‘Phyllis, this is Juda . . .’
‘You must not call here again, I thought Mr Caley had made that clear to you. He will not allow you to speak to Elizabeth again.’
‘I know. It was you I wanted to talk to . . .’
Phyllis was almost whispering. ‘If it’s about any further payments I have been instructed by Mr Caley that—’
‘It isn’t, I just need to know something. I’ve had a visit from a woman working for a private investigation agency.’
‘You mean Mrs Page.’
‘Yeah, Lorraine Page, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, she’s been brought in.’
‘What day did you hire her?’
‘Last Tuesday, the same day you last came to see Mrs Caley. You know she was very distressed after you left and . . . hello?’
Juda was silent.
Phyllis sounded worried. ‘Hello? Are you still there? Is something wrong, has Mrs Page said something?’
‘No, no, I just needed to clear up my diary entries. Thank you, Phyllis, and please tell Elizabeth I am thinking of her and keeping Anna Louise’s presence in my mind, and I’ll wait for her to contact me. Bye now.’
Juda replaced the phone before Phyllis could ask anything else. She could tell herself it was coincidence but she knew it wasn’t. She sensed much more strongly than she would ever admit that Anna Louise Caley had been dead a long time – she knew that. What she hadn’t been able to make sense of until now was that on Tuesday night the message she’d received was so strong it had made her physically sick. A connection to the letter L had come up and burned in her brain, surrounded by fire and imminent danger. Now she was sure the L was for Lorraine Page, and there was a lot more than imminent danger . . . she was sure the woman was going to die, and in the same way as she had seen so clearly in her second trance state – Lorraine was going to get her throat cut.
Lorraine had borrowed Rosie’s heated Carmen rollers to style her hair. She wore a cream silk blouse, a tight, straight skirt with a slit down one side, and high-heeled shoes. She eased a dark blue linen jacket round her shoulders and stepped back to admire the effect.
Rosie stood in the kitchen, spooning up a vast bowl of cereal. ‘I dunno how you manage to get bargain of the month at every yard sale, nothin’ ever fits me. Very smart.’
‘Thank you, I need to feel good to take on Elizabeth Caley.’
‘Mm,’ Rosie muttered, milk dribbling down her chin. ‘You gonna take up his offer? Be nice to travel in style, private jet.’
Lorraine checked her purse and slim briefcase. ‘I’m not ready to leave LA yet, so we’ll see. In the meantime, there’s a list of things for you to be doing: arrange tickets, hotels and start packing. Call me if you need me on the mobile, maybe early afternoon, and see what Rooney and this hop-along guy come up with.’
‘Okay.’ Rosie looked down the neatly written list.
Shortly after Lorraine drove off down the road, Rooney screeched to a halt outside the apartment. He tooted the car horn; he’d started giving Rosie a ride into the office if he was passing. She thudded down the wooden steps and crossed over to his car as he opened the passenger door.
‘You just missed Veronica Lake, she’s gone to the Caleys’. But we have a list of orders and she wanted to know how you got on with Nick Bartello.’
Rooney pushed his shades up his shiny nose. ‘I got one bitch of a hangover, but any money he’s got an even worse one.’
Rosie looked at him more closely. ‘Jesus, where in hell did you get those shades?’
‘Found ’em in a drawer, I think they were my wife’s, why?’
Rosie grinned. ‘Well, I just didn’t reckon you’d be the kind of guy to wear pink-framed shades but they suit you, match your colouring, sorta flushed.’
Rooney drove on, his gut pressed against the steering-wheel. ‘Well, when I’m through with ’em you can have them. They’ll match whatever colour you describe your hair.’
‘Aw, shut up, you, it’s the perm. I’m a natural redhead and if you want I can prove it.’
‘God forbid, I couldn’t take that even without a hangover!’
Lorraine and the butler had another formal bowing session before he led her towards the drawing room.
‘I won’t be kept waiting again, will I?’ she asked.
He actually half-smiled. ‘Mrs Caley is expecting you, Mrs Page.’
At that moment Phyllis appeared and gestured for Lorraine to follow her up the wide staircase.
‘Please bring Mrs Caley’s breakfast, and for you, Mrs Page?’
‘Oh, I’d like a coffee, black with honey if you have it, thank you.’
He gave a curt nod and departed towards the kitchen corridor, as Lorraine continued up the stairs.
‘What’s his name again?’
‘Peters, Reginald Peters.’ Phyllis tapped on the double doors on the first landing.
‘Come in.’
Phyllis stepped back and ushered Lorraine into Elizabeth Caley’s drawing room, almost bumping into her as she stopped dead in her tracks. The drawing room was a profusion of perfumed flowers in vast displays on almost every available surface, and even though the shutters were drawn over the open windows, the pale lemon walls, drapes and carpet seemed to blend into each other as if the room was ablaze with sunlight. White muslin curtains billowed from brass curtain rods in contrast to the stillness of the designer-draped silk curtains with their golden fringes and tiebacks.
Elizabeth Caley was reclining on a white shot-silk chaise-longue, wearing a flowing kimono of dark green and yellow printed flowers. Her thick, pitch-black hair was braided in a long plait down her back and a tight white bandanna was wrapped round her head. She was creaming her delicate hands and smiled warmly at Lorraine.
‘Come in, darling. Please excuse me for not shaking hands but I have just had a manicure and the girl never uses enough moisturizer. Sit down.’
Lorraine looked around. There were scatter-cushions in profusion on every lemon shot-silk-covered chair and before she could decide which one to sit on Phyllis made the choice for her, drawing forward a spindle-legged armchair.
‘Thank you, Phyllis dear. Is Peters bringing refreshments?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, then you may leave us.’
Phyllis crept out, and Lorraine sat down, unzipping her briefcase and taking out her note-book.
‘Have you done something different to your hair?’
Lorraine smiled. ‘No, just washed it.’
‘You do it yourself?’
‘Yes. Thank you for seeing me.’
Peters entered, wheeling in a gilt trolley which held coffee, croissants, tea and iced water. He eased the trolley to beside Mrs Caley, passed her a white, stiffly laundered napkin and poured a greenish-looking tea. The china was fine porcelain. He poured black coffee and indicated a silver dish with honey for Lorraine.
Mrs Caley eased herself to a sitting position and wafted her hand. ‘Thank you, thank you, I’ll ring if we need anything else.’
‘Very good, Mrs Caley.’ He performed his backward half-bow out of the room and closed the doors silently behind him.
‘Would you care for a croissant?’
‘No, thank you.’
Lorraine spooned in the honey, careful not to let any drops fall on the white tray cloth. Elizabeth Caley picked up silver tongs and placed a warmed croissant on a plate, then some jam from a silver pot. Lorraine noticed that her smooth hands with their long, talon-like red nails were shaking, and she had to use both hands to sip from her delicate tea cup.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t see you yesterday but I am sure Phyllis made my apologies.’
‘She did.’
‘I don’t know what I would do without Phyllis. That is a very pretty blouse.’
‘Thank you.’ Lorraine balanced her cup and saucer on the arm of her chair, as she eased her note-book on to her lap. ‘I am sorry if I ask you questions that must have been put to you many times, but it is i
mportant. I will try not to take up too much of your time, as it must be distressing to . . .’
Elizabeth Caley nodded. She resembled Merle Oberon, with the same high forehead, enhanced now by the bandanna, and flawless skin. Her make-up, like everything else about her, was immaculate, her lips lightly outlined in a dark fuchsia. Whether or not her beauty had by now been assisted by surgery was immaterial, even at this close proximity her face appeared unlined. In comparison, Lorraine felt jaded, as any woman would. Elizabeth Caley had a fragility and femininity that in this day and age was ridiculed by feminists because, perfect creature as she was, she belonged to a different era. She would not dream of opening a door for herself – this was a woman used to having men break their necks to get to the door first.
‘Could you just tell me about February fifteenth, the day you left for New Orleans?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, I know you and Anna Louise were together before your husband returned from his office and—’
‘Oh, I see, yes, well, I had to oversee all the packing, we had some engagements, cocktail parties, dinners . . . Peters usually packs for Robert but I am very particular, I always have special tissue paper; it avoids creases, you know, if you lay tissue sheets between each garment.’
‘Did you pack for your daughter?’
‘Good heavens, no. Anna Louise is dreadful, and you know how young girls dress these days, jeans and T-shirts, and more jeans and T-shirts, sneakers. I think whoever invented those awful things should be shot. She just hurls things into cases, in fact, we had a little tiff about it because I asked Phyllis to make sure she had some of her nice things because we had a few formal engagements. Anyway, Phyllis oversaw her packing, I think, and then we had brunch on the terrace and waited for Robert. We then went to the airport and . . .’ She frowned. ‘Oh, yes, on the plane she saw something in Vogue or Elk magazine, a little black cocktail dress, and I was surprised because she really liked it. So we called home to ask Phyllis to collect it and arrange to have it delivered for when she returned.’
She frowned again, one long fingernail tapping the centre of her forehead. ‘Anna Louise was in high spirits, really looking forward to the trip and seeing her friends, especially Tilda Brown, an adorable girl. She often stayed here, we are all very fond of Tilda.’
‘Tilda Brown was scheduled to travel with you to New Orleans but—’
‘Oh, yes, yes, yes. She said she wanted to go earlier so Phyllis arranged it. I’ve no idea why, but you know young girls, silly waste of money, I suppose. Anyway, we left, drove to the airport and . . .’
Lorraine listened as Elizabeth Caley repeated, as her husband had done, almost word for word her original statement given to the police, from the moment that they arrived at the hotel until the dinner.
‘Can you think of anything, no matter how trivial it may seem, that you have not mentioned to anyone else?’
‘My dear, I have gone over and over those hours, as if seeing them on a screen, trying to find some clue, but there is nothing, nothing at all that I can recall. And that is what makes it so horrible, because I cannot think of a single thing that would be of help. She was happy, cheerful and looking forward to Carnival . . .’
‘Had she ever gone off alone before?’
‘Of course, but never without letting us know where she was going to, or who she was seeing. She is an intelligent girl, aware of the dangers of being out alone in the evenings, especially in the old French Quarter. I had even discussed with her the importance of always making sure we knew where she was. Obviously any young girl from Los Angeles is made very aware of the dangers of going off with strange men or accepting a ride, or drugs . . .’
‘Did she ever use drugs?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Did Anna Louise to your knowledge ever use drugs, smoke cannabis, for example?’
‘No, most definitely not, she doesn’t even smoke cigarettes. And very rarely drinks, perhaps a glass of champagne, nothing more. She is, you see, very health-conscious, very athletic really. She loves sports and obviously any over-indulgence in drugs or alcohol would be adverse to her. I am not making her to be a goody-two-shoes, she is not perfect. She can throw tantrums and get angry, just like any other girl of her age.’
‘Tantrums?’
‘Well, I don’t know if that is the correct description. She is very spoilt, I know, more by Robert than myself, and she can twist him round her little finger, always has done since she was a baby. He dotes on her but he can also be very firm.’
‘Is your daughter the main beneficiary of your will?’
‘Why do you ask?’
Lorraine chose her words carefully. ‘Well, there is no evidence that your daughter has been kidnapped, no ransom note, no contact. I am simply trying to find if there is a motive . . .’
For a fleeting moment Lorraine saw Mrs Caley hesitate.
‘Yes, she does benefit from my will.’
‘Your daughter is the main beneficiary?’
‘Yes, but she is also the main beneficiary of my husband’s will. Did you ask him the same question?’
Lorraine kept her eyes down as if concentrating on her notes. ‘Yes.’
‘Ah, I see. Yes, well, if anything happened Anna Louise would automatically be the sole beneficiary. And if, God forbid, anything did happen to Anna, then Robert is obviously the next of kin, and vice versa.’
Lorraine looked up, concerned, because Elizabeth Caley was shaking and now it was not just her hands, her whole body visibly trembled.
‘Are you all right?’
‘What has happened to my daughter?’
‘I don’t know, Mrs Caley, but I will do everything I can to find out.’
‘Do you think she is dead?’
‘Until I have more details I really can’t answer that question.’
Elizabeth slowly rose to her feet, holding on to the edge of the chaise-longue. Lorraine watched as she used the furniture to cross the room, grasping the back of a chair for a moment, then the edge of a cabinet. ‘Excuse me, just a . . . Please help yourself to more coffee.’
Lorraine stood up, ready to assist her, but Elizabeth supported herself against the door leading into her bedroom and before Lorraine could help her had walked out, the door banging shut behind her.
Lorraine poured herself a cup of fresh coffee and then noticed a dark wet stain on the chaise-longue where Elizabeth Caley had been reclining. Was she incontinent? She tried to recall the moment when she had noticed Mrs Caley shaking or trembling – was it when she asked about who was to be the main beneficiary?
Phyllis entered, nodded curtly at Lorraine and uttered a quiet ‘Excuse me’ before she slipped into the bedroom.
Lorraine waited about ten minutes. Phyllis came out of the bedroom and gave a brittle smile. ‘I’ll just get some fresh tea. Would you care for more coffee?’
‘No, thank you, I’m fine. Is Mrs Caley all right?’
‘Yes, she just gets tired very easily so I hope you won’t keep her much longer.’
Phyllis quickly slipped one of the scatter-cushions over the stained chaise-longue and then began wheeling out the trolley. As she got to the doors, a shrill, high-pitched voice from the bedroom called out her name. ‘Phyllis . . . Phyllis!’
Lorraine watched as the woman scuttled back to the bedroom and disappeared from view. She could hear her whispered voice but was unable to make out what she was saying. Then Peters walked in and before Lorraine could say a word he had wheeled the trolley out. She saw the intercom on the telephone flashing and again heard Phyllis’s low voice. This time she crept closer to the bedroom door.
‘I think you should. I can ask her to leave. Fine, yes, I’ll tell her.’
Lorraine only just made it back to her chair when Phyllis walked in from the bedroom. ‘Peters took out the trolley.’
‘I think, Mrs Page, you had better leave because—’
‘Get out, Phyllis.’ Elizabeth Caley now wore a different ki
mono and was tying the silk sash tightly around her waist. ‘I’ll tell Mrs Page when she can go, not you. Go on, get out. And I want some fresh tea and she wants whatever she was having.’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you. And if it is inconvenient for me to stay—’
‘It isn’t. Go on, Phyllis, go away.’
Phyllis sighed and walked out.
‘She can be so bloody interfering.’ Elizabeth crossed to a glass-topped table crammed with photographs and ornaments. She opened a cigarette box and took out a long, thin cigarette. She flicked an onyx lighter, shaking it.
Lorraine took out her own and was just about to light Mrs Caley’s cigarette when the onyx lighter caught. She sucked in the smoke and tossed the lighter down on to a chair.
The beauty had gone, her perfectly made-up face like some kind of mask. ‘I don’t want you interfering? Her voice was shrill, and her hands, with the claw-like nails, tightened the kimono sash. Like a cheap whore, she let the cigarette dangle from her fuchsia-coloured lips. ‘Mrs Page, you do what I paid you for. And I will withdraw my offer of a bonus if you see Mrs Juda Salina again. She knows nothing about my daughter.’ Elizabeth held up a sheet of her private notepaper. Scrawled in her own handwriting was her agreement to pay the bonus. ‘As I said, one million if you find my daughter. But if you talk with Juda Salina, I will not pay you a cent. Do you understand what I am saying? You won’t get one more payment.’
Elizabeth Caley’s voice had changed. The elongated vowels were creeping in, as if she was reverting to her Louisiana accent. It fascinated Lorraine, and she knew that whatever Elizabeth Caley had taken in her bedroom was either cocaine, speed or some kind of stimulant because she was hyper – smoking, pacing, clutching continually at the belt of her kimono. ‘I need to trust you.’
Lorraine folded the note. ‘You can, Mrs Caley, you can trust me.’
‘Okay, okay, that’s fine, that’s good. Yes, that’s good, I need to trust, I need to, understand me? You understand me?’
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