by Ed Ifkovic
Dak softened his words. “In short, we’re gonna try to make it work.”
“No,” Clorinda thundered.
Dak’s voice rose. “Stop it, Mother. Enough of your meddling. I listened to you once—that was enough!” Pleading in his voice. “Don’t you want to see me happy?”
“You don’t know what happiness is.”
Tobias spoke over her. “God gives you happiness.”
“Well, God is late.”
Tobias got red in the face. “How dare you blaspheme in my house?”
I held up my hand. “I have something to say.”
Clorinda, out of the side of her mouth. “Big surprise, Edna.”
I broke in. “I want to talk about the murder.”
My words silenced Clorinda’s sputtering.
Dak’s eyes got wide. “You know who?”
“Yes.” A pause. “Well, a suspicion.”
Clorinda got out of her seat and pointed at Nadine. “There’s your murderer. She came to Maplewood to destroy Dak and…and…me and…”
“Sit down, Mother. Miss Ferber is saying something.”
“I repeat,” George said, “final act, scene one.”
I smiled at him. “An editorial comment first. A prologue, as it were.”
“My pardon.” George bowed. A working partnership, this.
I sat forward in my chair. “A murder always benefits someone.”
“A planned murder,” George qualified. “A deliberate murder.”
“True, I suppose, although…well, never mind. But who in this room gained from the murders?”
Frank’s voice was strained. “You’re saying the murderer is in this room?”
“Yes, I am.”
Ilona folded her arms over her chest and made a harrumph sound. When we all glanced toward her, her expression dared us to say anything. “Fat chance you’ll prove anything.”
“Let me at least share my thinking.” I swallowed. “Again I ask: Who gained by Evan’s being shot to death?”
George moved his chair closer to mine. My dedicated collaborator, at the ready. Opening night, curtain up. He fiddled with the band of his wristwatch. “That seems to include everyone in this room right now. The suspects.” His glance took in everyone. So dramatic a declaration, I thought, and so interesting the reaction: Dak seemed amused, Nadine puzzled, Frank ashen, Tobias irritated, Clorinda steely, Ilona curious. Annika’s head was turned away from us, still facing the fireplace, her head dipped into her neck. An array of responses, indeed. “The seven deadly sins,” George added. “Is it possible?—sloth, envy, greed, lust, pride, and wrath. What am I leaving out?”
“Gluttony, George.”
He nodded. “Well, there goes that theory.” A pause. “Well, maybe not.”
“I think King Solomon’s seven are more apt, especially as we sit among holy people.”
Tobias looked at me and mumbled, almost to himself, “The Book of Proverbs.”
I nodded. “A dishonest witness who lies, a prideful look, a lying tongue, feet that run toward mischief, a heart that plans wickedness, a man who sows discord among others, and, of course, hands that shed innocent blood.”
Tobias was smiling. “Very good, Miss Ferber.”
I didn’t look at him. “And every one done by someone in this room.” I waited a second. “Evan’s death,” I continued. “Late afternoon. Shot pointblank in the heart at DeHart Park, doubtless during some sort of assignation. He knew his killer. His death was satisfying for whom? For Dak, the end of badgering and fights—and the avenging of an act that destroyed his marriage. For Nadine, the death of a cruel seducer and taunter. For Frank, the death of a disliked man who seemed a menace to both Nadine and Dak’s lives. Of course, there could be more to his story—if Frank is correct about Dak’s paternity.”
I watched Clorinda’s eyebrows rise—and she cast a fiery look toward Frank.
“How dare you!” she yelled at me.
“Oh, I dare. And then there’s Ilona. What was her relationship with Evan? Spotted cruising around town with him, at least once, she seemed unnaturally buoyant, laughing at something Evan said, this woman who is notoriously bitter. And then, the negative of that print, an angry encounter, Evan obviously ignoring her. Could it be that Evan, the eternal womanizer and glib romancer, momentarily worked his charms on the ice woman, thawing her—only to shunt her aside?”
“Preposterous!” Ilona said in a low, whiskey voice that told me I was right.
“Evan came looking for information and probably believed Ilona had some to offer. So he wheedled his way briefly into her cold heart—and then, sated, dropped her. A reason to murder, no? A crime of passion. Or, shall I say, lack of passion.”
Ilona stood, tottered a step, ready to lunge at me. George raised a hand, traffic cop style. “Sit. The curtain is still up, lady.”
“And then, of course, we have the three members of the Assembly of God. Annika seems least likely, mostly unknown to Evan and he to her, though she wanted to protect Dak at all costs. But her killing him strikes me as extreme.” Annika did not move as I said this, though I noticed her listening, the muscles in her neck taut.
“And finally Tobias and Clorinda, guardians of spiritual earth, the children of God. Evan was an impediment, a possible scandal. After all, he was privy to dangerous information: Dak’s failed marriage. Nadine’s divorce, her husband’s suicide. Drug use. Tobias viewed his church as an old-guard temple, and divorce is anathema. Hence Dak’s annulment—a marriage that never was. But Evan could besmirch the purity of Dak’s ride to the throne. Perhaps he had to be removed.”
“Hardly sensational.” Clorinda spat out the words. “After all, the marriage was voided.”
“Clorinda was frantic that Dak would be accused of Evan’s murder, even trying to throw suspicion off her son, penning a stupid note about his being the next victim.”
“I never.”
“Of course, you did.”
George added, “Your grammatical lapse, egregious in of itself, was telling. Dak’s literacy is more…”
“Oh, Lord, do I have to hear this? Yes, I did it, as Annika confessed she told you everything. A misguided mother, foolish, foolish.”
Tobias cleared his throat. “A little foolish, Miss Ferber, this theory. Killing Evan because he might introduce scandal? The committing of an unpardonable sin to cover a venal one?”
“True, it is a stretch.”
Clorinda scoffed. “So we are left with seven possible murderers, and none with a reason monumental enough to commit murder.”
“True. But the Assembly of God is hardly a peaceable kingdom. It strikes me as a rich man’s folly—well intended, perhaps, for Tobias is a devout man, if narrow and doctrinaire, and Clorinda a charismatic spokesman—but it’s also a kingdom founded on hard cash. And plenty of it. Tobias’ Park Avenue inheritance became a kind of insulation from the world for him but also a tool for suppression, silencing.”
“My money is God’s gift.”
“And yet money seems to have motivated all of Evan’s behavior, no?”
“What are you saying, Miss Ferber?” Dak now looked anxious.
“Well, nothing yet. But let me say this. All of you had a reason—though in some cases very minor league—to kill Evan, but the murder of Gus Schnelling in New York was most baffling. Yes, some think it was the work of a fervent anti-fascist lunatic, but no: Gus’ murder is part of the Maplewood tragedy. So the question presents itself…” A pause.
George, on cue: “Who benefits from Gus’ murder?”
“And the answer to that will tell us the murderer of both young men.”
“And now: Act two.”
“But let me play historian here for a bit. My novels are called saga chronicles, generations after generations interplay, building, whole biographies predicated on wha
t went before.”
Ilona spoke in a rough gravelly voice. “So tell us what went on before.”
“Generations. All along I thought the secret to Evan’s murder had to do with the newest generation, the gadabout, restless crowd of Dak, Nadine, Evan, and Gus. Even Meaka Snow, now disappeared.” I winced. “Probably as a Brown Shirt polishing her accent on achtung. Her goose step. Deutschland über alles.”
“Really, Miss Ferber.” From Frank. “You sound like Fanny Cavendish in a traveling show.”
“Wait till tomorrow night,” George said.
I waved them off. “But I was wrong. Nadine’s lapses—indeed, Dak’s lapses—in Hollywood pale beside the real back story.” I deliberated. “Ah, where to begin?” A stage pause, as George stood, excused himself, and left the room. I went on. “Clorinda’s marriage to Philip Roberts bothered me—Dak’s father, and that poor man’s death in front of a streetcar. Let’s think about Clorinda in Hollywood—those madcap, wild years of the silent pictures, a time of war in Europe and America on the brink of joining in, when there were few boundaries and endless money and scandal and frivolity. One long party. Drunk with rotgut gin. Clorinda, with her roommates, was a part of it—until she married Philip. But did she? The obituary mentioned that Philip left a wife, then pregnant. Later, another article mentioned his former wife dying of influenza, leaving a little girl named Marcella. I first thought that Philip had been previously married and divorced. But my research assistant reported this afternoon that Philip’s daughter—she lives in Massachusetts now—was born the same week as—as Dakota. So I suggest that Clorinda found herself pregnant, unmarried, and simply invented a convenient marriage—and appropriated a real death—in her letters back home. Dak, the illegitimate child, given a last name not rightfully his. The time coincides with Frank’s brief sojourn and affair with Clorinda…and Frank’s belief that he might be Dak’s father.”
A low moan from Dak. We all looked, and he shared a bittersweet smile with us. He was looking at Frank.
A screech. “Stop this now!” Clorinda rose, flailing her arms, and seemed ready to charge at me. “Lies, all lies. Tobias, don’t listen to this. This woman is nonsense. I was married. Philip was killed…”
“No, you weren’t. I’m pretty sure of it. But all right. So what? Things happen. So far from home, an unwed mother, a little dissembling. No big deal. Dak had a father on paper. A grandfather on the East Coast was content.”
Tobias grunted. “No big deal?” The man was standing now and wobbling, the little monkey-like man reeling. “Clorinda, this is perfidy.”
“A lie,” she whispered, and then hissed at me. “You stop this now.”
“Her moral turpitude aside, the question still presents itself: Why is this important? But…more of the history. Evan Street, a scavenger of Hollywood scandal, a bottom-feeder of slime, obviously was in Hollywood when Clorinda sailed in to annul Dak’s marriage—and there was that piece in the press—which he probably cut out. The story of Clorinda’s actions in Dak’s life, publicized because of her fame. Clorinda’s transformation from vamp to evangelist. Some reporter found that history important enough to write about. And Evan relished it. Hence his questions about Dak’s paternity. One taunt especially—raised by an old maid—got me thinking—not Ilona, as first thought, but Clorinda. The unmarried woman posing as a widow. Evan obviously did some searching around in Hollywood, found some answers. Maybe even about Philip’s real marriage, real daughter. Who knows? All I know is that he felt armed with information and headed to Maplewood. That explains his pursuit of Ilona—what did she know?”
“I knew nothing.”
“That was clear to me when I mentioned Philip’s first marriage. But there had to be something else, something more earth-shattering. Evan traveled far in his quest for vast and quick money, his mercenary mind tabulating the sins of the past in terms of crisp dollar bills. The silent era again, as documented by Moving Picture World and Screenland—and Evan’s mass of clippings. Because the article about Dak’s annulment—written up because of Clorinda’s celebrity—clued him into something else: a real scandal. You see, it mentioned Clorinda’s film career, meager though it was. She was known as Clorrie House, a sultry temptress in the Pola Negri mold. This Philip Roberts connection was dangerous—some might remember whom he married and the daughter. But Clorinda knew Philip. She felt sure of herself. The East Coast was worlds away—there would be nothing in the local press about the real Philip Roberts’ family. Philip was a small-time actor. But Evan was intrigued by Clorrie’s past.”
George reentered the room. He’d taken down the framed poster that Tobias had hanging in his office, the one that mentioned, in small letters, Clorinda House’s bit part in The Way Back. George stood there with this wonderful prop, and I, like a hectoring schoolmarm, walked over and placed an index finger on her name—and then slid my finger to another name: Virginia Rappé.
“Virginia Rappé.” I repeated it. “Virginia Rappé. Clorinda’s roommate and the loose woman who notoriously died after the San Francisco orgy that Fatty Arbuckle supposedly orchestrated. There were allegations that the rotund Fatty raped her, abused her, and ignored her cries for help. Virginia most likely died from the complications of a botched abortion, one of many she had in her short life. A lover of gin and orange juice—the so-called orange blossom. After a few of those she often doffed her clothing…Anyway, accusations against the poor comic doomed his career, though a final jury cleared his name and believed his protestations that he had been railroaded. An innocent man, his life in Hollywood was over. A man shunned, beaten to the core, destroyed, dead in his sleep seven years ago of a heart attack. Largely because of a tapestry of calculated lies.”
“Miss Ferber,” Dak broke in, “I don’t think…”
“Let me finish. The prosecuting attorney in San Francisco, probably unscrupulous, took statements from Virginia’s fellow partiers, all sensational in content, but the extreme testimony of Bambina Maude Delmont, a chronic liar, was most damning. A woman arrested for bigamy, extortion, racketeering, the list goes on. But it turns out, according to the first press reports, before Bambina’s story became center stage, all the drunken, drug-crazy guests gave their own damning statements.”
A whimper from Clorinda. “Dear God.”
“Indeed, dear God. Clorinda’s third roommate, Zey Prevon, lied, then waffled. But another statement, a bold-faced lie, shortly discredited, was from Clorrie House, a young woman who was at the party. One mention in the San Francisco Examiner.”
Tobias was sputtering. “This has to be false. This has to…be…”
“A wild time, and a horrible time. A man’s life shattered. Clorrie House”—I pointed to the poster that George held before him—“disappeared from the accounts, never testified in court, but the harm was done. The evil Bambina was center stage, a practiced liar who tried to extort money from Fatty. Back in Hollywood, a stalled career, forgotten, alone, her baby Dakota—his name taken from a Philip Roberts western—was shuttled back to New Jersey, and Clorinda had a moment of reckoning, a flash of crystallization during which she rued her behavior, the life she lived. At that moment she found Aimee Semple McPherson. Beloved Sister Aimee.”
In a faraway voice Clorinda echoed, “Beloved Sister Aimee.”
“And the path of redemption, Jesus, salvation, and her traveling evangelical bus came into being. She buried the past. And then she met Tobias, the most rigid, unforgiving Christian on the planet, and he showered her with God and gifts. Clorinda had tired of life on the road—of poverty. The blessings of untold wealth. The wealth of untold religion. A new life—and a good life.”
Clorinda roared. “I’ve done good deeds.”
But Tobias was shaking his head. “Is any of this true, my dear?”
“Crazy lady,” Clorinda muttered. A sob. “Crazy.”
Squirming in her seat, Ilona was making a gurgling sound.
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“Possibly true, but what I’m saying is true. Evan Street, an unscrupulous man, assembled a file of Hollywood tabloid scandal, particularly the lamented Fatty Arbuckle story, and once he discovered Clorinda’s dark secret, he came East. Dak had led him, by chance, to his mother’s explosive story. And what a story it was! The possibility of a big payoff. Suddenly the poor boy in the shiny suit and the cardboard-lined shoes was sporting a new car, flashing new clothing, and a residence at the pricy Jefferson Village Inn. How did he get his money? Well, we have to assume blackmail. After all, Clorinda had a lot to lose—Tobias, the Assembly of God, the money, the diamonds, this magnificent house, a life she coveted, her colossal fame. Worse, the future with Dak was threatened—his taking over the church, the perpetuity of the church. And she knew that Tobias would not abide such a past, especially one lied about. Lord, look at his reaction to Nadine’s earlier divorce. The suicide of her ex-husband. A moral prig, the man could never forgive Clorinda for any of this.”
Clorinda, standing, arms folded over her chest, gave a false cackle. “You have all the answers, but one. You have no proof. Why would I, an emissary of God, murder anyone? Impossible. Yes, I paid Evan cash, lots of it, dragged out of Tobias’ parsimonious pocket, but I was silencing him. He promised me. Murder? A little far-fetched…”
George nodded at me. “Which leads us to the murder of Gus Schnelling, everyone’s most disliked Nazi.”
“My initial comment: Everyone here has a reason, though feeble, to want Evan dead. But who gained from Gus’ death? That’s crucial. Not Ilona, Dak, Frank, Annika. Only Tobias and Clorinda. Because, based on notes left by him, he’d somehow discovered Evan’s pernicious plan and wanted in on it. Either Evan babbled something in a drunken conversation—or Gus ferreted out the scheme. Clearly he was a Johnny-come-lately to the blackmail, but, once aware of it, he harassed Evan. He demanded his share. Why else come to Maplewood? After all, the pot was big enough. So Gus had to die. Perhaps Gus made a phone call after Evan died. Pick up where Evan left off. Perhaps Evan indicated he had backup—Gus. He may have used Gus as a type of false security so he’d be safe. Who knows? The last blackmailer who probably never got a chance to blackmail…”