The Glamorous Dead

by Suzanne Gates

“Penny. Don’t fuck with me.” This was a new Marty Martin, both hands stiff on his desk. He wanted me to be comfortable. He wanted me to tell him the truth, trust him. He smiled, and his hands stretched white on his white desk. White cuticles under his buffed nails.

  “You want to know if I was there,” I said. “Not at the Palladium. Somewhere else. You want to know if it’s possible when you ran out of Stany’s backyard, running away from breaking glass, a little noise, was I that thing you ran by on the path. It’s what you want to know, right? Was I the thing?”

  “You’re babbling, sweetie. I want the truth. I want the best way to represent you. It’s a murder case. You’re up for murder.”

  “You want to know if I saw you. From the path, when you ran by with my brother. Is that enough said, or do you want the whole story? I can tell you what happened when you left and Rose was bleeding. We didn’t have a car. She was bleeding hard, and we didn’t have a car. I keep thinking, maybe if those guys hadn’t run by me and driven off, if one of those guys had been brave, Rose would be alive. You want to know why? Why we needed a car?”

  He swiveled in his white leather chair. Where he’d lifted his hands, I saw two wax handprints on his desk, deep, like spoon rests on a stove. “You’ve said enough, Penny. You stayed at the Palladium until late. You lost sight of Rosemary, but as you said, the crowds. People get lost and found all night long in those crowds. It’s not your fault you couldn’t find her. Stop blaming yourself. Any sane woman would give up and go home while she could still get a ride; streets aren’t safe for women at night. You did the right thing.”

  “I did,” I said. “The right thing.”

  “How did you and Rosemary get to the Palladium if you don’t have a car? Did you take the bus?”

  “A girl at the dorm gave us a ride. I don’t know her name. Navajo Girl. Granny—he’s—”

  “I know Granny.”

  “Well. Granny canceled our second show. The Gardens was dead. Thursdays aren’t packed, but we usually have more than two tourists for an audience. Granny canceled the show, we all ran to get dressed, and the girls with cars began selling their extra seats. Most everyone at the dorm wanted a ride, so Navajo took the top bidders. Rosemary got us in with pearl bob earrings and twenty-five cents.”

  “We should talk to Navajo Girl,” Marty said. “What do you know about her?”

  “She wore blue feathers. Royal blue. There’s a new Navajo now, so the new one wears the blue feathers. I don’t know what happened to the old one who gave us a ride.”

  “Better for us,” he said.

  “I don’t know why. It’s not better or worse, because Navajo wouldn’t remember us. She’d know the earrings, but not who gave them to her. Were you looking for a witness?”

  “The fewer witnesses, the better for us. When I say ‘us,’ I mean you, of course. Right now Detective Conejos has a cab driver who can describe what Rosemary was wearing on Halloween night. He can describe you a little bit, but not as much. Pretty vague description of you, if you ask me. With no other witness to confirm Rosemary’s clothing, we’re better off.”

  “I can describe her clothing.”

  “You’re not a witness. You’re a defendant, and you keep your mouth shut. You’re Helen Keller. You understand me? Now, when you left the Palladium, did you take a cab back to the dormitory? You left at midnight.”

  “Midnight, right. Yes, I took a cab.”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t? You said streets aren’t safe for girls.”

  “I know it’s hard to remember, emotions and all, such a difficult night. Do you remember now? You saw the line at the cab stand, all those people, it’d take an hour if you stood in that line, so you walked home.”

  “My feet hurt,” I said. “I’d been on them all day.”

  “Nonetheless, you walked. How far is the Palladium from the Florentine Gardens?”

  “Not too far. Four blocks maybe. Big ones. I wouldn’t walk it alone at midnight with sore feet.”

  “Except for that night,” he said. “That one night you walked. Halloween, lots of costumes, the packed bars up and down Hollywood Boulevard, it’s not your average night. You had to decide between standing in that cab line or walking a few blocks, and like you said, your feet were sore.”

  “Okay, I walked.”

  He stood. “I feel good now. Damn, this is shaping up. We’ve got it all nice and shiny. So glad you came by. I’ll tell Detective Conejos your story is solid. He won’t believe me, but that’s why he’s a detective. Our great state pays him to distrust people. God bless California. Let’s see that terrible cut on your hand.”

  I held up my palm. “It’s healing now. Hardly sore.”

  “And you got it . . .”

  “Cutting an orange?”

  “Excellent. Orange it is. Next we’ll take care of that cab driver in Beverly Hills. Let me think on it. We have the grand jury in December, but if that cab driver, say, is in Waikiki in December, on a trip with his ailing mother who may be dead come the new year, who would think it anything more than unfortunate timing? Why are you still sitting? We’ve covered the basics.” He walked a half circle around his white desk and moved my chair as soon as I stood. He didn’t move it much, a few inches, so the chair faced his round desk exactly. A wood row from desk to chair to office door. “Tell my secretary to bill Missy for two hours. Penny?”

  “I heard you,” I said. I’d almost reached the door to the outer office. I’d stopped wheezing. Marty didn’t kill Rose. A guy like him, with his waxed desk, no. He was a coward. He left Rose at Stany’s, but nobody with a white office can store a bleeding girl. Too messy. His secretary wouldn’t clean that mess.

  “Hear this, too,” he said. “Keep to your story and we’ll be fine. Palladium. Cutting an orange. That’s what the grand jury hears. If you change it—are you listening to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “You change your story, and I’ll walk you to the gas chamber myself.” He smiled. “Oh, that’s right—wait—I have something of yours.” He walked to a white cabinet and used two fingers to pull on a crystal knob. The door sprang open, and he pulled out a paper sack. He tossed it to me. “Yours. I brought it from the police station.”

  I unfolded the sack, and green feathers popped out. Cree Girl in a bag.

  Marty kept smiling. His teeth looked yellow in the white room, but even with the teeth, anyone would look at Marty Martin and say, There’s a fine man. There’s a man with taste. I was saying the same thing to myself when I stood in the hallway outside Marty’s office, waiting for the elevator.

  The elevator doors shoved open. “Third floor,” said the man with the bell cap. He’d stuck the wad of gum in one cheek. A gum tumor. I stepped into the elevator, and he worked his buttons. Bigger smile than Marty, yellower teeth. He waited. The elevator jerked up, then down.

  “I don’t have much money,” I said.

  He shut the elevator’s outer doors.

  “I have enough change to get home, and that’s it. I’d tip if I could.”

  He shut the inner doors. The elevator bounced downward.

  “Will you tell me the end of your story?”

  “What story?”

  “Gloria Swanson and the shitty dog.”

  “First floor,” he said. The elevator hit bottom and jumped, then settled. He sucked spit from the gum in his cheek. “Watch those doors. They snap.”

  CHAPTER 16

  Magnificence itself, modeled by Claudette Colbert . . . Chantilly lace and black net are designed by Irene in the season’s newest silhouette (slimmed to the knees and flounced below) with a cowl that can become a hood.

  —Photoplay, November 1940

  I stole a hard-boiled egg from the fridge for breakfast. I don’t know whose it was. I stood outside to peel the egg and then buried the eggshell in a dirt hole I’d scuffed with my foot. Eggshells are good for soil. I’ve had vegetable beds at home where I bury eggshells under tomatoes or peppers and the plants gr
ow strong, with lots of buds.

  Sundays are calm at the dorms. Girls sleep, and there’s no yelling, no throwing bottles or keys across a room, no running to get somewhere first. Girls do laundry and shopping on Sundays, and nobody goes to church, nobody I know. God understands we only have one day for laundry and errands. The dorm sinks are high with suds, and pans line the kitchen counters, every one full of stockings. By Sunday night, clean stockings hang all over the dorm. They drape across beds and the stair rail, clothes hangers, backs of chairs, doorknobs.

  I figured Madge would wash stockings and cover our bed with them, since I’d left the bedroom and I knew she was up. Madge was a girl who would cover a whole bed with wet stockings and not apologize.

  I was wrong. She hadn’t washed her stockings. When I reached our bedroom, she stood at our shared closet and thumbed through the hangers.

  “You smell like farts,” she said. “You know those Career Girls on the other mattress? One threw a comb at my head.”

  “What are you doing?”

  Madge held a dress in front of her. It was Rosemary’s dress. “You haven’t cleaned your friend’s stuff from the closet. I need room. What will you do with her clothes?”

  Her clothes? I hadn’t thought about it. To be honest, I’d made myself not think about it. Rose had so many clothes that the closet was stuffed with them. I kept my few things folded in one of the dresser drawers, a few dresses on the closet’s left side, but Rose—I didn’t know where to start.

  “We can wear them,” Madge said. “Don’t throw them away. Have you seen what’s here? Have you taken a look?”

  “I can’t wear Rosemary’s clothes. It’s not right.”

  “She’s dead,” said Madge. “Of course it’s right.”

  I couldn’t look at the closet. Not that side, anyway. Not Rose’s side.

  “Who else will wear them? What’ll you do with them? I need these clothes. My life will be better with these clothes. They’re hanging in my side of the closet. You know what that means? I get to wear whatever’s on my side.”

  “No,” I said. “I’ll burn them all.”

  “You’re going to burn this?” She lifted a hanger and held velvet in her hands. Soft burgundy velvet with a silk gusset pleat and the most lovely puff sleeves I’d seen. “God will send you to hell if you burn velvet,” Madge said. “He sends people to hell for murder, doesn’t He? Murder’s just one step below burning a dress like this. God wants you to wear this dress. This, too,” she said, and out came a black wool gabardine with patch pockets and white embroidery at the neck. “Where did she find these clothes? How’d she afford them? I’ll take that suit with the lace cuffs.”

  “Put them back.”

  “I won’t. They’re beautiful. You know what we could do with these clothes? Nobody buys stuff like this at Sears and Roebuck.” She kept pulling them out, hanger, hanger, hat box.

  Caramel net and organdy. Red chiffon. Roses on a black poke hat. Round pockets, peplums, wool trousers with pleats deep enough to stick your whole hand in. An evening gown with a drop waist and full chiffon skirt, all bright pink, stunning.

  “See? You could wear this gown tomorrow. Look at the neckline. Have you ever seen anything like it? Try it on.”

  I was crying. Madge unhooked the gown and held it out to me. Long, sheer sleeves, sweetheart bodice, sheer yoke to the neck.

  “Touch it, for God’s sake.”

  I couldn’t touch it. I’d spot the bodice with tears, and my life would be over. Dresses like that, they were worth more than any girl at the Florentine Gardens. More than all of us. Those dresses had stitches so tiny a needle couldn’t have made them. Those dresses weighed nothing, they floated when you put them on. I couldn’t touch the gown.

  “Where do you think she bought it? What am I saying—stupid—had to be Bullocks, don’t you think? Or I. Magnin. Why are you crying? It’s only clothes.”

  “Rose’s clothes. She bought them with robbery money. They’re not real. There, I’ve said it. Rose was a thief. You want to know why she was in Beverly Hills? Robbing houses. My best friend was a thief.”

  “Hell with you. I’m wearing them,” Madge said. “Let’s see how this blouse fits. What size was Rosemary?”

  “I feel sick.”

  “You must have seen these clothes. She wore them, right? You knew they were here. You’re in this closet every morning.”

  “I don’t know. I try not to look on that side. I put my hand up to keep from looking. Maybe I knew. She never took me clothes shopping, so how could I know? Oh, God. That gown used to be some old rich woman’s necklace. Everything in that closet used to be something else.”

  “Hogwash. They’re clothes.” The blouse fit her perfectly, little darts lining up under her breasts. She tried on the jacket with the lace cuffs. “I’ll have to do my hair different, but it works, don’t you think?”

  “Weren’t you listening? I just told you Rose was a thief.”

  “I heard you. Robbed houses. And had great taste in clothes. I’m sorry for your friend, but we can use everything in this closet. People make mistakes, I’ve made a few, too. So your friend robbed houses. I don’t blame her for it.”

  Madge looked nice in lace, like she’d laid down her city skin and picked up a new Madge suit. “You look nice in lace,” I said. “Softer. You’re not worried that Rose stole someone’s china or diamonds for that outfit?”

  She laughed. “Can you imagine your friend stealing a china set? She staggers into a pawn shop carrying the whole set. Dinner plates, dessert, bowls, cups, all of it. A teapot’s balanced on her head. Here’s a service for twelve, Mr. Pawnbroker. How much? She didn’t lug any china, Pen. Stick to the jewelry. Diamonds bought this suit.”

  Madge wore the diamond suit and kept searching through Rosemary’s clothes. “I’ll wear the suit tonight. Oh,” she said. “Oh, yes. I know what I’m wearing on set tomorrow.” She held a sea blue gown at her neck. Bias-cut satin with a striped dimity skirt. The cap sleeves had dimity, too. “A flower in my hair, and I’m set. Are you wearing the pink gown?”

  “I’m not wearing Rose’s clothes.”

  “I wish I could wear pink, but it dies on me. You’re lucky. We’ll pull your hair up in pin curls.”

  “No pin curls. No gown. I’m not wearing Rose’s clothes.”

  “And tonight? Stany’s party?”

  “I’ll wear an old sheet.”

  Madge unbuttoned the suit jacket. “I can’t wear this today, not for what we’ll be doing. Too fancy.”

  She kept up her talk, unbuttoning, hanging Rosemary’s beautiful clothes, and I watched her. I watched the clothes bend and fold themselves onto hangers and racks.

  “We need a city directory, so we’ll ask Granny for his. I don’t have much gas in my car. Do you have money for gas?”

  “Gas? Why?”

  “Penny, what have I been going on about? Our plans. Today. The hospitals.”

  “What plans?”

  “To search the hospitals. Find out where Rosemary went.”

  “Take off the blouse. I don’t want to see it. If we’re searching, we start with the ones close to Sunset,” I said. “It’s most likely that whoever picked her up took her to a hospital close by.”

  I knew Rose didn’t visit a hospital. She sat in the wrong car and got killed. The car never went to a hospital; it didn’t have to. A killer drove the car, and killers don’t drive their victims to hospitals. But what else would I do today, wash my stockings? That would take fifteen minutes, a few more to lay them around, and then I’d have the rest of today to wander the dorm and think of how Rose’s clothes changed the color of Madge’s skin. They made her look lighter, even the pink she couldn’t wear. Every piece of clothing Madge had held against herself made her skin turn smooth and shiny, mother-of-pearl. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t think about Rose’s clothes all day. I couldn’t think about how the clothes looked on Madge.

  “We’ll be hungry,” I said. “We should take
a couple of eggs for lunch.”

  * * *

  We made a flyer and copied it on the Gardens mimeograph. I’ll skip details about prep work, how Granny gave us paper and added the cost to my rent, how Madge snuck to Woolworth’s, and while I was writing the damn flyer, she stole thumbtacks. I won’t discuss how I yelled at her, I’ll skip that part. Just know I was mad.

  When we were done, we laid flyers on the bar in the Zebra Lounge, and Granny said the flyer would bring us information or jail time.

  DID YOU SEE ROSEMARY ON HALLOWEEN?

  TWENTIES—BLOND—GREEN SUIT

  CUT RIGHT THUMB—BLOOD (REAL, NOT COSTUME)

  AT YOUR HOSPITAL ABOUT 1:00 A.M.

  SHE IS MISSING AND HER FAMILY NEEDS HER

  CALL PENNY AT HOLLYWOOD 4423 OR 4425

  “Someone will call,” Madge said. “Dorms or Gardens, they’ll call.”

  “Yeah. Woolworth’s security will call.”

  “You ready, then? I’ll drive. I’m thirsty. Open the trunk, would you? I’ve still got that bottle.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Read about Arno, Errol Flynn’s dog, who is practically human.

  —Photoplay, November 1940

  Tacking up flyers made us late for Stany’s party, but I didn’t mind. I didn’t want to go back to Faring Drive and walk into Stany’s house like I belonged there. But I did want to see the upstairs yellow room and look for blood. I wanted both, to stay away and to go. I stood by Madge’s car, deciding.

  “Robert Taylor,” Madge said.

  I got in her car.

  She stopped at a gas station on Sunset and pulled a five from her handbag.

  “I thought you didn’t have money.”

  “No,” she said. She leaned her head on the steering wheel. “If you’ll remember, I asked if you had money. I knew I had some, but why should I pay for the gas to hunt down your friend?”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Thank God.”

  She looked good, though. She wore Rose’s black suit with lace cuffs. I’d curled her hairline with a curling iron I borrowed from some girl. I forgot to put the iron back in the girl’s room, but that was okay. Madge’s hair fit the nice suit, and that’s what mattered.