Final Curtain: An Edna Ferber Mystery (Edna Ferber Mysteries)

by Ed Ifkovic

  “How does that translate into a belief he’s a killer?”

  A puzzled look on her face. “I dunno. That’s what he told me.”

  “Meaka, I don’t know who killed Evan. That’s the truth.”

  “But you wanted to pin it on Gus.” She seethed. “But Gus got murdered.”

  “Perhaps Gus’ politics did him in.”

  She shook her head vigorously. “No, it ain’t so.”

  “The New York police are on it.”

  “Like they care. Did you read the paper this morning?”

  I hesitated. “No. Why?”

  “It said the police believe Gus was singled out by someone. Witnesses testifying to that. Like someone pushed through that crowd, edged near him, waited till the train came, and then shoved.”

  “An old man, I read yesterday.”

  “Nonsense.” She wore the look now of a smug, bratty girl who raised her hand to answer all the teacher’s questions. “The article said some witness said it looked like an old man but the moustache and white hair was something out of a vaudeville show or something.”

  “Still…”

  “And then this old, old man scooted up the steps like a fifteen-year-old boy, lickety-split. Do you hear what I’m saying, Miss Ferber? A disguise.”

  I reflected on her words. “So he was chosen from the crowd.” The knowledge hit me full-force. It wasn’t political, this death, not the fiery anger of an anti-fascist zealot. Gus was targeted. “Intriguing.”

  “Yes, ain’t it?”

  She tapped the canvas bag. “The only thing I regret is that Gus didn’t tell me things. He had secrets. I know he cared for me—took care of me—but he thought I was stupid. He thought women was stupid.” She grinned. “He thought you was stupid.”

  “Me?” An unnecessary shriek from me.

  “Because you believed Dak. Gullible, he called you. ‘A sex-starved lady whimpering about a handsome Valentino boy.’ His words.”

  I fumed. “How dare he!” Then, sheepish, I told myself: Lord, the man is dead, Edna. Murdered. He’s beyond your censorious tongue.

  “But Gus told me he had a secret.”

  “But of what? Any idea?”

  Again, the dumb-ox shrug. “Dunno.”

  “You must have some idea.” I leaned forward, frustrated. This young woman, so hapless and bungling, held the key to something. I knew it to my marrow.

  A sly grin appeared on her face. She reached into the canvas bag and grabbed a handful of papers. Releasing her clumsy grip—I noticed dark yellow cigarette stains on her fingertips—the papers spilled across the table. Those infernal leaflets she and Gus had handed out and tacked to poles: Nazi propaganda, warnings about the Jewish international banking elite, the sanctity of precious Aryan blood, the blotchily reprinted figurehead of Hitler, a grainy reproduction that highlighted those insane eyes and that musical-revue moustache. Involuntarily, my hand swept them away from me. Meaka grabbed some and shoved them back into the bag.

  As she lifted a pile of them, a wad of elastic-bound cash rolled away and bounced onto the floor. Quickly, Meaka retrieved it, wrapped her fingers around it, and cradled it to her chest, her head tilted up, a beautiful smile on her lips. It reminded me, perversely, of some Renaissance Madonna and Child depiction, so ecstatic and lovely was her look. A woman cradling precious money, a curious distortion of a venerated icon. “What?”

  “He didn’t tell me he had all this money. I didn’t know it was in there.” Her fingers lovingly caressed the wad of cash.

  “What’s your point, Meaka?”

  She tucked the money back into the bag, though she tapped it affectionately first. Then, her eyes scanning the table, she reached for a small white envelope. “This.” She pushed it across the table at me. “This was hidden in an inside pocket.”

  Inside the envelope were two slips of paper, small, torn sheets, both folded over and crumpled.

  The first was written in a sloppy penmanship, with splotchy ink: Yeah, I know. I don’t owe you, friend. We’ll see about that.

  I looked up, confused.

  She peered forward to see which note I was reading. “Evan wrote that.”

  “What does it mean?”

  Her voice got low, mean. “The secret I couldn’t know about.”

  I opened the other slip.

  Leave Nadine alone, Evan. I mean it. I swear you’re going to pay. I’ll hurt you. I mean it. Leave Nadine alone. You better listen now. Dak.

  Meaka was watching me, a triumphant look on her face. “You see, Miss Ferber. Dak killed Evan.”

  I turned the note over—nothing on the back. I pushed it across the table, and Meaka grabbed it. “How do you know he wrote it?”

  “Of course, he did.”

  I thought of something. “Why would this note to Evan be in Gus’ bag? Why would Evan give it to Gus?”

  “Maybe Gus took it off him. Another secret.”

  “What was Gus going to do with it?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Did Gus talk about trying to break into Evan’s room—when he was stopped by Constable Biggers?”

  She nodded. “Yeah.”

  “What was he after?”

  “Maybe these.” She pointed to the slips of paper.

  I shook my head vigorously. “No, he was stopped before he got inside. I was there. Think about it, Meaka—wouldn’t he want Constable Biggers to find Dak’s note? It’s incriminating.”

  “Maybe he went back.”

  And so did I, I mused. And this note was not there, so far as I knew. “I don’t think so.”

  “It doesn’t matter how it got in Gus’ bag, Miss Ferber. It’s just, you know, that it got there. And Gus had it. It’s proof that Dak killed Evan.”

  “Because of Evan’s attention to Nadine?”

  “Those two are still in love.”

  “So what?”

  “So Dak was real protective of Nadine. I mean, you’ve seen her—she’s this…this wilting violet, bloodless, skin and bones. A weepy girl.”

  “Unlike you?”

  She bit her lip. “I can take care of myself. No one can use me.”

  “Except for Gus.”

  She didn’t like that. “That ain’t fair.”

  “So be it, Meaka. It may be poor taste to speak ill of the dead, but I’ve done it before and never regretted it. And somehow Gus Schnelling needs to be spoken ill of, even after his horrific death. The day he signed on as a Nazi he forfeited his right to compassion from souls like me.”

  She looked baffled. “What are you talking about?”

  “And that’s the sad thing here, my dear. You don’t understand.”

  “Well, anyway, Gus got a hold of the note. Somehow.”

  I waited a heartbeat. “Maybe he took it off Evan’s body after he shot him.”

  She screamed so loudly that Mamie Trout came flying out from behind her counter.

  “It’s all right.” I waved her away.

  “How can you?” Meaka was trembling.

  “It’s a possibility, no?” Meaka had placed the notes on the table, but I reached over to take them back. “Gus was in a hurry to get into Evan’s room. There was something there that might implicate him. Maybe”—I pointed to the first note—“this is a piece of evidence. He was blackmailing Evan.”

  Her head was swaying back and forth, a puppet’s wooden head loosed from its strings. “No, no. no.”

  I turned over the note from Dak. Something bothered me about it, and then it hit me. “Meaka, Dak’s note is yellowing, dark at the edges. It’s an old note.” I pointed to it, happy with my discovery. “I think this note may date back to Hollywood. A time when Evan was in both Nadine and Dak’s lives. And Dak not happy. This is not recent. It was stored away, saved—as Evan did with so many pieces of his Hollyw
ood past.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “I don’t think I am.” I watched her face now. She was considering what I just said. “But I do wonder why everyone came to Maplewood this summer.” I smiled. “Not to see my debut as an actress, surely. Evan, Gus, even Nadine.” Idly, I thought: even Frank. Why? “Was everyone looking for Dak? Evan, the pied piper from Hollywood?”

  Meaka breathed in. “Miss Ferber, Gus was scared.”

  That stopped me cold. “What do you mean?”

  “He’d never admit to it. That’s not the way soldiers for Hitler are built. But I could see it in his eyes. He was scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “That’s part of the secret. He didn’t tell me.”

  I sat back, eyes narrowed. “Why are you telling me all this, Meaka? You don’t like me.”

  She bit the corner of a fingernail, a squirrel-like gnawing at her cuticle. “I gotta tell someone. I mean, you’re…like a writer.”

  “So?”

  “You are the only one who’ll listen to me.”

  “So go to the police.” I shook the papers. “With these.”

  “No. No police.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  Suddenly her face caved in. “I don’t know. I got no one here to talk to. Gus is dead.”

  A small part of me relented, as I softened my tone. “Go home, Meaka. Leave this…this Nazi stuff behind.” I waved one of the vagrant propaganda sheets left on the table.

  “I gotta do this for Gus now.”

  “Go home. Where do you live?”

  “Newark.”

  “Go home.”

  “No.” The obstinate look, stolid, dull. She touched the swastika pin on her dress.

  The door opened and George walked in, stopping short when he saw me sitting with the Nazi maiden. “Edna, I’ve been looking for you.” But he was looking at Meaka. “I just got through talking to Constable Biggers. The FBI just left Gus’ room.” He looked at Meaka. “Hello, fraulein.” She refused to look up.

  “Did they find anything in Gus’ room?”

  He pursed his lips. “Just stacks of dirty clothing on the floor. A Spartan room, he said. So little there—a stack of Nazi pamphlets and some swastika armbands.” He leaned into Meaka. “Hello, fraulein. Wie gehts?” She turned away.

  “How nice.”

  “Nothing else.” He continued to look at Meaka as he slid into a chair opposite her. “They’re looking for this young lady now.”

  Meaka jumped up and grabbed the two notes, stuffing them into the white envelope, and placing it into the bag. She started to zip it shut, but the zipper snagged, refused to move. She whimpered like a hurt kitten. Then, fumbling with the bag, she swiveled, knocking a chair over, and rushed out of the café.

  “Meaka, wait,” I yelled. I stood and followed her outside. The screen door slammed behind me. “The police…”

  She was shaking her head wildly as she tottered away.

  “Was it something I said?” George had followed me outside, the two of us on the sidewalk, watching Meaka try to run.

  “Look at her, weaving in and out of traffic.”

  “Constable Biggers is waiting at the train station, where she seems to be headed.”

  As she ran, she waved her arms wildly. At one point she stopped, dipped into the canvas bag, and pulled out a stack of Nazi flyers. With one chaotic move, she hurled them into the air, and they scattered onto the street. The wind from passing cars spread them about. One flew by us—Hitler’s sour face immediately trampled by the tires of a car. Meaka moved in a straight line now, determined, headed for the train. Paralyzed, we stood there, George and I, watching the approaching world war rushing away from us.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Clorinda Tyler phoned me late that afternoon, panic in her voice. Nothing of the melodic, sweeping lilt of her transcendent sermon now, but instead, a strident cry of an animal penned up.

  “Clorinda, for God’s sake, what is it?”

  “Can we meet? I know I need to see Constable Biggers, but the man…well, the man slams me into silence, the way he stares, accusing, that dreadful pad in those claw-like fingers.”

  “A little melodramatic, no? He’s simply doing his job.”

  “Really? I step out the front door of the Assembly of God, those times with Dak at my side, and there he is, a statue, never saying anything, just staring. My Lord, had we lived in Salem, we’d all be hanging from a noose, innocence be damned.”

  “What can’t you tell him?”

  “Could you please meet at the Marlborough Inn? Around seven? I dislike going into the Village—people stare. An early dinner. On me, of course. Ilona has errands in town, and will join us. I know she can be…Well, you’ve met her.”

  “Seven is fine.” I breathed in. “I was scheduled to dine with George and…”

  She interrupted. “Oh, please, Edna. Not this time. He can be so…irreverent. Funny, yes, and I do appreciate wit, sardonic remarks, that repartee you New Yorkers cultivate. But last time he offended Tobias with his smart-aleck comments. Oh no. Please.”

  “And I didn’t? With my remarks? You seemed to be made furious by my bringing up Nadine’s name.”

  A little sob, swallowed. “Please, Edna, not now. Not that woman, that home-wrecking ingénue with too much lipstick and too few brains. Well, you I forgive…you’re a woman who understands agony. I can see that in your face. I mean…everything…”

  I cut her off. “All right. Seven. By my lonesome.” A heartbeat. “Should I bring a pad?”

  A whoop of false laughter. “Droll, Edna, that’s what you are. Seven.”

  She started to say something else, but I hung up the phone.

  I looked for George, then jotting down notes backstage, his brow furrowed. He glared at me. “You know, Edna, Shaw said that theater should make folks feel, make them think, and make then suffer. But these days only directors like me seem to suffer…”

  I cut him off, telling him about Clorinda’s frantic phone call—and his omission from dinner.

  “Well, so the gods favor me this evening. A first, I’d say. There’s only so much heaven my bloodstream can absorb.”

  “Pity me then.”

  “Almost everyone does, Edna.”

  “Don’t expect me to summarize what happens later tonight.”

  “Edna, Edna, a glass of merlot and you’re a chatterbox.”

  ***

  “It’s all too horrible for words,” Clorinda slipped into a chair opposite me at the Marlborough Inn and whispered the words. I’d been seated for a few minutes, waiting, and Clorinda seemed to float in, a woman in layers of apricot taffeta, trailing a heady scent of lavender. Heads turned and she nodded at them, the star of the show, huzzahs and bouquets.

  “What’s horrible?”

  She leaned in. “I had words with Dak. We never have words. We are a loving mother and son, always. Always. What we’ve been through—dreadful—our early days. I know I get on his nerves because I get infused with the spirit and he stares as one befuddled, but we never fight. Argue. Ever.” She stressed the word, stretching it out.

  “Tell me.” Impatient, I looked for a waiter.

  She whispered again. “It’s because of the note. Ever since we learned about that…that horrible Gus being pushed to his death, there seems to be a pall on everything. Dak is so grumpy with everyone, short with Annika. I mean, Annika can be a little severe—she hasn’t learned the grace of God demands a lighter spirit—but he ignores her. Evan murdered, and now this Gus. We assumed all along that Gus murdered Evan. For whatever reason. None of our business, really. It was…well…convenient.”

  “Clorinda, really! Convenient?”

  “Oh, you know what I mean. I’m not heartless, but he was an odd young man. All that sickening Nazi spewing.
Unnerving, no? Of course, Evan was his own worst enemy. The boy with the mirror stuck to his own face. I remember telling Dak when I rescued him in California from that two-bit actress harlot that Evan was a man to be shunned. The way he slid into your presence, a viper, like nothing could happen in the world until he showed up.” She was watching me too closely, I felt, her eyes wary. Suddenly I didn’t trust her.

  “And then Evan showed up in Maplewood.”

  A narrowing of the eyes. “And look what happened to him. The mills of God grind slowly but they grind exceedingly small.”

  “I don’t know if that tired expression applies to a sudden gunshot to the heart. Or, for that matter, a shove off a subway platform.”

  She ignored me, twisting her head around to gaze at the other diners.

  “Clorinda, back up a second. What note? You mentioned a note you and Dak argued over.”

  “Well, not argued—more debated…”

  I held up my hand. “Stop, Clorinda. Tell me. Stop! You circle around like a sun-drenched butterfly.”

  “Dak found it. He has rooms at Mrs. Judson’s home, you know. The old mother-in-law apartment she has. It was in a manila envelope, sealed, his name on the front. Block letters.” She reached into a purse and extracted the folded-over envelope. Her hand trembled as she handed it to me.

  I withdrew the slip of paper and read the bold print: BEWARE! YOUR NEXT! TIMES 3. A FRIEND.

  I read it again, out loud. Clorinda gasped, as though hearing it for the first time.

  “Dak brought that to you?” I asked.

  She nodded and looked on the verge of tears. “He was taking it to that…that…Constable Biggers, but I grabbed it from him.”

  “Not wise, Clorinda.”

  “It’s just too terrible.”

  “Well,” I remarked, “it may just be the work of a mischief-maker, some town scamp. Or, I suppose, it’s real.”

  Again, the gasp. “Tell me what to do.”

  “We do what Dak started to do. Hand it over to Constable Biggers. He is the sheriff in this town.”

  “But he’s so dedicated to arresting Dak for…murder.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Who else is left?” A helpless wave of her hand. “I mean, he was watching Gus and Dak and…and Dak…”