by Mary McCoy
I was afraid to open my mouth, worried that I’d say the wrong thing, or say too much to this woman who’d practically come right out and said that she was no friend to my sister. The heavy curtains made it seem stuffy and airless inside the apartment, and the prickly fabric of the couch chafed against the backs of my legs. Ruth regarded me coolly and nursed her soda.
“Annie sent me a message, and all it said was the name of this place. But I don’t know why.”
“You do know this was the first place Annie stayed when she left home, right?”
I shook my head.
“Before my time, but it was,” she said. “Rex put her up.”
Rex. There was that name again.
And then I remembered that today wasn’t the first time I’d heard it. The night Randall Pensler gave me a ride home, he’d said a talent scout named Rex was always chatting Annie up. It had to have been the same person.
“At least he did until Annie figured out that Rex was tight with your father. That was why she split.” She took a delicate sip from her bottle. “That and other reasons.”
“Wanda said something about a boyfriend.”
Ruth waved me off. “Wanda always says something about a boyfriend when someone comes around looking for one of the girls. It makes them go away.”
“Oh,” I said. “So, how do you know her, then?”
“Be patient, Alice. It’s still my turn,” Ruth said, wagging her finger at me. My mouth clapped shut. “So, your sister sends you a message, and you come just like that.”
“She’s my sister.”
“And you came because you thought she’d be here?”
I wondered if this was a trick question, if Ruth already knew good and well where Annie was but was trying to catch me in a lie. Still, better that, I thought, than to tell her too much. I nodded.
“Did you show Annie’s message to anyone?”
“No.”
“Did you tell anyone you were coming here?”
I didn’t answer.
“I’ll take that as a ‘no.’”
Ruth chuckled to herself. I could feel sweat start to bead and drip on my brow, on the tip of my nose, on the backs of my knees. It had been a mistake to come here. For some reason, I began to think about how angry Jerry Shaffer would be if he knew I was here.
“So what you’re telling me,” she said, “is you don’t know where Annie is right now.”
“Yes,” I lied.
“And you’re sure that’s all she said in her message? Stratford Arms?”
“I’m sure of it. I swear.”
“Don’t ever say ‘I swear,’” Ruth said. “It makes you sound like a liar every time.”
“I’m not lying.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
We stared at each other, radiating dislike and not bothering to hide the fact.
“Did you have something you wanted to ask me?”
I did, but the problem was, now I didn’t know where to begin. Who was this woman? How did she know my sister if she didn’t move to Stratford Arms until after Annie left? How did Annie wind up in a seedy place like this? I wanted to know all of it, but at that moment, there was another question that seemed more important.
“Who is Rex?” I asked.
No sooner were the words out of my mouth than an engine revved, sputtered, and stalled so spectacularly that Ruth and I heard it all the way from the street. A panicked look flashed across Ruth’s face. She knew that car.
She pulled me up from the couch and said, “Go out the back, through the kitchen. There’s a hole in the fence you can slip through.”
I started to protest, but then I heard heavy footsteps coming up the sidewalk. Ruth’s eyes grew large, and she whispered, “Go.”
I went. Or at least I started to. I got as far as opening the screen door, but then let it fall shut. Ruth could have left me eavesdropping outside Wanda’s window, but she hadn’t. And whoever was coming up the sidewalk right now was trouble. Annie wouldn’t have left her alone, and I wouldn’t, either.
There was a small closet pantry next to the back door. Quickly, I opened the door and wedged myself in, being careful not to trip over the mop and bucket in the dark. As I closed the door behind me, I heard a gruff man’s voice ask, “Where is she?”
He was big—I could tell from the sounds he made hulking around in the living room, and the shuffling sounds Ruth made getting out of his way.
“She just went out the back, Rex. You can still catch her,” Ruth said, and I choked back a gasp.
“Why’d you let her get away?” Rex snarled.
“I didn’t let her do anything,” Ruth snarled back. “Now, are you going to stand here and yell at me, or are you going to go after her?”
Footsteps rushed through the kitchen, past the pantry door, and crashed through the screen door.
At first, I couldn’t breathe. My chest felt like it had been crushed and my hands shook. I didn’t have much time. In a few moments, Rex would figure out I hadn’t gone out the back door and he’d come back. And if I tried to run for the front door, Ruth was there. She’d already sold me out. Maybe she’d scream, maybe she’d do something worse. Still, I decided, between the two of them, I’d take my chances with her.
My eyes adjusted to the dark pantry, and I felt around on the shelves for something I could use to defend myself. My hands settled on two interesting items. The first was more immediately practical, a heavy wooden rolling pin. The second puzzled me at first. It felt like a bag of flour, but was too small and the wrapping paper too rough. It was sealed with masking tape, and though I’d never seen anything like it before, I’d read enough crime novels to know what it was. And I realized what a tough cookie like Ruth was doing in a dump like the Stratford Arms, rubbing elbows with a thug like Rex. She’d have a ready stream of potential customers among the desperate, disappointed girls Rex put up here, hungry for a dose or two of oblivion.
I put the package down and brandished the rolling pin over my shoulder like a baseball bat. It felt solid, like I could do some real damage with it if I needed to, which reassured me. Slowly, I opened the pantry door.
There was no sign of Rex, but I caught Ruth rushing out of one of the bungalow’s back rooms. She froze in the center of the kitchen when she saw me.
“Just let me go,” I said, choking up on the rolling pin as I advanced toward the front parlor. “Please.”
Ruth looked up, her eyes wide with disbelief. I saw something else in them, too. Maybe it was relief, maybe it was shame, but either way, I didn’t quite believe it.
“Sorry, Alice,” she said. “I didn’t have a choice.”
Didn’t have a choice? I thought. You could have at least given me a head start.
Then I ran out into the parlor, opened the front door, and ran away from the Stratford Arms as fast as my legs would carry me. It was two blocks before I realized I was still carrying the rolling pin.
If I was being followed, I didn’t want to risk leading Rex right to Annie’s hospital bed, so I went home instead. It seemed like an eternity ago that I’d burglarized my father’s office, but to my parents, neither one an early riser, the crime was still fresh.
“Where have you been?” my mother said, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me a little harder than she’d probably meant to.
“I was with Cassie,” I said. “Didn’t you get my note?”
“Note? What note?”
“The one I left in the kitchen.”
“In the kitchen?” she screeched, as though only the slightly dim-witted left notes in kitchens. “Well, never mind. You’d better come into the parlor and sit down. We’ve all had a terrible shock this morning, haven’t we, Nick?”
My father’s sigh was audible from the next room.
“Don’t be melodramatic, Vivian.”
Though it was well into the afternoon, my mother still looked fashionably idle in her peignoir, her blond pin curls pulled off her face with a pale blue headband
. Only members of our immediate family knew that even this purposely disheveled look would have required at least a full hour of primping.
“Come with me, dear,” she said, and pulled me toward the parlor by my arm, a slightly crazed look on her face.
I choked back a gasp as I entered the room. Sitting on the couch with a sweaty glass of iced tea, and looking very ill at ease, was Jerry Shaffer. He met my eyes only for a second, but even from across the room, I could read his message clear as day: Play dumb, kid.
There might have been a bit of something else in his look, too. Why aren’t you at the hospital? I ignored it and shot him back a look of my own: What are you doing here?
My father motioned to the chair next to him, and I took it.
“Alice, it seems we had a little break-in last night.”
“Really?” I asked, trying my best to look as though I was surprised by this news.
Jerry cleared his throat and looked to my father for permission to speak. He nodded his assent.
“The burglar came in through your father’s office window. That’s the only room in the house that seems to have been disturbed.”
“Did they take anything?” I asked.
“Well, that’s just it,” Jerry said. “Your father and I have gone over the room from top to bottom, and can’t find a thing missing. Nothing valuable, anyway.”
My father motioned in Jerry’s direction. “Alice, this is Jerry Shaffer. He’s a private investigator. He helps us out at the studio from time to time.”
My mother stood at the bar, mixing herself a sidecar. After stirring it with a swizzle stick, she flopped down dramatically on the chaise longue by the window and took an unladylike swig.
“My nerves are just shattered,” she said, by way of apology for her afternoon drinking. “Nick, I don’t understand why you couldn’t just call the police about this.”
He scowled at her and said, “Vivian, you know how I feel about those people pawing around through our things. They stir up trouble. Besides, what crime is there to report?”
“What crime?” she hooted. “We could have been butchered in our sleep. And what about your office? Vandalism! Trespassing! Breaking and entering! How are those for crimes?”
“Mrs. Gates,” Jerry said, speaking gently to her, “from the condition of your husband’s office, it seems that the perpetrator was looking for something in particular.”
She gave a grim laugh. “A particular perpetrator. What will they think of next?”
“If that’s indeed the case,” he continued, “your husband believes that handling this quietly and privately might be the best way to determine what he or she was looking for.”
Was it my imagination, or did Jerry look right at me when he said “she”? Apparently, my mother settled on the same detail.
“She?” she asked. “You think a woman did this?”
“It’s possible, perhaps even likely,” Jerry said. “There’s a footprint in the dirt underneath the office window. A rather small footprint.”
My parents exchanged uneasy, meaningful glances. My father cleared his throat and said, “Alice, would you excuse us, please? There are a few things your mother and I need to discuss with Mr. Shaffer in private.”
“Of course,” I said, turning to Jerry as I stood up. “It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Shaffer.”
As I went up the stairs, I heard Jerry say, “Well, she’s got nice manners,” without even bothering to keep the smirk out of his voice.
I went to my room, opened the door, shut it again without going in, and crept back to the top of the stairs so I could hear what was going on.
“I don’t know why she’d come poking around here after all these years, Jerry.”
My mother chimed in. “She could have come back any time she liked. And through the front door, too.”
“Of course, Mrs. Gates,” Jerry said.
“I’m afraid she’s unstable,” my father said. “I’m worried what she might do.”
“Do you have any idea where she is now?” he asked.
Jerry wasn’t giving up a scrap of information to them, though I wasn’t sure why not. If he was really a detective for the studio, he’d know which side his bread was buttered on. There wasn’t any money in protecting Annie, and Insignia Studios had deep pockets. I wondered if he was planning to string them along for a day or two of pay, plus expenses, or if he was working some other angle.
“The last time I heard anything, she was living in some flophouse on Main Street.” My father sighed deeply. “That was months ago.”
“It’s someplace to start, sir.”
“Just find her, Jerry. And when you do, bring her straight to me.”
“It’s only that we’re worried,” my mother added. “If she could do this, who knows what state she’s in. I can’t imagine what’s become of her.”
Jerry asked, “During the time that your daughter has been missing, have you ever gone to the police or engaged the services of another detective to look for her?”
I heard a glass, slammed down on the coffee table.
“What do you mean by that?” my mother asked.
“Please, I wasn’t implying anything,” Jerry said. “It’s just helpful to know these things.”
“He’s right, Vivian. And, yes, we did keep tabs on her for a while. Annie left on a whim, and we always thought she’d come home when she’d had enough of being on her own. Rumors would get back to me from time to time about where she was and what she was doing. Then, a few months ago, we lost track of her completely.”
“I see. Did she ever try to contact you?”
“No.”
Liar, I thought. I hated my father at that moment. The way he described it all to Jerry was so smooth, so shrugged off, it was like he thought Annie left as a spiteful prank on the rest of us. We always thought she’d come home when she’d had enough of being on her own. Like he’d never worried, never missed her, never seen the moment she left as the moment we stopped being a family.
Then again, my father had had someone feeding him information about where my sister was, what she was doing, whether she was safe. He’d known Annie was at the Stratford Arms, under the watchful eye of his dear friend Rex.
Rex put her up…at least he did until Annie figured out that he was tight with your father.
I thought my trip to the Stratford Arms had been a mistake, but Ruth had given me a scrap of useful information after all. I still didn’t really know who Rex was, but I knew he wasn’t the kind of person who came to my parents’ cocktail parties. How did my father know him? Why did my father know him? I was so absorbed in thought that I almost missed hearing my mother say she thought she had a picture of my sister upstairs. I scuttled on all fours back to my room, as quickly and quietly as I could, turned the doorknob gently, and shut the door behind me without letting the latch catch. I’d had lots of practice at that, having learned from the world’s sneakiest big sister.
After I heard her pass the door a second time, I closed it completely and sat down on my bed to think about everything I’d overheard. What I really wanted to do was to crawl out my window and catch Jerry the moment he stepped outside, and make him tell me everything. But, of course, that would have to wait. I was sure that as soon as he left, my parents would be waiting to tell me a ludicrous story about my unstable, burglarizing sister.
It wasn’t just that they lied about important things. It was that they didn’t even try to make them sound half true. When I asked why Annie left, they told me she didn’t want to be part of our family anymore. When I asked my father where he’d been all weekend, he told me he was working, and when I asked my mother why I didn’t play piano at her parties anymore, she said I was getting too old for that sort of thing.
If there’s one good thing about having your questions tossed off with silly explanations, it’s that you get good at noticing when things don’t make sense, and good at filling in the blanks for yourself.
I was sure it was on
ly a matter of time before they came to my room, ready to fill my head with well-rehearsed lies. I sat on my bed and waited for it, but when the knock on my door came, they were dressed in their evening clothes and on their way to Ciro’s for cocktail hour and dinner. My mother kissed the air near my cheek so as not to smudge her lipstick, and my father told me to be a good girl and not to stay up too late. Neither of them said a word about Jerry Shaffer and the so-called burglary as they breezed out of the house in a cloud of perfume and cognac.
As soon as they were gone, I got out the phone book and paged through the listings for private investigators until I found Jerry Shaffer, and dialed DUnkirk 4-2390. The phone rang about ten times before he answered, sounding out of breath.
“It’s me,” I said.
“Thought I’d be hearing from you, kid. Now’s not a good time.”
“What were you doing at my house?”
“Alice, I’m on my way out. I’ll explain later.”
“No,” I said.
“What happened to those nice manners?” he said with a chuckle.
I wasn’t in a joking mood. “I thought you said my father was a piece of work. Why are you working for him?”
“I said we’ll talk about it later.”
“You can help him or you can help Annie. Which is it?”
There was a long pause, then a sigh.
“I came to your father very highly recommended by the head of security at Insignia Pictures, who happens to be a good friend of mine. Let’s just say that for five bucks, it was no skin off his nose to tell your father that he was putting his best man on the case.”
“He just turned everything over to you like that?” I asked, a little shocked. “You could have been anybody.”
“Film people get hysterical over the littlest things, and they’re paranoid about police, too. They get a nasty letter, or somebody looks at them funny at the stoplight, and they go to pieces. If a big star like Ava Gardner makes that phone call, you’d better believe they send out the cavalry, but for a small fish like your father? And for a break-in where nothing was actually stolen?”
“They send you.”
“That’s right. As far as my buddy knew, business was slow and I needed the work. And may I remind you that all of this is your fault anyway?”