The Secret Life of Anna Blanc

by Jennifer Kincheloe

  “Wolf hired me.”

  Joe threw back his head and laughed. “That explains it.” He sauntered to his desk. Anna narrowed her eyes at his backside. “I have skills!”

  “Like what?”

  “I can tell you don't get along with your father and you broke your bathroom mirror on Wednesday.”

  Joe, who was lowering himself into his chair, fell hard. He stopped smiling. Anna kicked herself. The remark was personal; she shouldn't have said it. A squeaky panic hovered in her vocal chords. Joe tapped his desk, beating out some primitive rhythm. War drums. He cleared his throat. “Is there something you want from me, or did you just come over to play detective, Sherlock?”

  Anna blushed, sorely regretting that she had chosen “Holmes” as a surname, and most everything else she'd done or said in the past two weeks. She tried not to look desperate, smiled with all the sugar she could muster, and lowered her voice. “Why won't you take my piano?”

  “Assistant Matron Holmes, don't you have work to do?” he asked.

  “No. I mean…” The panicked cry was back. She closed her eyes and wrestled it into submission. She'd handled similar situations before. He was no different than Cook's son, Alvin, who, when they were eight, had seen her pop the butler's bicycle tires with an ice pick. She'd offered him marbles, but it hadn't been enough. She'd offered horehound candy. He had said no. His price was a yellow goldfish. What was Officer Singer's goldfish? Not a piano. Something else. She could take any number of things from her father and just claim that Miss Cooper had stolen them. Ruby cufflinks? A cashmere coat?

  She blurted. “My father has a parrot. It's not eloquent. I mean. It swears. In French, but otherwise…”

  Joe snorted. Anna glanced toward Mr. Melvin's desk. Empty. She scanned the station. Clear across the room, Snow handed Mr. Melvin a report. Mr. Melvin took it with the pads of thumb and pointer finger. Anna turned back to Joe and held his eyes, pleading in a whisper. “What do you want from me? I'll give you anything. I'll do anything. Anything at all. Just ask me.”

  Joe raised his eyebrows. “Coffee.”

  Anna stared at him a long moment and scowled. A horse was a goldfish. A man's diamond ring was a goldfish. Coffee was not a goldfish. Coffee was an insult. She tossed her head. “All right. I'll learn.” Anna strode to the station's kitchen to try her hand at boiling water.

  The tiny kitchen sweltered. A pot-belly stove shared space with a sink and table. Lunch pails crowded the shelves, large and brimming to feed the men during twelve, sometimes fifteen-hour shifts, seven days a week. Anna looked about. She spied a tin of coffee under the sink. She filled the kettle from the faucet, added a handful of coffee beans, and set it on top of the stove. She perched on a chair to watch it boil.

  Some time later, Anna returned with a blister on her finger and a tin cup half filled with a light amber brew. She handed the cup to Joe.

  “Thank you.” His smile was pure rudeness. He swirled the cup and grimaced, walked over to a brass spittoon and dumped out the coffee. It pinged as soggy whole beans hit the brass in clumps.

  Anna made a little sound of objection. Joe ignored her, sauntered over to his desk and sat. Anna trailed behind him. He glanced up. “Assistant Matron Holmes, if you keep following me around, the men are gonna think you're sweet on me. So unless there's something else…”

  Mr. Melvin sat at his desk now, eyes trained on the ledger before him. Wolf emerged from the interview room with a lady. She was flushed. He was smiling.

  Anna cleared her throat. “There is. I want to know the fate of the little man who you captured stalking…um…Anna Blanc.” Anna planned to find the little man's goldfish.

  “I let him go.”

  Anna's pretty jaw dropped. “What do you mean you let him go?”

  He shrugged. “Trespassing's not a jailable offense. I could fine him, but he doesn't have any money. I could kick the tar out of him, but he'd like that.”

  “So you just let him go?”

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “I bought him a drink first.”

  Anna couldn't help it. All her sugar had dissolved. She snapped. “You're some police officer, scoffing at a woman's safety and contributing to the degeneracy of a reprobate!” Across the room, Wolf turned to see his pretty hireling upbraiding an officer. He slapped a hand on his forehead.

  Joe smirked at Anna. “He's harmless. His name's Douglas Doogan. We arrest him all the time. I told him to stay away from you and he will.”

  “Well! I wish you'd do the same!” She flounced toward her desk.

  Joe laughed. “Practice what you preach!”

  Anna lowered herself into her chair and covered her face with her hands. She knew she needed to be nice to Officer Singer, but everything she said to him was wrong. Mostly because he was awful.

  She opened the desk drawer to stow her hulking, scrofulous bag and saw the picture of her and Eve smiling like sisters at the march, which she had framed in a swirl of silver. She wanted to display it, but the photo featured Anna Blanc, not Matron Holmes.

  How could a wretch like Officer Singer be anything to Eve? They weren't sweethearts, surely. Eve was superior to Officer Singer in every way. Anna's eyes lit with an epiphany. Officer Singer must respect Eve. Maybe he even recognized and was grateful for her condescension. If he knew that Eve liked her, he might amend his opinion of Anna and come to see her as she really was—wonderful. Then he wouldn't tell Edgar or her father that she was Assistant Matron Holmes.

  Anna took the picture out of the frame and gingerly tore it, removing her image from the photograph. She replaced Eve's half of the photo in the frame. She stacked criminal files into a tower and crowned it with the photograph, facing out at Joe's eye level.

  When Joe sauntered back past Anna, he did an about-face. He snatched up the picture and studied it. Anna's heart jumped. She brought out her sugar smile.

  Joe grunted in disgust. “You have got to be kidding me.”

  Anna's smile drizzled away. “What?”

  “It was you with Eve at the suffrage march.”

  Anna balanced an imaginary book on her head, and proudly pronounced, “Mrs. McBride is a friend of mine.”

  Joe shook his head as if he couldn't believe her words. “You're a lollapalooza. Maybe you were friends, but I doubt she thinks so anymore.”

  Anna harrumphed. “What do you know?” She cut her eyes to the paper she was typing and furiously pecked at the keys. She hit return and typed some more.

  “Oh, I heard the whole story. How she took your cigarette. How you provoked the policemen. How your daddy got you out of jail. Eve got thirty days. She lost her job over it.”

  The typewriter pinged. Joe leaned over her and narrowed his eyes. “You got her canned and then you stole her job. She's a widow with children, Assistant Matron Holmes.”

  Anna stared into those close, hostile, Arrow-Collar-Man eyes, utterly confused. This couldn't be true. If this were true, Anna was a rat. No, worse than a rat. She felt dizzy. She dropped her eyes and tried to keep her voice steady. “You heard wrong. Eve herself recommended that I apply for a matron position so we could work together. I didn't know she'd been dismissed.”

  Joe laughed darkly. “And you think you're friends? For a detective, you sure miss a lot of clues.”

  Without warning, he reached over and yanked the sheet of paper from her typewriter. She lunged for it too late. He saw her page of gibberish. His shoulders shook with bitter laughter.

  “I'm…testing the ribbon,” she said.

  “I bet you are.”

  He sauntered off, smiling his contempt, leaving Anna with her hands pressed to her warm cheeks.

  That night, Anna jabbed her palm with a pin. She did it again, harder, and a tiny drop of penance pooled on her skin. She was a despicable friend. Jab. A bad person. Jab.

  There was a knock at Anna's bedroom door. “Go away.”

  “Let me in,” Mrs. Morales called.

  Anna closed her fist over her stigma
ta and opened the door.

  The older woman frowned. “Sister Sweetinbed is on the line for you. Take it in the corridor.”

  “You don't have to listen to my calls. The Widow Crisp follows me like a hound dog.” Anna stepped out of the bedroom and took the cold metal receiver. She thought of all the nuns who'd punished her over the years, but could conjure no image of Sister Sweetinbed, just a vague burning sensation on her backside and the impulse to run. She braced herself for a reprimand. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Princess.” Madam Lulu's voice floated disembodied over the crackling line. Mrs. Morales hovered, listening.

  Anna's tone was stiff and tentative. “Sister Sweetinbed, what a surprise.” She rolled her eyes for Mrs. Morales's benefit. Mrs. Morales seemed to relax. It was the exact reaction she would expect from Anna upon receiving a call from a nun. She swished off.

  Anna tugged on the telephone cord and tried to drag it into her bedroom, but it wouldn't stretch. “How did you find me?”

  “Oh please, I read the society pages. I'm calling to remind you of your sins.”

  Anna cupped her palm around the receiver. “What exactly do you want me to do? I've spoken with the detectives, including the captain, and they didn't take it well.”

  “Talk to the police chief. He's a friend of your father's.”

  Anna guffawed. “What would I say? He'll tell my father.”

  “If you don't, more innocent girls are gonna die. So you make somethin’ up. And bat your eyelashes.” Madam Lulu hung up the phone.

  Anna slunk to her room and threw herself onto the bed. A deep line creased her brow. She thought about dead brothel girls and about sin. She thought about Georgie and Eve.

  Anna's ragged, russet carrying bag lay like a bloodstain on the Persian carpet. She reached for it and dug out the suicide note. It had wormed its way into a hole in the lining cut by the sharp blade of the paring knife. Anna ran her finger down the smooth paper.

  If Peaches had been murdered by some brutal beast, the note was either a forgery or written under duress. If that were the case, there should be a clue. The message itself seemed all right, something a desperate, uneducated woman might write to her son. Out of the thirty-three words in the letter, nineteen spellings were slaughtered. She had managed to misspell “in,” one of the easiest words in the English language.

  Anna read the note several more times until she had memorized it. She closed her eyes and ran each word through her mind in sequence. Mi sweet babee. I luv u. But I rekan a difrent muther kan raz u beter. I m so sory, babee. Pleez forgiv me. I was n a low…

  Anna paused at the word “low,” which had been spelled correctly, and frowned in puzzlement. “Low” contained a diphthong. No one this bad at spelling would ever get it right. They would spell it phonetically, L-O, the way it sounded. Anna was sure of it. Even Lady Molly of Scotland Yard would agree. Anna hugged herself. The truth would be plain to anyone who had won her convent's spelling bee. The letter was a fake, badly written by a killer who could spell.

  When Anna realized the implications, her elation leaked away, replaced by a swampy feeling in her stomach. If Madam Lulu was correct, it was a sin to stand by and do nothing while fallen girl after fallen girl was being murdered. Sins of commission were much more fun than sins of omission, and Anna needed to lower her overall tally or she would never get out of purgatory.

  She winced. She would have to speak with Chief Singer and show him the note. Someone had to solve these crimes or more children would be orphaned, more girls would die.

  The next day, Anna called the station using her best deathbed voice, and told Mr. Melvin she had influenza. She donned a hat piled with swirls of ribbons, fluffy poufs of tulle, and rings of roses to lend her both height and authority. She dropped off the Widow Crisp and drove to City Hall.

  Anna breezed through the stone arches armed with the certainty that, as the daughter of Christopher Blanc and the fiancée of Edgar Wright, Chief Singer would have to see her.

  The chief had been in office for seven months, appointed by the mayor last December. Most police chiefs barely lasted a year in Los Angeles. He was due to get shot, quit, or be fired any day now. The chief had moved out the previous year from Jefferson, Indiana, where he'd served as Marshall, bringing his debauched son along with him. Although Anna didn't know Chief Singer well, he had been to the house on several occasions and showed a polite interest in Anna. He would, at least, hear her.

  The lobby was airy with tall ceilings that kept the room cool. When Anna checked in with a clerk, her voice echoed. In a moment her steps were ringing out up four flights of marble stairs and through the corridor to Chief Singer's office. Anna glided in, leaving the door ajar.

  The chief was leaning back in his chair, smiling, looking casual and comfortable. His skin glowed red. He leapt to his feet when Anna entered. “Sweet surprises, it's Miss Blanc!”

  “Chief Singer, you're sunburned!” she said, as it was her feminine duty to dote. She offered him her dainty gloved hand.

  He took it and motioned for her to sit. “Been golfing with the mayor. Should've worn a hat.” He grinned and slid back into his chair. “I can't imagine why you're here, but whatever you want, you've got it.”

  Anna smiled and bobbed. The father was charming, clearly more agreeable than the son. “I've come to beg your assistance.”

  “I'm listening.” He scooted closer and leaned forward with the focus and attention of a confessor. He was handsome, and Anna blushed. “You know I've been working for the Orphans’ Asylum.”

  He nodded. “Knitting blankets.”

  “Yes.” Anna fingered a broach at her neck. “One of the children's mothers, a…brothel girl, had her throat cut.”

  He blew out a whistle and leaned back in his chair. “Miss Blanc, you are all surprises.”

  “Detective Snow is calling it a suicide, but I don't believe a woman would do such a thing.”

  “Soiled doves lead miserable lives.”

  Anna leaned forward. “Yes, but there's evidence that Detective Snow has overlooked. A suicide note. I believe it points to murder.”

  He nodded, looking thoughtful and serious. “Is that so?”

  “I've got it right here.” Anna dug in her purse for the crumpled note and handed it to him. She leaned over his desk as he read it. Her words came out in a rapid stream, tumbling over any punctuation that tried to stand in their way. “I believe it's a fake. See, look closely. Virtually all the words are misspelled—‘in’ spelled N, ‘been’ spelled B-I-N.”

  He wore a listening expression. Anna talked faster. “See the word ‘low’? It's spelled correctly, L-O-W. It contains a diphthong! Who would misspell an easy word like ‘in’ and then properly spell a diphthong? The letter was obviously written by a person only pretending he can't spell!” She ran out of air and gulped a breath. “That's why I want a different officer to investigate.” She sat back in her chair and waited for him to see the rightness of her logic.

  Chief Singer raised his brow and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, you ought to talk to my brother-in-law down at Central Station.”

  “I spoke with Captain Wells.”

  “And?”

  “He says he trusts his men.”

  Anna stared at him expectantly. The chief nodded again and drummed a finger on his desk. Anna tapped her fingernail and watched him think. After a brief silence he said, “The coroner examined her body?”

  “Yes.”

  “The coroner teaches at USC.”

  “Yes, I know. The men respect him.” Anna picked up the letter and slipped it back into her clutch. “Chief Singer, I'm sure that things are not what they seem. Other brothel girls have died mysteriously, too, and the madam thinks it's murder. More people could die. If you aren't prepared to have an officer investigate, perhaps one of the matrons can do it. They've had contact with these girls.”

  “You are somethin’ else.” He studied her face. “If it makes you feel better, Miss Blanc, I'll have
someone look into it.” He smacked the desk and stood. “Now go home, put it out of your mind, and give my regards to your father.”

  Relief washed over Anna. She had won. She stood, gave him her hand and her most brilliant smile. “Thank you. I knew you'd help.”

  The chief shook her hand. “By the way, when you went in to see Captain Wells, did you see my son Joe at the station?” He was grinning and seemed to anticipate some favorable remark. She felt sorry for him. He was proud of his son.

  “Why, yes I did. I almost didn't know him dressed as a girl. But when he fell on me—he was a little unsteady, and threw up on my shoe—I said, ‘why that's Chief Singer's son.’”

  Anna immediately kicked herself. But Joe Singer made her say awful things. She held her breath for the chief's response.

  He slapped his hand on his head with a resonate thunk. “Oh my. I'll have to talk to that boy.”

  Panic rose in Anna's throat. “Oh, oh no. Please don't. Please. I wouldn't want to…embarrass him.” Or enrage him.

  The chief shrugged. “If you say so, Miss Blanc.”

  She exhaled a laugh of relief. He was so charming and pleasant, so at her disposal. “Thank you, Chief Singer, and your son is…Your son is very…” She pressed her lips together. “Have a good day.” She dipped and headed for the open door.

  Anna considered the meeting a smashing success. She had discharged her obligation to God and Lady Justice. Chief Singer would put a new detective on the case. Officer Singer would never know that she'd told on him again. With luck, he'd get in trouble anyway. She felt so happy and relieved that when she passed through the open door, she almost twirled, but stopped short at a terrible sight. Officer Singer leaned against the wall, crooning to himself. “I wonder who's kissing her now, wonder who's teaching her how…”

  One dimple was propped up by a smirk. “Sherlock, you annoy me. A-N-N-O-Y,” he said. “The O Y—that's a diphthong.”

  Anna squeezed her eyes together and flounced away as fast as she could, her quick steps echoing down the marble hall.