“Sure.”
She slowly twisted the dark brown bakelite knob to the right until she came across a song she heard the night before. Moving to another knob, she adjusted the volume.
“That’s nice,” Mary said.
Shelby nodded, “It’s by a man named Fats Waller. It’s called ‘All My Life.’ ”
As the song slowly played, Shelby laid her hand across the top of the radio. She could feel the tune’s beat in the wood. As she danced in place, her hand moved and neared the right edge, and something hit the tips of her fingers. Stepping closer, she looked over the top between the Zenith and the wall.
“There’s something taped on the back,” she noted.
“Probably an instruction booklet,” John guessed.
“No,” Shelby corrected her father, “it’s an envelope.” She pulled it loose. Not bothering to ask, she tore it open. Inside was a note.
“What’s it say?” Mary asked.
Shelby’s blue eyes lit up as she scanned the message. “All it says is this . . . ‘It’s time for some music in your life.’ ”
“Is it signed?” John asked.
“No, Dad, but I’ve got an idea who sent it to us.”
“Who?” Mary demanded.
Shelby drew the unsigned letter to her heart and grinned, “A lonely guy from Kentucky named Jasper.”
23
June 19, 1936
Due to the shadow cast over the lot by Leslie Bryant’s murder, the first four days of the week had dragged by, but, as she had spent the last two days working on costumes for extras, Shelby had not been challenged on the job. In fact, she got so far ahead that her boss gave her an extra hour for lunch, and, as a bonus, the money for a meal in the commissary. Dressed in a two-year-old red, flower print house frock, white socks, and black flats, the woman took a seat in a back booth and scanned the menu. As she studied the wide variety of offerings a waitress brought her a glass of water. Shelby was just about to take a sip when a familiar voice posed a much overused line.
“Is this seat taken?”
Shelby looked up into the face of Mr. Flynn Sparks and smiled, “No, but something tells me it is about to be.”
He grinned, “Just my luck to walk in when you did.”
“Mr. Sparks, I might be just a country girl who knows very little, but I question your choice of tables. Wouldn’t it be better for your image to eat with Eilene Waters?” Shelby pointed to the actress. “She’s all by herself just three tables over, and the gossip magazines seem to believe she is the next hot thing in Hollywood. You would look good with her.”
“Actually,” he corrected her as he slid onto the bench, “she would look good with me. Now let’s move on to important news.” He lifted his eyebrows and noted, “Talk around the lot is that you went out with Mr. Boring earlier this week.”
She shook her head, “I’ve never met a Mr. Boring. Now what do you think I should order?”
“The roast beef with vegetables,” he suggested, before continuing his earlier observation. “You know I’m talking about Dalton. Seems he took you to a dive. That is hardly surprising; he doesn’t like to spend his money. He probably has the first dollar he ever made. Now a real gentleman would have taken you to a club and introduced you to Hollywood royalty instead of forcing you to rub elbows with the city’s peasants.”
A waitress waltzing up to the table halted what was about to become a verbal sparring match. “What would you like?”
Shelby glanced across to her uninvited guest, “Mr. Sparks suggested the roast beef plate.”
“It is very good,” she announced.
“Well, as Mr. Sparks suggested it, I’ll have the turkey dinner.”
The woman wrote down the order on her pad and then looked to the actor, “Do you want the usual?”
“No, I’ll have what she’s having.” He handed the menu back to the waitress before picking up where the conversation had been interrupted. “I really could introduce you to Hollywood’s bluebloods. And I’d love that opportunity.”
“I’ll have you know,” Shelby announced with a certain degree of pride, “that I was the homecoming queen at Cordell High School. We couldn’t afford a crown, but I do have the sash to prove it. So, even if my dress is a bit tattered and my shoes scuffed, you are in the midst of royalty.”
“You’ve got spunk,” Sparks laughed. “I will give you that.”
“I’ve wrestled hogs,” she explained, “and more often than not I managed to win those battles too. I’ve hunted and fished and can throw a curve ball as good as most boys. Those experiences will give you spunk in pretty large doses. Oh,” she sneered, more than smiled, “and even though this might strike a bit close to home, I’ve killed a lot of snakes too.”
“You went out with Andrews,” the actor said with a knowing grin, “and he crawls a lot. If you will go out to a dump with him, why not go out to eat with me and have a real meal?”
“In about ten minutes,” she shot back, “I will be eating with you. So you’re about to have your date. I suggest you pay attention, so you don’t miss it.”
“I’m serious,” he whined.
“Let me explain something,” Shelby announced as she placed her elbows on the table and leaned a bit closer to the other side of the booth, “Where you want to take me, I can’t go.”
“You’re old enough,” he assured her.
“I’m old enough,” she agreed with a smirk, and then added, “to know better. But I also don’t have a dress for a night with royalty. Dalton and I went to the so-called dive because I fit in there. Those people didn’t look at my clothes and wonder what truck I just climbed off of.”
“Listen Miss Beckett, you’re the most beautiful woman in this room. Lots of men look at you. It happens all the time. It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing. But I want to do more than look. If it takes laying out some cash I will. I’ll buy you a dress. Heck, I’ll buy you a closet full of gowns and shoes. I’ll make you feel like Cinderella if it means you’ll go out with me.”
“You’re a strange-looking fairy godmother,” she cracked.
“I’m serious,” he said, his face moving closer to hers.
“You want to take me out?” she asked.
“Yes!” His reply was adamant.
“Do I get to pick the time and place?”
“Yes!”
She pulled her purse from the bench, opened it, took out a pencil and piece of paper and jotted down a note. After dropping everything but the note back into her purse, she handed what she’d written to Sparks.
“That’s my address. Pick me up Sunday morning at fifteen before eleven and take me to church.”
“But . . .”
“You said I got to pick,” she replied with a smile. “If you want to pass then I’ll bet Dalton would take me out. He’s supposed to come by for a fitting this afternoon. I can ask him then.”
“I’ll do it,” Sparks grumbled. “Besides, with the bad publicity I’m getting right now, the studio would love to have someone see me in a church.”
“Here comes our waitress with our food,” Shelby noted, “I hope you enjoy the turkey as much as I’m sure I will.”
24
June 20, 1936
Bill Barrister paused outside the frosted-glass door that read “Arnold Forrest, Medical Examiner.” Though he was a seasoned cop and had seen a great deal of death in his days on the force, this was not a place he ever got used to visiting. After rapping on the wooden entry, Barrister finally strolled into what for many was the last stop before the funeral home.
To Barrister, every body was almost sacred. When a person died, it was as if a part of him died as well. But to Forrest, a body was little more than a science experiment. The short, skinny, bespectacled forty-year veteran treated the remains with little more respect than he did an old newspaper. Forrest was standing over the body of a large man likely in his forties. The body’s chest was open and the ME was lifting the skin and muscle to study the vital orga
ns. With only a glance in the visitor’s direction, the examiner noted, “Interesting case. Mr. Mills’ wife got tired of living with him and pumped him full of lead. Three of the six shots she fired would have been fatal, so I can’t determine which one killed him. I can tell you this, and it comes with a heavy dose of irony, she’ll likely get life or go to death row, and it was all for nothing.”
“What do you mean?” the suddenly interested cop asked.
After letting the muscle and skin drop back into place, Forrest smiled, “This guy is covered up with cancer. He had less than six months to live. If she’d have been patient, she could have had her wish come true and not forfeited her life in the process. It was just a matter of time.”
“Impatience is the nature of this town,” Barrister sadly noted. “People are in such a hurry to get things they want or think they need, they literally climb all over each other scrambling to grab it.” He paused, took another look at the body, and then chimed in with the reason for his visit. “You called me about my strangler case?”
“The second victim,” Forrest explained, “or at least the woman we thought was the second victim before you found that bag of bones off Sunset. Anyway, I was finally able to match her dental work to dental x-rays of a woman who’d been reported missing about that same time.” Forrest stepped around the table holding the body and strolled over to his desk. Shuffling through a pile of loose papers, he yanked a yellow one from the stack and continued, “Her name was Janet Sykes. She was a local girl, grew up in the valley, and had been working at Galaxy Studios for two months when she went missing.”
“What was her job?” the captain asked.
“She was a page.” He picked up a file, dropped the notes he’d taken into it before handing it to his guest. “If you look in there at the photo, you will see that she was a beautiful girl.”
“Does she have family?” Barrister asked as he opened the file and studied the eight by ten.
“The address is in the folder,” Forrest explained. “Both her parents are alive, and she has a young brother and sister. At least, that is what the report from Missing Persons says. And, before you ask, no one has told the family that her body has been identified.”
The head of homicide nodded, “Says here that her father’s a Lutheran pastor. I see from the report her family called her Jan.”
“Isn’t that your daughter’s name?”
“Her middle name.” The admission was followed by a long sigh.
“You going to let Missing Persons know we found this girl, or do you want me to? They will need to notify the family before the press goes public with this.”
“I’ll drive over to West Los Angeles myself and tell the family,” Barrister gloomily announced. “Janet Sykes has moved from being a missing person to being a victim of homicide, and that makes her a part of my family.”
“Let’s hope I never join your family,” Forrest cracked.
“Yeah, if you do, I wouldn’t have anyone here who could give me your cause of death.” As the captain placed his hand on the doorknob, he solemnly said, “Thanks, Arnie. Do let Jack in Missing Persons know that, as far as he is concerned, the case is closed.”
25
June 20, 1936
It was just past five when Barrister twisted the doorbell chime on the neat, white cottage at 1613 Cypress Street. A tall, thin woman, her dark hair streaked with gray, attractive in a down-home sort of way, answered.
“May I help you?” Her accent indicated her roots were likely from the Midwest.
The visitor reached into his suit pocket and produced his badge and credentials. “My name’s Bill Barrister, I’m with the Los Angeles police,” he paused, before almost apologetically adding, “homicide division. Are you Mrs. Sykes?”
As tears welled up in her emerald green eyes, she brought her hand to her mouth and took a shallow gasp of air. After gaining a bit of composure, she nervously glanced over her shoulder before once more turning her face back to her uninvited guest.
“Is this about Jan?”
Barrister avoided the question with a polite request, “May I come in?”
She nodded and moved away from the entry. As the cop stepped into the house, the woman called out, “Lucas, there is a policeman here to see us.” She pointed down the narrow hall, “It’s the last door on the right.”
“Thank you,” the captain replied softly. With the woman leading the way, he made the short trek to where the father waited. During that walk, he saw a dozen framed photos. At least three of them were of Janet; the last one obviously from her high school graduation. This was not going to be easy. Stepping through the door into the home’s quaintly furnished living room, Barrister noted a slightly built man with small dark eyes and a receding hairline standing beside a far window. As their gaze met the cop announced, “I’m Captain Bill Barrister. I’m with homicide.”
The man nodded, “I think ‘it’s nice to meet you’ is the proper term to use at times like this. I say that to every guest who comes into my church. But, if you will allow me to be honest, somehow I think when this visit is over I’d likely wish we’d never met.” He took an awkward breath before quietly adding, “I’m Lucas Sykes, but I guess you already knew that. Why don’t you take a seat on the couch, and I’ll just ease back down in the chair by the window and pretend for a few more precious moments that this is about a parking ticket or expired driver’s license.” He forced a smile, “Or maybe you are looking for a pastor to visit with a condemned killer. Ironic, I’m the person who likely needs a clergyman right now.”
“I wish any of those other options you mentioned would have been the reason for my visit,” Barrister replied, “I really do.” After he eased down on the dark green divan, the cop looked over to the woman. He was fumbling for words when she beat him to the punch.
“Did you say you are a captain?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Captain, would you like something to drink? We have a few bottles of Coca-Cola, and I can put on some tea or coffee.”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
Seemingly at a loss as to what to do next, the woman eased down onto the arm of the large chair that matched the couch, balled her hands in her lap and stared at the hardwood floor. Like her husband, she was buying time. She wanted a few more minutes before having to face the truth that, in fact, she already knew.
“My wife’s name is Judy,” the man interjected. “A . . . I was reading before you arrived.” He picked up a book and laid it in his lap. Like his wife, Lucas Sykes was searching for ways to put off hearing what Barrister had come to say. “Captain Barrister,” he continued while tapping the book’s cover, “This is a fascinating novel about a family who lives back east. It’s strange, it is such a dynamic story, and I have been lost in it for most of the afternoon, but now I can’t even remember the book’s title.”
Watching the family go through this exercise suddenly seemed cruel. It needed to stop. They had to hear what they already knew. So Barrister nodded, before quietly announcing, “You know why I’m here.”
The woman looked up. “We do. You know, when you were at the door, I could read it in your eyes. But I didn’t want to actually have you say the words. But putting them off is not going to make the truth go away, so won’t you please say what you came to say. I need to hear it to really believe Jan is never going to stroll up that sidewalk and open that door again. If I don’t hear it from you, then I will always be looking for her to come home.”
Barrister seized the moment and wasted no more time. “She died,” those two short words catching in his throat before finally tumbling out. After taking a deep breath, “We are guessing she died about the same time she disappeared. Probably the same day.”
The woman nodded and buried her face in her hands. The man shook his head and glanced out the window toward the street. With the couple caught up in a flood of painful memories, the room was bathed in profound silence. The only sound was a clock ticking on a bookshelf
. That timepiece chimed the half hour before the preacher finally brought the sound of the human voice back into this very sad corner of the world.
“The fact you are here indicates she didn’t die in an accident.”
“That’s right,” Barrister answered earnestly. “She was found in a park. This will be hard to say and even harder to hear, but she’d been strangled.”
“Like that actress?” Mrs. Sykes gasped.
“Yes, ma’am. Pretty much like Miss Bryant. We think the same person murdered both women.”
With tears streaming down her face she whispered, “But you don’t know who it is that did it. He’s still out there somewhere?”
Barrister nodded. “We don’t have much to go on yet. It can help me do my job and bring the person who did this to justice if you will let me ask you few questions.”
Mrs. Sykes violently shook her head. “Questions, you want to ask us questions? What good will that do Jan? What good will it do that actress who died? They’ll both still be dead. Nothing’s going to change! Catching the guy won’t bring either one of them back.”
“No, ma’am,” the cop sadly agreed, “it won’t. But the answers might stop him from taking another girl’s life and having her family feel the same way you do right now. I can’t turn back the clock, so my job is to try to stop the pain and suffering. And that means I have to ask questions during other people’s worst moments. I wish it didn’t have to be that way. At moments like this, I’d rather have any job other than the one I have.”
Mrs. Sykes wiped her eyes and frowned. “Let me ask you something. It is a question I’ve been asking my husband for months. Where was God? Why wasn’t He protecting her that night? Why did He desert my daughter?”
Barrister shrugged, “Mrs. Sykes, I ask that question a lot, and it seems no one can give me a satisfactory answer. It haunts me every time I view the body of a murder victim or have to visit with the family. In fact, I quit going to church, because I just couldn’t come to grips with why so many good people end up like your Janet.” Before continuing, the cop rubbed his forehead and sighed. “I want to make sure I stop this kind of evil so someone else doesn’t have to deal with the question you just asked me; so someone else doesn’t have the same doubts we both have. So, can you help me?”
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