by Mary Miley
Utterly frustrated, I stood in David’s bedroom with my hands on my hips, thinking hard. Could I have misunderstood the message? Had I overlooked another part of the secret wording? Perhaps the valise was small, and I’d missed it. Perhaps it was inside something else, a drawer maybe. Where would I put a valise?
In a place so obvious, I’d overlooked it entirely. Under the bed. I dropped to my knees beside David’s bed and peered under it.
There it was.
I pulled it out, flipped open the lid, and gasped. There was no roll of bills stashed in the lining. There was no wad of cash tucked inside a pocket. There were stacks and stacks upon stacks of well-worn, green bills, each bound with a rubber band, completely filling the valise. Most of the visible bills were twenties; some were tens and hundreds. Grabbing one of the bundles with a shaky hand, I determined that the top bill indicated the ones beneath it. Five rows of hundreds, twenty-five rows of twenties, five rows of tens. I had no earthly idea how to estimate the amount of money that I was looking at – thousands of dollars, surely. No, tens of thousands. Maybe hundreds of thousands?
With a pounding heart and damp palms, I rocked back on my heels, pondering my predicament. I couldn’t drag a heavy suitcase full of cash home on the streetcar. Or, perhaps I could, but I’d look so nervous and guilty that someone would snatch it out of my hands. And what would I do with it back at the house on Fernwood? I had no place to put it except under my bed. We didn’t even lock our doors. What did David mean for me to do with his cash?
I needed to put it someplace safe. A bank was safe, but I could just imagine the reaction of a pot-bellied, balding banker when a young woman handed him a suitcase full of cash and said, ‘I’d like to open an account.’ He’d call the cops for sure.
Try as I might, I couldn’t think of a safer place than where it was now: under the bed. I closed the case – after removing five bills from the ten-dollar bundle – and shoved it back beneath the bed. I’d write David a carefully worded letter asking him what I was to do with his surprise.
Before I left, I checked every door and window, making certain each was locked tight. Then I circled the house, looking for anything odd or out of place. As I backed through the garden gate and bent to secure the latch, I heard a click and a voice behind me.
‘Hands up, lady, or I’ll shoot.’
When my heart started beating again, I smiled, raised my hands, and turned slowly.
‘Don’t shoot, sheriff,’ I said to the pint-sized desperado in the neighboring yard. He must have been about seven.
‘Are you a burglar? Mama says there might be burglars.’
‘No, siree bob, I’m no burglar. I’m a friend of Mr Carr who lives here. He had to go away for a while, so I’m looking after his house while he’s gone. Can I put my hands down now?’
The lad holstered his gun and pushed his cowboy hat back from his forehead. His knee socks were streaked with mud, his shoes scuffed, and one of the suspenders holding up his knickers had come unhooked, indicating a vigorous morning chasing crooks.
‘Do you know Mr Carr?’ I asked.
‘Sure I do. He used to let me come over and play with his Rin Tin Tin dog,’ he said solemnly, reminding me of David’s German shepherd, Rip. ‘I was sad when he died.’
‘I was sad too. Rip was very brave. But he was very old.’ I doubted David had shared the circumstances of Rip’s death with the youngster, so I glossed over the details.
‘We buried him over here,’ the boy said. ‘Come look.’ And he led me to a shady corner of the walled garden where there was a wooden marker with ‘R.I.P. Rip’ on it. ‘Get it? Mr Carr said R.I.P. means Rest In Peace and that spells Rip too. Get it?’ I nodded my understanding. ‘Mama said he was in heaven now, chasing squirrels. What’s your name?’
‘Jessie. What’s yours?’
‘Billy.’
‘Well, Billy, I need to go home now, but I’ll be back soon. Tell your mother not to worry about burglars any more. I’m going to be living here until Mr Carr gets back, so the house won’t be empty. I’ll be taking care of the place. With your help, of course, we’ll keep the burglars away.’
TWENTY-THREE
Another funeral. It seemed like yesterday I was struggling with the back buttons of my dark purple mourning dress, getting ready for Joe Petrovitch’s funeral, and here came another one, this time for Rose Ann Riley. Old people dying is sad, but not tragic. Funerals for murdered people, though – especially innocent victims like Rose Ann – offend every sense of fairness and decency and left me feeling outraged. At least this funeral had nothing to do with the Serbian murders I was trying to solve.
We were a small group gathered together that Friday morning. Rose Ann’s death had not been reported in any of the Los Angeles papers, so there were no newspapermen at the gravesite. Of course, Melva, Lillian, Myrna, and I were there, and Carl Delaney came. Helen’s beau, Larry, home at last from his job-seeking venture into Yosemite National Park, drove over to Riverside to pick up Mrs Reynolds, Helen’s mother, and bring her to us. When Helen asked Kit if there was anyone she wanted to notify – Rose Ann’s former employer, perhaps, or some friends or neighbors – Kit reprised her sullen silence for an answer. The child had nothing suitable to wear, so Helen bought a simple black dress in children’s ready-to-wear at Robinson’s. It was too big, but there wasn’t time to have it altered. In the ill-fitting black dress, black hat, and black stockings, she looked like an inmate out of Jane Eyre’s bleak orphanage.
It was unfortunate, I thought, that mourners were able to view Rose Ann’s body as it lay in the casket. The funeral parlor’s make-up man had done his level best to color over the bruises on her face and mask the cuts, but it wasn’t convincing. And it didn’t look like scrapes from a stumble, not to me, anyway. Luckily, Kit was too young to come to that conclusion, for she simply stared intently at her mother for the last time and made no sound when they closed the lid.
Mrs Reynolds was sweet in that vague, helpless way so many older women assume, purposefully or not, as they age. I pegged her at about fifty. Halfway through the service at the gravesite, the minister paused and, looking directly at her, said, ‘I’m afraid I never had the pleasure of knowing Rose Ann Riley, so I wonder if anyone here would like to say a few words in tribute to her.’
Mrs Reynolds gave a quiet nod that suggested she was prepared to play her part. ‘Of all of us present today, except for Kit, of course, I believe I knew Rose Ann best, so perhaps it’s for me to speak on her behalf. We were first cousins,’ she explained to any of us who were unaware of the relationship, ‘but as sometimes happens in families, there was a great distance between us in age. Almost twenty years. So I remember little Rose Ann when she was a baby, and when she was a youngster who came to visit. From the time she could talk, she was singing, and such a pretty voice she had! Mother would play the piano and little Rose Ann would sing – why, I remember one time when …’ And for about ten minutes, she related some mundane stories about Rose Ann, finishing with a story about Kit’s birth and how Rose Ann doted on her new baby girl. It was a good performance, and we were all touched.
We all – except Carl, who had to return to work – went back to our house for lunch, where Mrs Reynolds sat beside Kit and made a special effort to communicate with the child. I had to admire her resolve – it was a trying task in the best of circumstances, and today was assuredly not that. An uncanny quiet shrouded the girl. She sat motionless, lost inside herself, oblivious to everyone and everything. Having refused to speak for so many years, she clung to her practice of staring through people and ignoring them until they gave up trying to coax a response out of her. Old habits would not, or could not, change overnight, but Mrs Reynolds had the patience and gentle persistence to persuade her to eat a few bites and react with an occasional gesture.
In the midst of all this, the mailman brought a stack of letters, among them the first responses to my request for information about transfigurators that had gone out a week
ago. I had three replies: two had no knowledge of any recent transfigurators. The other remembered a man from about five years back who went by the name of Bombolini. His uninspiring protean act hadn’t lasted long, my friend said, but I made a mental note of the name.
The following day, five more letters arrived: two that regretted being unable to help me and three that put forth possible names. The cast of suspects was starting to file past me like actors auditioning for a play. One was The Great Rudolpho, known to his mother as Rudolph Schreckheise, who advertised himself as a magician and worked the Orpheum circuit, but he performed one trick that included a quick-change component. Another – this one from my old friend Angie with the Cat Circus – told of a performer named Seb Yancey, a Negro protean who worked the TOBA circuit. Since none of the eyewitnesses had seen a colored killer, I dismissed this nomination out of hand. A third letter, this one from a juggler I had known a dozen years ago, told me he had shared a billing last year with a transfigurator named Vesa Leka. ‘A foreigner who did a good act,’ the juggler wrote. ‘Audiences didn’t sit on their hands. But he left vaudeville about six months ago, and I’m thinking he may have died, because no one leaves during the applause.’ This sounded promising since the man was a foreigner and had quit around the time the killings had started, although I would have been happier if his name had ended in ‘–itch’, like all the dead Serbian men.
That evening after supper, when all of us girls except Kit were sitting outside, Helen came out with a tray of pretty drinks and a plate of store-bought chocolates.
‘Ladies,’ she began. ‘I have an after-dinner treat and something to celebrate. Help me pass these, Melva.’
‘What are they?’ asked Myrna breathlessly.
‘A drink Larry and I learned about in Mexico last month. It’s orange juice, lime juice, and tequila, called a Tequila Sunrise. I couldn’t make the exact recipe, but this is close. The tequila is the real McCoy. We brought it back with us.’
She’d gone to a good deal of trouble to decorate each drink with a wooden skewer that pierced a thin slice of lime and a small strawberry. ‘It’s delicious, Helen,’ I said, ‘and we’re dying of curiosity, so spill the news!’
‘Well, then.’ She raised her voice in the manner of a vaudeville emcee and cleared her throat. ‘Ahem … Ladies and ladies! I’d like to announce, drum roll please, that Mr Lawrence Evans has asked Miss Helen Reynolds to marry him and –’ here we all began squealing with delight ‘– and Miss Helen Reynolds has accepted!’
Our hoots and hollers probably disturbed neighbors a mile away, but we didn’t care. The announcement was hardly a shock – Helen had been seeing Larry for some months, and we knew they were madly in love. All us girls liked Larry, an earnest young man who shared Helen’s passion for the outdoors. It was a perfect match.
‘You gals know he was in Yosemite last week about a job, right? Well, he was offered that job, and he starts as a park ranger in two weeks. He was waiting to see about it before he asked me to marry him, and, well, he asked me right when he got home with the good news, but I, well, I wanted to tell you sooner, but I couldn’t be making happy announcements when we were burying Kit’s poor mother. The thing is, I couldn’t hold back any longer because we’re getting married next weekend –’ she paused as we all gasped ‘– yes, next weekend, and then moving to Yosemite right away before his job starts. I’ve already given notice at Robinson’s.’
Everyone talked at once, offering help with the wedding dinner, the ceremony, the packing up, and the move.
‘There won’t be much to plan,’ Helen said. ‘You know me, I’m not the white-dress-and-train kind of gal. I’ve got a new green dress to wear, and we’ll say our vows to the Justice of the Peace.’
‘We’ll have a reception right here afterwards!’ Myrna said. ‘I’ll organize it.’
‘We’ll all make some of the food,’ said Lillian.
‘Hold on, there, girls,’ I said, laughing. ‘I don’t think you want me cooking my famous cowboy sandwiches, so maybe I’d better provide the beverages.’ I suffered a sharp pang, thinking of David and how he’d’ve enjoyed the celebration. And how he’d’ve contributed some of his genuine Old Grand-Dad, too.
‘What will you do out there, Helen?’ asked Myrna. ‘Won’t you be awfully lonely?’
‘Oh, Myrna, me? Lonely? With all those thousands of acres of wilderness and all the animals and waterfalls and hiking trails? I’ll be in heaven. Larry says they’re building a new museum and after that, a big hotel for all the tourists who want to come, so I’m sure I can get paid work whenever I want it. And I’ll be making a home for Larry in a ranger’s cabin, so I’ll have plenty to do.’
After a few moments, I found myself next to Helen and took the opportunity to pose a quiet question. ‘What about Kit?’
‘I was just coming to that. That’s the other good news. My mother really warmed to Kit yesterday and said she wanted to give her a home in Riverside.’ She frowned. ‘I know it isn’t perfect, but Kit can’t come with us to Yosemite. There aren’t any schools or libraries or stores – heck, there are hardly any people! It’s real wilderness living. My mother offered to clear out the spare bedroom, the one that used to be mine, and with us so far away, Kit will be company for her – you know, Larry said it was three hundred miles from here to Yosemite. We just can’t take her with us. I told Kit a little while ago.’
‘What did she say?’
‘The same thing she always says: nothing. I couldn’t get so much as a blink out of her. I don’t know what else I can do, Jessie. This really is for the best. Mother is a very good person, I promise. She goes to a big church and has lots of friends and says some of them have children or grandchildren Kit’s age. I know she’ll take good care of Kit, and Larry and I will be visiting at least once a year.’
‘You’ve done a lot for her, Helen. As much as anyone could have done. It’s been hard on you these past weeks, I know. Congratulations on your engagement. I think everything is going to work out just fine. Kit’s a lucky girl to have such a wonderful family.’
I meant every word. Kit was lucky indeed. I would have killed to have had some dear person like Mrs Reynolds waiting in the wings when my own mother died.
TWENTY-FOUR
Mildred Young, my hair-stylist friend, rang me up the next morning to see if I could join her for lunch. She named a place on Sunset Boulevard near the studio where we had eaten before, a place that was open on Sundays, and I agreed to meet her at one o’clock.
‘Of course you heard about me losing my job,’ I said as I slid into the small booth in the corner where she was waiting. Might as well not beat around the bush.
She pressed her lips together in a tight line and looked down at her menu. Then she reached across the table and clasped my hands in hers. ‘That was a beastly thing for him to do, Jessie,’ she said.
‘It must be the talk of the studio.’
‘No.’ She squeezed my hands. ‘No one at the studio is saying much at all. Most don’t even know you’re gone. They don’t read the papers, and there was no announcement at work. They probably just figure you’re still on one of your investigations for Mr Fairbanks. But those of us who do know about it think you’ve been treated quite shabbily.’
We all had such strong loyalties to Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks that it seemed treasonous to criticize either one. Even now, I made excuses for them.
‘Douglas didn’t have much choice, Mildred. I’m sure it was a last resort. The thing he cares for most in this world, besides Miss Pickford, is their studio. Their association with a convicted criminal like David was dangerous publicity.’
‘But you? You couldn’t help that you had to testify. And after all you’ve done for Mr Fairbanks in the past with your investigations!’
How good it was to have a friend and supporter! Her spirited defense brought tears to my eyes. I blinked them back and took a few sips of water to swallow the burning in my throat. The waiter came up at that
moment and we ordered.
‘What are you planning to do?’ she asked when he moved to the next table.
I shrugged. ‘What else? Get another job.’
She took out a scrap of newspaper and passed it to me. ‘I thought as much. This was in today’s paper. Paramount is advertising for a script girl; so is Celestial Studios and a couple more, but I’ve never heard of them.’
Shaking my head, I sighed. ‘Don’t you see, Mildred? The only chance I have of getting another job like the one I had is my experience at Pickford-Fairbanks. And the reason no other studio would hire me is my experience at Pickford-Fairbanks. Whether I use my real name or not, I’m finished with the picture business. No, don’t worry about me, I’ll find another line of work.’
‘Like what?’
‘I’m not qualified for much. I was thinking about trying for one of those Girl Friday positions.’
‘There are a million girls in Hollywood looking for work until they get discovered,’ she said with a frown. ‘You’d make no more than about twenty-five dollars a week.’ We both knew that wasn’t enough to live on unless I shared a cheap boardinghouse room with another girl. But Mildred didn’t know about David’s valise under the bed, and I didn’t know, yet, what he expected me to do with the money. The truth was, I probably didn’t need a job, not for the paycheck anyway. But I was a working girl. I’d never not had a job in my life. What would I do with myself without a job? Sit alone all day in David’s living room drinking coffee? Without the self-respect and discipline that comes with honest work, I was afraid I might slide back into – well, dishonest work.
‘You can come stay with me,’ she said. ‘That’s what I wanted to tell you. You’ve seen my little house. It isn’t much, I know, and it isn’t located too close to the streetcar lines, but it’s all mine. You can have that spare room upstairs for as long as you care to stay, and you don’t have to pay rent.’