Eve's grip on her bag tightened. “It's all right. I've got it handled, and you've got work to do.” She deftly took her burden toward the door.
He walked fast to keep a step ahead of her. “I can loan you money.”
“No thanks. Got some.”
Joe opened the door and held it as Eve strode through. “If I hear of any openings, I'll come over. Let me know what you're gonna do, all right?”
Eve kept on going as if she were already somewhere else. He swore under his breath.
Anna was tripping up the steps of the station when Eve stomped past on her way down. “Eve!” Anna called. But Eve didn't look around. Anna would almost say she walked faster. Perhaps Eve didn't recognize her in a filthy matron's uniform sticky with egg. She wouldn't expect to find Anna at Central Station. If she had heard about the new assistant matron, it would be a Mrs. Holmes and not a Miss Blanc. Anna resisted the urge to follow Eve, since Matron Clemens was surely wondering what had taken her so long.
Anna wouldn't let this accidental snub put a damper on her happy mood. She would see Eve again soon. Heaven was smiling upon Anna. She had accomplished her mission, delivering Georgie out of the frying pan and into the fire. She did this despite obstacles that Matron Clemens and Officer Wolf could never appreciate.
Anna entered the station with her head held high. She glided to the desk where Mr. Melvin worked, eyes fixed on his typing. She leaned over and whispered in his ear, fairly beaming. “I did it. I went to the cribs. It was like you said. Thank you.”
Without looking up, he whispered, “You're welcome.” Captain Wells approached Mr. Melvin's desk and engaged him in conversation.
Anna stepped back and collided with Wolf. She swung around. “Pardon me, Detective.”
Wolf stared bemusedly at her soiled chest, which was smeared with egg, chicken droppings, and dirt. “Matron Holmes, how was your visit to the cribs?” He seemed to be holding his breath.
“Very fine, thank you.”
“I mean, did you get the orphan to the Orphans’ Asylum? You look as if you've been in an egg fight.”
Anna colored a little. “The boy was playing in a chicken coop and I had to carry him all the way. Don't the police own a pram?”
Wolf grinned and shook his head. “I'm sorry, Matron Holmes. The police pram is out for repairs.”
“You're making fun of me.”
“Now why would I do that? I'm proud of you.” He patted her on the shoulder and let his hand graze down her back.
“I've brought the dead woman's shoe. It fell into the weeds when they were carrying her on the stretcher.” Anna handed him the shoe. “I…dropped the other in…in a pond. I'll go swimming and bring it tomorrow.”
“Thank you.” Wolf's finger grazed Anna's pinky as he pressed it back into her hands. “But, why don't you be in charge of the shoe?”
“It's very curious,” Anna said, turning it over in her hand. “This shoe is size three. I saw her feet and they couldn't have been larger than a one.”
“That is a mystery, Matron Holmes.” He was grinning again.
“Oh, and here is the suicide note. What do I do with it?” She pulled it from her pocket and tried to hand it to him.
He waved it away. “Send it to the family, if she has one.”
Snow came from across the room, pushed past Anna, and thrust a sheet of paper in the general direction of Captain Wells. Four lines were written on it in an ugly hand. “Here's my report on that whore who killed herself—Peaches Payton.”
“That's a parlor girl name if I ever heard one,” Wolf said.
Snow showed his stained teeth. “Doesn't matter if it's not her real name. No one's lookin’ for her.”
Anna leaned over, trying to read the report. “Her name is Daisy Tombs.”
Wolf grinned with pride. “Very good, Matron Holmes.”
Anna smiled. “Don't you think it's odd that a girl would slit her own throat? Wouldn't she throw herself off a cliff or into a river or something?”
“You've been reading too many romantic novels, Matron Holmes,” Wolf said.
“Madam Lulu said other brothel girls have died, too. We could have another Jack the Ripper—a New High Street…” Anna searched for the words. “A New High Street Suicide Faker.”
The men grinned. Anna turned serious eyes on Captain Wells. “Captain, I think someone should investigate.”
Captain Wells raised his eyebrows at Anna and turned to look at Snow. “What do you have to say about it, Detective Snow?”
Snow made a scoffing sound. “We did investigate. The coroner says it's a suicide.”
“I trust my men, Matron Holmes,” Captain Wells said. “Now excuse me.” He trudged toward his office.
Snow turned on Anna. “You think I don't know my job?”
Wolf sighed. He had to nip the conflict in the bud before his pretty hireling made another enemy. “I'm sure she doesn't mean that, do you honeybun?”
“Well, it didn't look like a suicide to me,” Anna said.
Wolf gave Snow a taut smile and steered Anna off into a corner. “Matron Holmes, there are about twenty murders every year in LA, and fifty suicides, each and every one of them investigated by the coroner. He's been working for the county for five years. That makes about 100 murdered bodies and 250 suicides that our coroner's investigated. He doesn't think there's a New High Street Suicide Faker. How many deaths have you investigated?”
“None.” Anna glanced at the vomit stain on her shoe.
Wolf squeezed her shoulder. “Try to remember that, honeybun.”
Anna returned to her desk and stuck the crumpled suicide note into her purse.
Anna stepped out of the station in her eggy uniform, splattered with chicken dung, and absorbed the hurly-burly of the city. She felt powerful, joyful, and esteemed herself greatly. Next time the LAPD advertised for a matron position, she would recommend that they borrow the language from the vibrator ad.
She inhaled deeply, tingling with the force of her awakened power, and immediately regretted it. But even the garbage stench of the city in summer could not squelch her good mood. She had spent the day working with the LAPD and ventured into the underworld where no one from her set had ever gone before. She'd interviewed a madam who was a potential witness in a murder investigation and discussed the case with the detective in charge. Granted, he was hostile toward her, and perhaps it was just a suicide. But she'd put in her two cents, and the whole affair was much more exciting than anything else she had ever done, including eloping with Louis Taylor, which previously had been the highlight of her short life, whether she admitted it or not.
The cherry on top would be when Eve returned to work. Eve was smart, pretty, world-wise, and a real suffragette. They were sisters, having shared something singular, and now they would work with detectives together. Anna felt sure that Eve would never give her secret identity away.
Matron Clemens strode crisply onto the landing. Anna straightened up. “Good evening, Matron Clemens, are you off for the day?”
“I'm on my way to the jail to interview a woman arrested in connection with a train robbery. I'll sit with her tonight because I don't quite trust the jailer.”
Anna smiled. “Oh. How nice.” She meant it. She couldn't think of anything she'd rather do than spend time with a jailbird, penetrating the criminal mind.
“Matron Holmes, you will wash your uniform tonight.”
“Yes, ma’am. Of course.”
As Matron Clemens went on her way, Anna made a mental list of things that would make her life perfect: her own prisoner; Mr. Wright and her father's permission to be a matron and to sleep overnight in the jail; matron uniforms designed by Vionnet at the House of Doucet; and a joint assignment with Eve McBride to solve a murder.
Anna brightened. Matron Clemens would know about Eve. Anna clipped after her, catching up at the bottom step. “Do you know when Matron McBride will return to the station?”
Matron Clemens eyebrows descended in a
wary frown. “You're acquainted with Matron McBride?”
“Only slightly, but I like her very much.”
“She left her position.”
Anna blinked. “But she couldn't have.”
“I assure you. She did.”
Anna felt limp, like a rubber balloon that someone had untied, letting out all of the joy. “But, why?”
“She had her reasons. I'm not sure that Mrs. McBride would appreciate me discussing her private business.”
Lines formed on Anna's brow. “Do you know how I can reach her?”
“I do not. But you could ask Officer Singer.”
Anna's frown deepened. “Thank you, I will.”
The older woman cleared her throat. “While I have you, there is something Officer Wolf may not have mentioned. Matrons are held to the highest standard of conduct. Even the hint of impropriety will not be tolerated. Do you understand?”
“Of course.”
“Good night, Matron Holmes.” Matron Clemens clipped down the sidewalk and made a sharp right, heading toward the jail.
Anna slumped against the marble railing, absently running her hand along its smooth surface, dusting it of leaves. She couldn't imagine anyone ever quitting the station. Being an assistant police matron was the very pinnacle of her own experience. Surely, Eve shared this sentiment. Eve had said nothing about quitting when they were in the hoosegow together. Why would she leave? Had she suddenly gotten sick or married?
She achieved nothing by speculating. Anna would simply have to find Eve and ask her. That meant talking to Officer Singer. His very name made her queasy, especially after Matron Clemens's lecture. He had presented himself at work so drunk that he wobbled, yet the captain winked at his misconduct. If Anna had the barest whiff of medicinal Rip Van Winkle on her breath, she would be dismissed. Not Officer Singer, in his ugly nineteenth-century bonnet. Coming to work pie-eyed and petrificated wasn't the limit to his wickedness, either. He frequented brothels. His manners were bad. He had vomited on her shoe without offering to buy her a new one or even helping to wipe it off. Officer Singer was a disgrace to the LAPD. She reeled at the injustice of this goose and gander double standard.
As Anna reeled, Captain Wells shuffled down the stairs. Anna, severely flummoxed, fell in step. “Excuse me, Captain Wells.”
He smiled and answered in his rolling Scottish brogue. “What is it, Matron Holmes?”
His use of her pseudonym made her hesitate. She was no longer Anna Blanc, a woman with connections, but Assistant Matron Holmes, a woman under his command. Still, hadn't he told her to come to him if any of the men offended her? Wasn't she offended now? More importantly, wasn't she right? Anna straightened her posture and plunged ahead. “I know you're concerned about our conduct and the image of the LAPD.”
“That's right, and don't you forget it.”
Her words rippled with indignation. “But you said nothing when that officer arrived at work so drunk he couldn't walk!”
“Ah, yes.” He tilted his head back, thoughtfully. “You'll have to excuse Officer Singer. Last night, he faced the darkest side of human nature, and he did it in a frock.”
While Anna was speaking with Captain Wells, Joe Singer himself came ambling down the sidewalk, easy as you please, his helmet dipped low on his brow. He hummed “Sweet Adeline.”
He heard his name and stopped humming. Anna continued, oblivious to his presence. “Well, speaking of the darker side—can you explain to me why he's so often at the brothels—and not on police business!”
Captain Wells said, “I don't have to explain anything to you, Matron Holmes, and it would be good if you could remember it. But, I think you're mistaken. If Officer Singer went anywhere near the brothels, his father would have him arrested. The chief's very particular when it comes to his son.”
Officer Singer picked that moment to pass, sauntering by with a knowing smirk. He tipped his hat to Captain Wells. “Evening Uncle. Evening Matron…what's your name?” He didn't stay to hear the answer.
Captain Wells called after him. “Don't be late tonight. Your aunt's made enchiladas.” Officer Singer waved without turning around. The captain bowed his head. “Good evening, Matron Holmes.” He stepped off the curb, and crossed the street, pressing his lips together in an attempt to hide his smile.
Anna's ears blazed hot. She watched Officer Singer swagger down the sidewalk. His carefree humming bloomed into a happy song as he turned the corner. The lyrics no doubt touted all the women he had loved. She charged down the street, humiliated, chaffing at both the injustice and the bad timing.
Anna's elegant yellow car ornamented the sidewalk on Second Street. She stomped up in her horrible hair and dirty mannish uniform. She set the crank and slid onto the pristine seat, leaving a streak of chicken poo.
Anna drove with the top down so she could feel the mischievous air, which was rising again, hot from the east.
“You selfish girl!” cawed the Widow Crisp, who was wearing her own ugly dress again. Anna had cleaned most of Officer Singer's vomit off the hem. The Widow scowled. “You've soiled my frock, almost killed me in the car, and now you're smothering me with dust. I! Hate! Wind!”
Anna happily ignored her. She pulled into the drive and saw Mr. Wright's ocean blue Cadillac parked in front. Her heart raced. “Jupiter.”
She had long since given up expecting Mr. Wright or Mr. Blanc in the evenings. If she had, she would have spent more time primping in the orchard. The men invariably started work early and worked until after she was in bed. Previously, this had vexed her. If she never saw Mr. Wright, how could she encourage his attentions? But now she had welcomed it as providential. It would make her matron work possible.
Anna plucked up a half-knitted blanket, skillfully wrought by the Widow Crisp, and sashayed into the house. The Widow followed like a shadow.
Mr. Wright waited in the parlor, dressed for dinner. He stood and greeted Anna with a boyish grin. “Hello, darling. Hello, Widow Crisp.”
Anna smiled back. “I didn't expect you.”
“I missed you.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Aren't you glad to see me?”
Anna glowed. “Yes.” He looked wonderful, and she remembered how much she did miss him, or the idea of him, or the promise of what being with him could be like—like being on the train. He was everything she wanted, outside of police work. She held up the afghan and beamed. “I'm knitting for the Orphans’ Asylum.”
That evening, after Anna had freshened herself and changed into a stunning Nile-green evening gown, the Widow Crisp joined Anna and Mr. Wright for a romantic dinner. Afterward, she followed them into the conservatory and sniggered while Anna played piano badly. Then, she followed them into the parlor for cards, where she took Anna's last cent, drank glass after glass of the Blanc's best sherry, and flirted with Mr. Wright until his face turned red.
Anna knew she had to get rid of the Widow Crisp, or she might snap and beat her with a candlestick. Then she remembered how much the Widow hated the east winds. Anna smiled brightly. “Mr. Wright, would you take me for a stroll around the grounds?”
He looked out the window at the chaos in the garden and smiled bemusedly. “It's the perfect night. I'll have to hold you tight so you don't blow away.” He offered Anna his arm. “Shall we?”
The Widow frowned.
The grounds of the Blanc estate were peppered with jacaranda, evergreens, oaks, and palms, all shaking their manes, their leaves falling like summer sleet. Anna's skirts whipped around her body, and gusts of eucalyptus pollen made Mr. Wright sneeze. He clutched his hat to his head. The Widow Crisp was unshakable, despite her hatred of the winds. She stood on the terrace, her bun come undone, her hair alive like a medusa, her glittering eyes glued to the couple.
Anna raised her voice to be heard. “Do you think I'm cuckoo to want to walk tonight?”
“No. This is very romantic—the wind blowing the stars into new constellations, you, me…” The corner of his mouth quirked. “The Widow
Crisp.” Saying so, Mr. Wright pulled Anna behind a tree and out of the chaperone's sight. They were near a large rose bush that was shaking off its petals.
Anna laughed over the rush of the wind. Stray locks of her hair flew like bull whips. “They're sure I'm going to run away and join the circus.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Well, are you?”
“I'm considering it.”
“Then, can I come with you?”
Anna raised a finger to her lips as if thinking. “That depends. What are your talents?”
He leaned up against the tree and sheltered her with his body, standing very close. “I can throw knives.”
Anna encouraged him with a smile. “Not at me. I won't wear sequins.”
Mr. Wright shook his head. “Never at you.”
“Don't you want to know my talents?” They were grinning at each other.
“What are your talents?” he asked.
“Lion taming.”
“Lion taming is the most important quality that I look for in a wife.” Mr. Wright snapped off a rose, which had but three tenacious petals, and dropped to one knee. “Tame me, Miss Blanc? Please? Just to be clear, I'm proposing.” He gave her the balding rose and held his breath.
It was the moment for which Anna had been waiting; the moment she thought would never come again. She stood on the threshold of freedom and, dare she hope, love? “You'll marry me no matter what happens? Even if my father says no and cuts me out of his will and offers you heaps of money to leave me?”
Mr. Wright frowned. “Of course.”
“Then, yes.” She took the rose and smiled. She felt hope, relief, and a tinge of grief for something she couldn't name. Her eyes wandered to Mr. Wright's large, soft hands, which disappeared into his coat as he stood.
“You better have this, then.” He produced a ring. Anna hurriedly stripped off her glove. He took her hand, and slid it onto her finger. Anna's eyes sparkled like the diamonds. The piece was generous and uncommon, like something made in another world by elves—or a really good French jeweler.
The Secret Life of Anna Blanc Page 8