The Boy in the Red Dress

by Kristin Lambert

  Most of the clothes, Marion scrounged up for us from Cal and Mama’s old vaudeville trunk while he waited for me to come home. The ride required Bennie Altobello. Again.

  Luckily for me, he came by the club with a delivery and didn’t ask too many questions when I asked if he could pick me up at my place later and take me for a ride somewhere.

  “I didn’t realize Marion was coming, too,” Bennie said when both of us slid into the truck with him, looking like the cat burglars we were apparently becoming.

  “I mentioned it, didn’t I?”

  Bennie shook his head with certainty.

  “Oh, well, he is. And I need to warn you now that you’re going to be our getaway driver.”

  “Your what?” He looked up and down at our mostly black outfits. “Is that why you’re dressed like that? Are you going to rob a bank or something? I don’t think—”

  “Geez, Bennie, calm down. We’re going to sneak into a house, borrow a little old box with a diary in it, and pop right back out. No harm done.”

  His thick eyebrows looked skeptical. They were loud even in the dark. “Whose house?”

  I bit my lip and pulled my school beret down farther over my hair.

  Marion leaned up and looked across me at Bennie. “Arimentha McDonough’s.”

  “What?”

  “Millie,” Marion said, giving me a chastising look, “you should’ve told him this when you asked him to drive us.”

  “We were in a public place, for crying out loud! I didn’t want to shout it all over town.” I didn’t mention how Olive had been coming our way when I’d asked him, and I’d wanted to end the conversation before she heard me begging Bennie for yet another favor.

  Marion sighed dramatically.

  “You’re telling me we’re about to try to steal Arimentha McDonough’s diary?” Bennie said. “Why don’t the cops know about it?”

  “They know it exists—” I said.

  “They just don’t know where it is,” Marion finished.

  “But don’t you think this is too risky?”

  “Probably it is,” Marion said.

  “But we’ve agreed it’s the only way to get a jump on the police,” I said. “This might give us some leads they don’t even know about yet.”

  Bennie looked from me to Marion, then shook his head in defeat. “Why do I let you talk me into these things?” he muttered, but his hand moved to the gear shift, and soon we were chugging to a start.

  “Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Bennie,” Marion said, “but why do you do these things?”

  I elbowed him in the ribs hard enough to elicit an oof.

  But Bennie laughed. “This one time when we were twelve or thirteen, some bigger kids had me surrounded in an alley, and I was about to be dead meat. Do you remember, Millie?”

  I stiffened in surprise. I did remember. It had been the summer Mama dropped me off at Cal’s and didn’t show her face again for four and a half years.

  “Then I saw this skinny black-haired girl barreling toward us,” Bennie said, chuckling. “She was screaming and walloping those bigger kids in the head with—what was it?”

  I laughed tightly. “Broken bicycle handlebars.”

  “That’s right.” Bennie laughed so hard he let the truck stall out at a stoplight. “Then you started in with your fists, and I couldn’t let you show me up, so I fought back, too, and pretty soon they were running.”

  Marion looked from Bennie’s face to mine, incredulous. “Why has no one ever told me this story?”

  I shrugged. “You know me. Modest to a fault.”

  But the truth was, I’d spent that whole summer with bloodied knuckles, and I wasn’t always the one saving people from bullies. Sometimes I was the bully, hitting anything to make me forget the ache that filled my chest to bursting all the time.

  The truck chugged to life again, and I shook myself, pushing thoughts of Mama back down where they belonged. I couldn’t let her distract me now.

  “On our way,” I said with false cheer, rubbing my hands together. “Time to burgle some rich folks!”

  Bennie and Marion glanced at each other across me, their expressions matching. Both of them looked like What did we just get ourselves into?

  * * *

  Marion directed Bennie to park the truck on the street behind the McDonough and Leveque residences, because the estates were so big they stretched all the way through to the next block. This street was little more than a cart path, with the backs of two rows of crushed-shell driveways and elegant carriage houses butting up to it.

  “There,” Marion said, pointing to a stretch of iron fence with a bunch of camellias crowding each other behind it. “They won’t be able to see us from the house.”

  Bennie looked nervously at the backs of the houses across the street. “But what about them?”

  Marion waved a hand. “The only people who come this far out back are the staff. A driver might spot us, but he’ll think nothing of a delivery truck sitting here. If anyone asks—they won’t, but just in case—tell them you’re delivering groceries to the Leveques.”

  “Thought we were going to the McDonoughs’?”

  “The Leveques are next door. Say Philip Leveque.”

  Bennie glanced at me, brows raised.

  “Yes, the same Philip Leveque we cornered in a bathroom. Are we going to sit here jawing all day?” I tugged at the too-small gray gloves I’d worn, the closest thing to black in the vaudeville trunk.

  “Fine, let’s go.” Marion took his sweet time about sliding out of the truck, checking left and right that the sound of the squeaking door hadn’t brought out any lookers.

  I jumped out right after him, holding the short crowbar, and shut the truck door behind me, gently. It still made an uncomfortably distinct clang. I looked at Bennie through the open window; his eyes were wide.

  “You know, Bennie, you’re awfully jumpy for a bootlegger.”

  He threw up his hands. “That’s why I’m jumpy.”

  “Sit tight,” I said. “We’ll be back in a jiff.”

  I turned to find Marion had slunk toward an opening in the camellias. He waved a hand to me.

  “This way,” he whispered. “Over the fence.”

  “Why can’t we go up the driveway?”

  He pointed up at the nearly full moon. “Too visible.”

  I shot him a skeptical look, pretty sure we could stay out of sight just as easily if we kept to the bushes along the sides of the drive. But Marion was already vaulting over the low iron fence and ducking under the camellia in one smooth motion.

  I dropped the crowbar over the fence and did the same, minus the smooth part. I fumbled my landing and crashed into a branch of the camellia, sending a shower of soft petals down on my head.

  “Shhh!” Marion said, turning in his crouch to glare at me.

  “Tell the camellia that,” I muttered, kicking at the trunk of the little tree. More petals floated down, and one landed on my nose. I huffed a breath and blew it away.

  Marion gestured for me to come up next to him, so I crawled closer.

  “There,” he said, pointing at a large balcony that took up the entire rooftop of a side wing of the house. “Arimentha’s bedroom is right through those double doors.”

  “I figured.”

  Marion gave me an irritated shake of his head. “See that trellis up against the house? With the vines growing on it?”

  I could just make out the dark twisting vines against the white lattice. “I see it.”

  “That’s where you climb up. I’ve done it before a million times.”

  I gave him a sly look and nudged his elbow. “A million times, huh? You and Minty were just friends, huh?”

  Marion rolled his eyes. “If you’re done being seven years old, we need to do this quickly and get
out of here.”

  “I agree.”

  “Okay. We do it like we talked about—up the trellis, you pop the lock on the balcony doors, we pry up the floorboard, get the box, get out, voilà.”

  “Voilà,” I said. “Except maybe you shouldn’t go up.”

  “What do you mean? Of course I should. I’m the one who knows where the diary is. I’m the one who told you about it.”

  “You’re also the one who’s been accused of killing Minty. What happens if you get busted breaking into her room? You’re going down for murder. The end. Curtains.”

  Marion’s black-gloved fingers went instinctively to his neck, but then he stubbornly shook his head again. “You’ll be my lookout. They won’t catch us.”

  “If we’re both upstairs, what good will a lookout do? Both of us won’t be able to get down that lattice in time.”

  “Then I’ll go alone and you look out from behind that clump of palmettos over there.”

  “Oh, you know how to jimmy door locks now?”

  Marion’s mouth opened and then closed. “How hard can it be?” he said, but his voice lost its certainty.

  “Look, Marion. I’ll be up and out quick. You look out from the palmettos, all right? Whistle if somebody’s coming.”

  Marion met my eyes and reached for my hand in the semi-dark. “But what happens to you if you’re caught, Millie? What if they start thinking you killed Arimentha? What if you go to jail for me? I couldn’t live with that.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not planning on going to jail for anybody.” I squeezed his hand and smiled. “Anyway, I got an alibi. A hundred people saw me in the club at the time she was murdered. Worst that could happen is they’d get me on breaking and entering.”

  Marion looked doubtful. “That’s still pretty bad.”

  “Nah,” I lied. “Let’s go.”

  Then I was scurrying out of our hiding place and across open moonlit ground.

  “Millie!” Marion hissed behind me, but I kept going and ducked into the shadow of the spiky palmettos. When I turned back to look, he was behind me.

  “I still think—” he said.

  “Shhh! We’re too close to the house for a chat. I’m going up.”

  “Millie, can’t you stop a second and listen to—”

  I pressed my index finger over his lips. “See you in five minutes.”

  I released him and darted across the next open patch of ground, this time not stopping until I reached the deep, hard-angled shadow of the house. I pressed my back against the clapboards and caught my breath. Marion peeked from between the fronds of the palmetto and made a shooing gesture. Mouthed hurry.

  I spun and faced the trellis. It looked sturdy enough, but Marion hadn’t climbed it in at least a year and a half, if not more. That crisp paint could be hiding rotten patches and loose nails. It might peel off the wall with me on it and send me splatting flat on my back on the dried-up grass.

  But I couldn’t exactly turn back now and say, “Never mind, you go, Marion. It’ll be fine. I was wrong about the cops probably hanging you.” I stuck the crowbar through the back of my belt and found two fingerholds in the trellis, then one toehold, then another, until I was hanging on like a monkey. I looked up. Only fifteen or so more feet to go. Piece of cake.

  Except the vines crawling up the trellis were roses. There were no flowers this time of year, but apparently thorns never went out of season. They tore at my black sweater and scratched at my hands through the gloves. I was going to look like I’d fallen off the back of a truck by the time I was done with this.

  Finally, I reached the balcony and swung one arm over it. I grasped blindly for a foothold, afraid for one moment my arms would give out and I’d go crashing down and impale myself on the spikes propping up the rosebushes. But then my foot touched solid wood, and I hooked my other arm over the railing and hauled myself up and over.

  I landed with a thud, on my hip instead of my feet. I scrambled into a crouch and stayed low behind the railing, watching the windows for a light to flicker on, listening for an unfamiliar voice to ring out. When nothing happened, I eased over to the French doors and tested the handle, in case it was unlocked.

  No such luck.

  Upstairs French doors typically had no keyholes, and this one was no exception. But I expected it would have multiple locks all the same, like the ones leading from our kitchen onto our wobbly iron balcony that I’d been practicing on: a simple horizontal bolt in the middle of the two doors, and four or more vertical sliding bolts to keep both doors from getting blown inward in a hurricane or an overly stiff breeze.

  The horizontal bolt I dispatched easily enough by sticking my knife’s blade through the crack between the doors and nudging the bolt slowly upward and out of my way.

  The vertical bolts were another matter. I held my switchblade between my teeth and pushed on the left-hand door at the top and then the bottom. The bottom had plenty of give, but the top held solid—that meant only the top bolt was latched. One bolt to deal with wasn’t so bad.

  I took the knife out of my teeth and threw my weight against the door to widen the crack. I saw a sliver of the dark room beyond, and excitement and fear welled up in my chest, making me almost giddy.

  I slid my knife into the crack and felt for the vertical bolt. I found it quickly, but I couldn’t find the little knob to pull it down. I fiddled and fiddled, but the more I fiddled, the more my hands shook, and the worse it went. My heartbeat started playing double time. Maybe I’d overestimated my lock-picking skills. Maybe someone would look out a window and spot me here and call the police.

  The crowbar’s cold metallic weight against the center of my back tempted me to use it and hurry things along. Breaking in that way would be easy, but it would make more noise. I’d risk waking the house.

  I raised up to glance over the railing at the clump of palmettos. Marion’s hands flew up in a what’s-taking-so-long? gesture. But at least he wasn’t saying Run for your life. We were still okay, for now.

  I turned back to the door and slipped the crowbar out of my belt, testing its weight in my hands. It might be my only option if I wanted to finish this job before sunrise.

  Through the many glass panes of the French doors, Arimentha’s bedroom was mostly hidden by gauzy curtains. A new thought occurred to me. What if someone was sleeping in there? Her distraught father, maybe, wanting to be where his daughter had been?

  All I could do was try to open the door, as planned, and if someone was in the bed, take off the way I’d come.

  I wedged the end of the crowbar into the door opening and glanced one more time at the dark windows down the side of the house. Then I shoved with all my might on the other end of the crowbar. The wood screeched and groaned, but I figured it was better to get all the sound over with quick and threw my weight behind the crowbar again and again until, with one last crack, the bolt came loose, and I was in.

  I stopped and waited and listened, trying not to breathe too hard.

  A slice of moonlight fell onto a thick rug, its colors washed silver and gray in the dark. The bed beyond it was like a black ship rising out of the night. I watched it, waiting for someone to stir, to sit up and point an accusing finger, to sound the alarm.

  But nothing happened. No sound met my ears except a clock somewhere far away chiming twice for the hour.

  I let out a heavy breath and stepped into the room. Shifted my grip on the crowbar and waited for my eyes to adjust to the deeper dark. The loose floorboard Marion had told me about was under the corner of the rug closest to the French doors, so some moonlight would reach me there.

  I moved slowly, keeping to the soft cushion of the rug, and knelt near the spot. I flipped back the corner of the rug and studied the barely visible cracks between the floorboards. I ran my fingers flat over the surface, feeling for thicker cracks, a breath of air, something t
o indicate which board was the right one. A rough edge snagged the fabric of my glove, and I traced it for several inches. I pushed on the board, and it wiggled a bit. This was it. It had to be.

  I eased the end of the crowbar into the crack and pushed. The board flipped up and landed flat on the wood behind it with a clatter.

  Shit. I didn’t have time to freeze and listen and wait again. Marion had said Arimentha’s father’s bedroom was two rooms away, but I couldn’t guarantee he hadn’t heard that. I ripped off my glove and reached into the dark opening, feeling with my fingers and hoping no spiders or rats had taken up residence in the past few days. On two sides I felt the rough wood of floor joists. On the third side, cool air and cobwebs. On the fourth, nothing but cool air.

  That was my best bet. I set down the crowbar on the rug and bent farther forward, shoving more of my arm into the hole until finally my fingertips touched something smooth and solid. The box.

  I gentled my touch, afraid of pushing the box out of reach. I moved my fingers to the corner of the box to get the best grip and tugged.

  “Come on,” I whispered into the dark, and the box started sliding my way.

  Something creaked behind me, like a footstep on floorboards. I spared a glance over my shoulder. Faint orange light shone under the crack of the bedroom door. My heart pounded faster, and I nearly lost my grasp on the box.

  But I almost had it; Arimentha’s darkest secrets were almost ours. I couldn’t let them go now. I tightened my grip and pulled. The box wasn’t deep, but it was wide and heavy, and it took both hands to ease it out of the narrow opening the floorboard created. I shoved the box under my arm, and the weight inside it shifted downward—the diary. Now I needed the key. It was supposed to be in an enameled bowl on Arimentha’s dressing table.

  But the floorboards outside the hall creaked again. The light under the door seemed brighter now, as if someone was carrying a lantern or a flashlight, and it was getting closer. I didn’t have time for the key. We’d have to pick the lock at home. This kind of lock was usually easy.