Lies in White Dresses

by Sofia Grant

“It’s a free country,” she conceded, “and Harry’s money probably spends anywhere in town. But I’m not going to force her—if she leaves, she’s going to do it on her own. And if she doesn’t, I’ll make sure she pays.”

  “But how are you going to do that?”

  “Trust me,” Francie said. “A woman like that always forgets that one reaps what one sows.”

  Chapter 23

  Francie waited until after nine o’clock, when the guests who were staying in had retired to their rooms and the ones who were going out had already left. Among the evening outings on the schedule for the week that had been distributed to the rooms were bingo at the Nevada Club, dancing at the Poodle Dog, and a ladies-only craps lesson at Harrah’s.

  Francie had taken pains to get her information from a reliable source—not Mrs. Swanson, who was as tight-lipped as they come. Instead, after dinner, Francie had folded a crisp five-dollar bill so that it fit in the palm of her hand and gone looking for Clyde. She’d found him in the lounge, changing a light bulb.

  “Mrs. Meeker,” he said, climbing down his ladder. He took off his hat. “I’m so sorry about Mrs. Carothers. What a shame, what a terrible shame.”

  “Thank you,” Francie said, thinking, Oh no, a decent man. How inconvenient to find one when she wasn’t looking. “See here . . . there is no delicate way to say this, but her family will be arriving in town for her funeral, and I very much want there to be no distractions.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Clyde said.

  “There is a young lady staying here, who has an acquaintance with Mr. Carothers, Vi’s husband. An . . . unfortunate acquaintance, one that could be quite upsetting to her children, if the lady in question were to mingle with the other guests. Do you see what I mean?”

  Francie could tell from the way the tips of his ears went pink that he did. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So what I would like to ask,” Francie said, showing him the bill in her hand, “is where I might find this young woman, so we can have a conversation about how this unpleasantness can be avoided. It’s Miss Wilhelmina Carroll, though I would appreciate if you would keep that information to yourself. Do you happen to know where she might be this evening?”

  Clyde stared at the bill but made no move to take it; in fact, he looked slightly wounded. “She goes to Gwin’s most every night,” he said, “unless her friend comes to see her. Then he takes her out and she comes home very late.”

  Why, the nerve of that Harry! He couldn’t even go a few weeks without seeing his little tramp. The whole time he’d supposedly been in Las Vegas setting up the nuclear tour, he’d been sneaking up here! What sorry excuse had he given the boys?

  “When was the last time this friend came calling?”

  Clyde scratched his ear and looked at the ceiling. The pink had spread from his ears to his cheeks. “Well, last Friday. Reason I remember is, he was keen on putting some money on the fight, asked me where he should go.”

  “Last Friday? You’re sure?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. I sent him down to Harold’s Club.”

  Last Friday, Harry could not have been in Reno, because he was home with Vi. He’d returned from Las Vegas to entertain some livestock men who wanted to hold an exposition at the Cow Palace Expo. Apparently, they were conservative sorts who took a dim view of divorce, so Harry had insisted that Vi accompany him to dinner. You’re still my wife, he’d told her.

  “Just exactly what did this ‘friend’ look like?”

  “Uh, six-one, six-two, dark hair, and one of those little moustaches.”

  “And you’re sure he was visiting Willy,” Francie said, pressing the bill into his hand.

  Harry was five-foot-nine with receding gray hair—Clyde might have just handed her all the ammunition she needed.

  Chapter 24

  Obviously, it would be unseemly for a woman in mourning to frequent a tavern—but Francie wasn’t about to put off this mission, not with family arriving tomorrow. This would be her one chance.

  She did assemble a disguise of sorts, however. She’d packed a pair of blue jeans and a plaid shirt with a Western yoke that she’d bought for her stay, thinking she might go on a dude ranch outing. She tied a checked kerchief around her neck, and as she examined her reflection in the mirror, she had to admit she liked the way the getup looked on her. The last touch was the cowboy hat she’d bought on a whim; she put it on so that the brim shadowed her face. With any luck, no one would connect her to the woman who’d come to town yesterday in a Claire McCardell suit.

  She checked the hall before leaving her room. No one was about, and Francie congratulated herself on leaving without being noticed.

  Chapter 25

  Virgie

  Virgie was hiding in the niche under the stairs, hoping to spot June leaving and follow her to see where she went, and writing in her notebook.

  Tabby, I think Mrs. S knows I have been following her. I don’t know when she saw me but maybe it was this afternoon when she came home and went up to Mrs. O’s room to get Patty. (If Patty is her real name!!!) I need to not use the supply closet for a while anyway because Clyde saw me coming out of it the other day and asked me what I was doing.

  I don’t think there is any way she could know it was me that took the ring but the only people that ever went in that suite besides her are Mrs. M and me and the maids. She might think it was Flossie or Ruth but that would be terrible because Mother might fire them so I would have to tell Mother and then I’d be in so much trouble! Anyway so I think maybe Mrs. S is waiting to see which of us it is. She is a good actor she acts like nothing is wrong but why would she stay here now that Mrs. C is dead other than she wants to get it back. Also Mother says the room is all paid for already and I think it is awful how she is freeloading off a dead woman but Mrs. M doesn’t seem to mind even though Mrs. C was her best friend.

  As the hour grew late, Virgie had been about to give up when she saw Mrs. Meeker coming down the hall, dressed for some reason like a cowgirl.

  A sudden, terrible thought occurred to Virgie—what if Mrs. Meeker had been in on it all along? What if she was the one who’d planned the theft and had brought June in on the scheme only when she couldn’t find another way to get rid of her?

  And what if Mrs. Meeker was now setting her up? She could have had Mrs. Samples steal the ring with a promise that she would fence it and share the money. When Mrs. Carothers discovered it missing, Mrs. Meeker would have been furious—and suspicious. She might think that Mrs. Samples had sold it already and kept all the money—but then why wouldn’t she have simply disappeared with it? So maybe Mrs. Meeker did believe her, and now the two of them were trying to figure out who else might have taken it. And since Mrs. Samples obviously suspected Virgie, that would spell trouble for her. She would have to watch her back even more carefully.

  But there was also the matter of the stranger who’d been nosing around when the reporters had come. Virgie wasn’t positive, but she thought she’d seen him again this morning, loitering out back near the shed. Whoever it was, he’d had the same build and moustache as the stranger and had taken off running through the trees when Clyde came around the corner in the truck. If he was their accomplice, there were a few ways he could fit into their scheme. Maybe he was a third partner, or maybe he was their fence, or maybe even a hit man they’d hired to polish off Mrs. Carothers!

  But something must have gone wrong, or he wouldn’t have been sneaking around the house asking questions. Maybe Mrs. Samples had cut him out of her plans when she decided to keep all the money for herself. Maybe he didn’t know them at all but had heard them talking about their plans and decided to steal the ring from them—or threaten to tell the cops unless they cut him in.

  These thoughts raced through Virgie’s mind as Mrs. Meeker walked through the lobby and out the front door. Virgie waited a few moments before she followed, staying away from the street lights until she reached the river path—the same path where Mrs. Carothers had probably met her end. Sh
e kept considerable distance between herself and Mrs. Meeker until they passed the stone arch; after that the path rose up on the bank at the edge of the trees and offered a person cover, if they happened to want to go unnoticed.

  Chapter 26

  Francie

  Gwin’s was even more crowded tonight than it had been last night, though if one was just passing time until one’s divorce came through, Francie supposed one night was like any other.

  The burly man sitting on a stool inside the door recognized her. “Hello again,” he said affably. “Where’s your friend?”

  Francie realized he was talking about Vi and stammered a response. It didn’t seem possible that Vi had just been here, dancing and laughing like she hadn’t a care in the world—and now she was gone.

  “Have a nice time tonight,” the man said. “It’s Antsville in there!”

  Francie spotted Willy sitting by herself at a table in front of the piano, watching the pianist with her chin in her hands. The drink in front of her had barely been touched—but there was no way to tell how many she’d already had.

  Francie found a seat at the bar and ordered a sidecar. The pianist was playing the last notes of “My Baby Just Cares for Me,” ending with an extravagant arpeggio and a saucy wave at the crowd, to much cheering. She leaned in to the microphone and thanked everyone.

  “And now for something special,” she said, absently running her fingers along the upper keys. “All the way from San Francisco, California”—she pronounced it Cali-FOR-NI-YAY—“Miss Willy Carroll, here to sing the blues for you!”

  The crowd cheered, though they probably would have cheered anyone at that point, considering how drunk many of them were. Willy approached the piano and took the microphone from its stand, blowing kisses, to even more cheering. As the pianist played the lead-in, Willy took her time arranging herself with one bare arm stretched provocatively on the worn wooden piano as though it were an ebony grand in the finest club in New York City. She tossed her blond curls and closed her eyes and set her lips in a pout. When the pianist launched into “Skylark,” Willy opened her eyes and came to life.

  Willy with a microphone in her hand was not the same brassy, hard-edged girl they’d met the other night. She played to the entire room, swaying to the music, casting her seductive gaze from one patron to another. And her voice! Smooth and languid, it compelled the audience to pay attention, conversations interrupted and drinks set down. Willy’s range spanned octaves, from a throaty alto to the highest notes without breaking. When she reached the end of the song she held the final note and threw her head back, exposing her long, white throat as the audience whooped and cheered.

  To say that the crowd loved her would be like saying that a dog likes a steak. They cheered and stomped and called for more, but Willy took her bow and applauded the pianist, who waved once more and then got up and slipped out the back door, leaving Willy to soak up the wolf whistles and demands for more.

  When the applause finally died down, Willy headed straight for the bar and slid onto the stool next to Francie. If she was surprised to see her, she didn’t show it.

  “Hello, Francie. How did you like my song?”

  Francie glared—Willy hadn’t even acknowledged Vi’s death. “I didn’t know vipers could sing.”

  “Want another drink?” Willy said, ignoring the comment. “Shirley’ll make you whatever you like, since you’re with me. I’m good for business.”

  “I wouldn’t touch anything that came from you,” Francie snarled. “Any more than I’d drink the blood on your hands.”

  “Oh my,” Willy murmured as the bartender made her way over. “Such drama. Well, I’ll go ahead and order for you in case you change your mind. How about a bottle of your best champagne, Shirl?”

  The bartender laughed. “I don’t know if Rita would be too happy with me comping you an entire bottle.”

  “All right, make it your second best,” Willy said, taking her cigarettes from a pocket hidden in the folds of her full skirt. “Though given how many people I bring in the door, she shouldn’t complain. Actually, if Rita doesn’t want to buy us a drink, I’m sure those fellows will.”

  She nodded at a nearby table as she lit her cigarette, and the rowdy trio of men waved and whistled.

  “Now you’re talking,” the bartender said. “Maybe I’ll charge them double and keep the difference.”

  “That’s the way to think,” Willy said with a wink.

  Throughout this exchange, Francie fumed. The moment Shirley walked away, she leaned in close and muttered, “That’ll be the last time you sing in this bar. No, strike that—the last time you set foot in this bar. Or anywhere in this town. I’ll expect you to be on the first train out tomorrow morning.”

  Willy regarded her with amusement, raising an eyebrow that had been plucked into a narrow arch. Wings of eyeliner tipped up at the outer corners of her eyes, the lids shimmering silver. Her thin lips had been lined and painted to appear fuller and she wore a beaded choker that drew the eye away from the softness in her chin. This was a girl who knew how to make the best of what God had given her.

  “Where’s your little friend tonight? Home washing her hair?”

  “Leave her out of this,” Francie snapped. “This is between me and you.”

  “Oh dear.” Willy feigned dismay. “Harry’s going to be terribly disappointed to hear that—he thought he was my only beau.”

  “How can you joke about this?” Francie snapped. “Harry’s wife—the one you stole him from—is dead. Isn’t that enough for you? Do you have to make a mockery of her too?”

  Willy put a hand to her chest. “Are we talking about the same woman? Violet Carothers née Buckley? Let me tell you, if she did kill herself—and you can’t convince me she didn’t simply fall in after all the booze she was putting away last night—it wasn’t over a broken heart. The minute Harry rescued her from this backward little town and married her, she showed her true colors. She never really loved him, and she’s been making his life hell for years.”

  “Oh, no no no,” Francie said. The bartender had come back with the champagne and a couple of flutes, which she plunked down and left. “You don’t know anything about Vi. I’m her best friend, I lived across the street from her for almost thirty years. I’ve been there to pick up the pieces every time Harry strayed. Which, believe me, was often enough to make your head spin—you’re just the latest flashy little piece of trash to catch his eye. He’ll be done with you too before long, no matter what he’s told you.”

  “You think so?” Willy said in a bored tone. “I’m not so sure. He wants to marry me the minute I get my papers. He said I can pick any chapel in Reno and he’ll marry me again in California—and we’re going to have our reception at the Palace.”

  “And you really think that’s going to happen now? Harry’s an idiot, but he isn’t stupid. His business is built on reputation and word of mouth. Even someone as soulless as Harry knows that throwing a huge gaudy wedding right after his wife died will cause an uproar. I’d be surprised if he didn’t keep you hidden away until a decent amount of time has passed.”

  “You seem awfully concerned about my reputation all of a sudden,” Willy said. “So why don’t you get it off your chest? Go ahead, tell everyone you know about how Harry treated poor Vi. Maybe they’ll believe you. Better yet, maybe they’ll tell everyone they know. Only, when it comes out that he gave her everything she wanted, that she had a monthly allowance more than most men earn in a year, that she would have gotten a house worth ninety thousand dollars in the divorce—how sympathetic do you really think they’ll be? Oh, and I know all about her lawyer. Harry showed me the letters he’s been sending. I have to hand it to her, she hired a shark.”

  “She had to. Harry wouldn’t have given her a cent if he could avoid it.”

  “Harry knows how to present this in the news,” Willy went on, as though Francie hadn’t spoken. “He has the best publicists working for him, remember? If he has to give i
nterviews, he’ll say that she shut him out years ago and barely spoke to him anymore, but out of respect and genuine affection, he did his best to save the marriage. And then she thanked him by trying to rob him blind. There are those who will see her terrible accident as just desserts, don’t you think?”

  “Vi never cared a whit about money!”

  Willy shrugged. “Then spread the word. Make me out to be Harry’s little whore, if you want. Heck, you can start tonight. I bet at least a dozen of the women in this room are from San Francisco, wouldn’t you think? If they tell everyone they know, it’ll spread faster than a front-page headline in the Examiner.”

  “Are you really as stupid as you look?” Francie demanded, shaking with rage.

  “There’s a saying in show business,” Willy said mildly. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity. Have you heard that before?”

  “Harry’s not in show business,” Francie retorted. “He’s a promoter who needs to get people to come to his events, and he succeeds because of a reputation that took him years to build. Trust me, he’s not going to risk that.”

  “I wasn’t talking about Harry,” Willy said witheringly, gathering her cigarettes and her little beaded purse. “I was talking about me. Do you really think I’m content to sing in joints like this? I’ve got plans. Harry’s already booked me into Bruno’s for a two-week gig this fall, and I don’t care what anyone says about me as long as it gets them in that club. So do your worst—give me a secret baby if you want, or late-night orgies, or an affair with a mob boss. All you’ll be doing is putting money in my piggy bank.”

  The pianist chose that moment to return from her smoke break and join them at the bar. Willy stood and gave Francie a regal nod. “Francie, please meet my accompanist, Helen. Sorry girls, I’ve got to take care of my vocal cords. Enjoy the champagne.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Francie,” Helen said, watching Willy stomp away.