a laugh. “Her head is miles bigger, too.”

  Cal spluttered in her drink, and Rhoda hid a smile in her own glass and said nothing. She’d been around me and Cal long enough to know it was best to keep quiet and wait for the fuss to blow over.