by Mary Miley
Meanwhile, I had about fifty dollars in a sock upstairs. I also had a small velvet bag of jewelry that once belonged to my aunt Blanche, a gift from my grandmother last year. The bag held some genuine matched pearls and a variety of precious stones set in rings and necklaces, a bounty that would fetch a pretty penny at some pawnshop or jewelers. But I was holding back from cashing them out until I was desperate for money. Not from sentimentality, no. They were my rainy-day last resort. Some people had insurance policies; I had Aunt Blanche’s jewels. I’d not consider selling them before I’d even tried to find work.
Helen came downstairs, looking ready for the department store sales counter in a grass-green wool dress with a plaid collar and cuffs. ‘You were quiet last night,’ she said. ‘I heard you come in with your policeman friend, but we were already dressed for bed, so I didn’t come downstairs.’
The ‘we’ did not go unnoticed.
‘Kit’s still here, then?’
‘Um-hm.’ She fussed about the kitchen, scrambling some eggs and slicing some bread.
‘Oven’s still hot,’ I said, ‘if you want to toast some bread.’
‘Jessie, how many’s a few?’
I knew where she was going, but I asked anyway. ‘A few what?’
‘A few days.’
‘Well, a couple of days would be two. A few could be three or four, maybe five. If someone meant six, they’d probably say a week. She’s no trouble, Helen, if that’s what’s worrying you. None of us minds having her here.’
‘Thanks, Jessie, I know. I just didn’t think she’d be here this long.’
At that, Kit appeared in the doorway, still wearing her pajamas, having descended the stairs so silently neither of us heard the slightest creak. Her hair stuck up in all directions. She yawned and flopped into a chair and glared at the world. If she were waiting for me to fix her breakfast, she would go hungry.
‘Haven’t you heard from Rose Ann?’
‘Not since last week when she sent the telegram from San Francisco.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Just that she’d be a few more days. She’ll probably be back tomorrow, so I shouldn’t worry. I just wish she’d telephone.’
‘Does Kit seem concerned?’
‘Who knows what that odd child is thinking?’
There was one way to find out. ‘Kit?’ I raised my voice. ‘Kit?’ She met my eyes with an unflinching gaze that seemed vaguely hostile. ‘Would you please write your address?’
Her unfocused eyes stared through me as if I were a pane of clear glass. I asked again, louder. Nothing. I fished in my purse for a pencil and a scrap of paper. ‘Would you please write your address?’ I scribbled, holding them out toward her.
She looked at the paper, looked at me, and slumped forward onto the table with her head on her arms.
‘She probably doesn’t know it,’ said Helen. ‘She’s not very bright. Why do you want her address?’
‘I thought one of us could go to the house or apartment and knock on some doors. See if any neighbors know how to get in touch with Rose Ann.’
Helen divided the eggs and toast onto two plates, placed one beside Kit’s head, and ate her own share hurriedly. ‘Good idea. I’ve got to run, or I’ll be late. Have a nice day, Kit,’ she said, ruffling the girl’s hair before dashing down the walk to catch the Red Car. Kit remained slumped on the table, as lifeless as a dishrag.
I went to the hall telephone and called Barbara Petrovitch, hoping to catch her at home before she left for the studio. And hoping she wouldn’t mention my job.
‘Good morning, Barbara. This is Jessie Beckett. I’ve returned from St. Louis.’
‘Jessie! How good to hear from you. Did you learn anything about Joe’s friend?’
‘I think so. Do you have time to talk?’
‘Gee, I was just running out the door – we have early call today. But I really want to hear about it … can we talk this evening?’
I assured her I’d telephone her later and hung up. Returning to the kitchen, I found Kit in the same position at the table. Her breakfast, however, had vanished from its plate, proving she was alive. I decided it was time to conduct a test.
Standing behind her, I spoke in a voice that was loud and clear, but not a shout. ‘Don’t move, Kit. There’s a spider on your arm. Don’t move; I’ll get it off.’
I waited for a reaction.
Nothing.
I took a seat in the chair across from her and drummed my fingers on the table. As I hoped, the vibrations brought her head up. With the pencil, I began writing a message, speaking the words as I wrote them. ‘I need to write some letters today. I wonder if you might help me? If your penmanship is very good, I will pay you five cents for—’
I stopped mid-sentence. My eyes grew round with horror as I fixed my gaze on her upper arm. In a panicked voice I said, ‘Oh dear! A spider’s on your arm! Don’t move! I’ll get it!’
The girl froze. Her face turned white as paste, but she didn’t move a muscle as I brushed my hand hard along her arm as if to knock the spider to the ground. As she launched herself in the opposite direction, I made to stomp on the bug, and before she could see that there was nothing there, I had whipped out a piece of scratch paper and pretended to carry the mess to the garbage can.
Trembling like a leaf in a gale, she looked anxiously around the room as if searching for the spider’s brothers and sisters. Finally, she inched back to the table where I had resumed my writing.
‘There, he’s dead and gone and won’t bother us any more.’ I smiled to reassure her. And I smiled because I had reassured myself that the child was indeed deaf, but that she could read lips. Whenever she appeared to be busy sketching heads, she was also following the conversation, which was how she had come to draw Allenby’s black horns right after he’d made that comment. For now, I thought it wise to keep this information to myself. Why, I wasn’t quite sure.
‘Now,’ I said, picking up the pencil and continuing the sentence, ‘a nickel for each letter you write. Will you?’
She gave a curt nod. Whether from gratitude or greed, she would help me write a dozen letters to vaudeville friends, asking if they knew of anyone who had performed as a transfigurator or quick-change artist in the past year. Tomorrow I would buy copies of Variety and Billboard and learn which cities my friends were playing. The entertainment weeklies listed Big Time acts by city and by theater. A letter addressed to the theater would find them, as long as it was mailed early in the week to give it enough time to be delivered before the act jumped to the next town. The soonest I could expect a reply would be four days, unless someone sprung for a telegram. Not likely.
That evening, when I figured she’d be home from the studio, I telephoned Barbara again to give her the news of my trip. ‘I have a few questions to ask you, as well,’ I added.
‘Oh, my, Jessie, I’ve just walked through the front door and was about to make dinner. Could you join me here? I’d love the company. And by the time you arrived, everything would be ready and you could tell me all about what you discovered.’
I didn’t want to make the effort, but the loneliness in her voice persuaded me. ‘Of course, Barbara, I’d love to come. I’ll be there in about forty minutes,’ I said, calculating the length of the trip and the transfer between streetcar lines.
Thirty-five minutes later, I rapped the Petrovitches’ brass doorknocker.
‘Welcome, Jessie,’ gushed Barbara when she opened the door. ‘It’s so nice to see you! And look who else is here!’ she chirped as she led the way into her parlor where two women were sitting. Sounds of a symphony poured from a large radio sitting on the floor between the front windows. ‘Did you meet my sister, Bunny, at Joe’s funeral?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I did,’ I said, hiding my dismay. I hadn’t bargained on a hen party. ‘Hello, Bunny.’
‘Good to see you again, Jessie.’
Barbara continued with her introductions. ‘And this is Julia Shala. Her husban
d was at the funeral … did you meet him?’
‘I – I don’t think so …’
Mrs Shala spoke up in a voice colored with a throaty accent, ‘Hello, Miss Beckett. I don’t think my husband mentioned meeting you. Sadly I wasn’t able to attend the funeral, but it’s nice to meet you now.’
‘Well, then,’ Barbara took up the reins of hostess again, ‘Miss Jessie Beckett is a dear friend from the studio where we both work.’ Obviously Barbara hadn’t heard that the studio and I had parted ways. I wondered what people thought – if, indeed, they knew. Perhaps they were told that I had gone out of town, which was true, and assumed I’d be back when the investigation was over. Which was not.
‘How do you do, Miss Beckett.’
‘Please, call me Jessie,’ I said, taking a seat beside her on the sofa. When she did not reciprocate, I chalked it up to old-fashioned manners rather than rudeness.
‘Julia is proof that every cloud has a silver lining. She’s been such a dear, coming to visit several times since Joe’s death and sending lovely food on two occasions. In fact, she baked the cookies we’ll have for dessert tonight.’
Now I remembered. ‘Oh, was it you who made the delicious walnut torta I had on my last visit?’ I asked, thinking that it must be cooking, and not her appearance, that gave her pleasure. In no sense a modern woman, Mrs Shala wore her long brown hair wrapped in a nest and pinned against the back of her head, like every pioneer woman for the past century had done. In fact, everything about her was the drab brown of prairie dirt. Her severe, chocolate-colored dress lacked ornamentation, but its cut and quality suggested a professional tailor of some ability, preventing the conclusion that modest circumstances were holding her back. Even her eyes were brown, although sitting as close to her as I was, I noticed the irises were flecked with gold like rays of the sun. Like Bunny, she wore no make-up. I pegged her age at about thirty.
Julia Shala dipped her head modestly. ‘I enjoy cooking,’ she said with a slight accent. ‘It is just my husband and me at home, so it is a pleasure for me to make food for my friends.’
‘I’ve been looking forward to this all day,’ said Barbara. ‘I’m eager to hear what you learned in St. Louis, Jessie.’
She was obviously not concerned that the other two women would hear my report, so I gave her a shortened version of what I’d shared with Carl the night before, explaining that Al Jovanovitch had been shot three times at his workplace, just as Jeton Ilitch and Joe had been. ‘And possibly by the same person,’ I added. ‘I’m trying to figure out what the three men had in common that made someone want to kill them. They were Serbian, of course, we know that, but can you tell me if they were friends from the Old Country, or had they met in New York?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ said Barbara.
The other two women followed our conversation with their eyes.
‘When did Joe come to America?’ I asked.
‘I’m not sure …’
‘Would you have any papers that would give a date? Some immigration papers or maybe a ticket on the boat that brought him here?’
There was a long pause, and finally Barbara said, ‘I’m not sure, but I know where to look. Before you leave, I’ll search the desk in the bedroom. That would be the only possible place.’
‘Excellent. And one more question: did Joe ever mention service in the army?’
‘Not in America, but when he was younger, he was in the army back home.’
‘Do you remember any details about that? Anything at all?’ Another pause followed, until I said, ‘Think that over, and let me know if you recall anything.’
‘Is it important?’
‘It might be.’
‘Well, then, I’ll think hard. But Joe didn’t like to talk about his past. It made him upset.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘My, no!’
‘Would he have talked about his past to anyone other than you? A priest maybe?’ That brought a snort from Bunny.
‘Oh, my, no. Joe didn’t hold with priests or religion.’
‘A friend, then?’
‘I’ll think on it.’
EIGHTEEN
When there was no word from Rose Ann Riley the next day, I called Metropolitan-6100 and left a message for Carl to telephone me at home. Not ten minutes passed before our telephone bell rang.
‘I have a little more information about the Serbs,’ I told him. ‘I was so tired Thursday night, I forgot to mention that both Jovanovitch and Ilitch had been soldiers. I wondered if Joe Petrovitch had been a soldier too, and if so, which army, so I asked Barbara about it last night. She was sure he’d been in somebody’s army, but couldn’t tell me much more than that without searching a few drawers. After dinner she found some papers that pointed to his arrival in New York in 1913. Nothing about army service though.’
‘So he was in America before the Great War broke out,’ said Carl. ‘He could have been drafted and shipped back to Europe in 1917. Lots of immigrants were. We had a Greek and a couple of Micks in our unit in France.’
‘It’s possible. Barbara says Joe mentioned once or twice something about fighting, but she had the sense it was before he came over here. And the men at Moon Motors told me Al had been in St. Louis about ten years, and in New York before that, which would put his arrival roughly in 1913 or 1914 too. Maybe he and Joe came over together. Maybe all three of them came together. Maybe they served in the Serbian army before they came over. This army business is confusing me. I’m heading over to the library this afternoon and see what I can find out.’
‘Good idea.’
‘Why do you think all these men have similar names? They all end with “-itch”.’
‘I asked Marks about that the other day. He said it was like in English where lots of names end in “-son” or Scottish where they start with “Mac”.’
I grunted. It made sense. But it was hard for me to keep those unfamiliar names straight.
‘Another thing, Carl. Could you do me a favor? It’s for Kit and Helen, really. Kit’s mother hasn’t come back for her yet and, well, I don’t like to think the worst, but she should have been back by now. According to Helen, she sent a telegram over a week ago from San Francisco, saying it would be just a few more days. She’s looking for work and couldn’t do it with a kid trailing along. Now that you’re a detective, can you check to see if something’s happened to her?’
‘You think she dumped the kid on Helen and isn’t coming back?’
‘I hope not.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘More likely she’s had an accident or is having a good time with a new friend.’
‘Sure, I’ll nose around the hospitals, and see if the police in San Francisco have any information on her. What’s her name?’
‘Rose Ann Riley.’
‘What’s she look like?’
‘I’ve not met her, but she’d be about thirty or a little older, with dark hair and eyes. According to Helen, she’s a talented singer with a husky voice and quite pretty. She’s looking for work in speakeasies or on the stage.’
Carl promised to look into it.
After lunch, I told Kit I was going to the library. She wanted to come along.
Libraries were new to me, something I’d discovered only after I’d settled in Hollywood. I’d known about libraries, of course, but I’d never been inside one until last year. When you travel to a new city every week and have no permanent address, it’s impossible to get a library card or check out books. All my life, I’d been able to read only the books or newspapers I could beg from other vaudeville performers traveling the same route as ours. Nowadays, my Fernwood address entitled me to all the books I could carry, books of my own choosing. The miracle was, they were free.
Right away, I’d learned that libraries had encyclopedias where someone had written down everything anyone would ever want to know. You couldn’t take those home but you could read them there, which is what I did that aftern
oon. I read about how the Great War started in 1914 and how Serbia had been on the Allied side against its old enemy, Austria-Hungary. I read about the history of Serbia before that war and since. It wasn’t a pretty story. What knocked me back, though, was discovering that Serbia had fought two wars before the Great War, one in 1912 and another in 1913. And before that, there had been other wars with Turkey and Bulgaria. For Serbs, the Great War was just a continuation of an unbroken series of battles and bloodshed. I wondered whether they even noticed the end of one war and the start of the next.
It seemed possible that Ilitch, Jovanovitch, and Petrovitch had fought in the Serbian army and immigrated to the United States before the Great War ever started. Did that have any bearing on their murders?
No sooner had we returned home than the telephone jangled off the wall.
‘Why, hello again, Carl. We girls are certainly getting our five dollars worth this month,’ I said, referring to the service charge. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve learned something already.’
‘Maybe, maybe not. There’s an unidentified body in the San Diego morgue that matches your description of Rose Ann Riley.’
Instinctively I looked around for Kit, but she had gone out back. ‘No, that’s not Rose Ann. She’s in San Francisco.’