Body on the Backlot

by Eva Monteleagre

  CHAPTER SIX

  ONCE I ENTERED MY home, I went straight to the box cutter and carefully cut the full length of the package from top to bottom on both sides and then across the top. Like a foldout bed, the side of the box came down and revealed to me its contents. The smell of oil paint and linseed oil came at me with a flood of colors and images of my mother with paint on her apron, her cheek, and her forehead. I felt her hand wrapped around mine, her fingertips colored different shades of blue. Inside my tiny fist was a long, thick-bristled paintbrush. She made large swooshing and then short dabbing motions with my arm and that meant the paintbrush, heavy with blue oil pigment, left vibrant swirls of color that had meant something to my mother. I stayed with that memory. It was some time before I realized I was standing there in front of the opened box with a smile on my face.

  My mother’s easel, her palette, some oil paint, brushes, and several of her unfinished paintings were wrapped in paper. I pulled everything out, carefully unwrapped each piece and arranged them around my living room. Each object was aglow with her presence. The easel ended up in the corner and I placed the painting of a woman emerging from the earth on it. I could see a phantom of my mother standing before it working the paint with her brush to an exact effect. Her thick black hair would be piled on top of her head in such a way to make her look like a Dr. Seuss character. I remembered her working on this very piece and her explaining to me that she was going to use gold on the outline of the woman from head to toe in order to create a shining nimbus. I was only five at the time and my mother was already teaching me to oil paint. I had learned quite a lot, and now I marveled at my memory of each lesson. At the time, when she told me her artistic intention for this particular piece, I remembered thinking that it would look just like the saints depicted in the artwork she had shown me in those heavy art books she’d pull out for reference. I had not recalled those memories for many years. I could hear the gentle authority of her voice as if she were in the room with me. Her possessions were alive with her spirit and I was humbled by their strength.

  My mother’s style was different from my aunt’s self-effacing charm, in that she carried herself like royalty even when she was standing barefoot in the mud of a cornfield. I often thought of her toes as roots that could sink into the mud and her hair as black coils that could reach up to the stars. It didn’t hurt that she had once painted a self-portrait much like that. It had been sold at an auction in St. Louis, Missouri, and she had garnered a high price for a charity I no longer remembered. I had proudly attended the auction with my mother, but I remembered that my father had not been happy about it when we got back home. He never really understood my mother. He had tried to hold her captive. Unsuccessfully. She was nobody’s possession. She belonged to the cosmos, maybe, but not to any earthly thing—not even to me.

  I stood still in the living room. Everything was placed as if in reverence. What more could I do to honor this gift? My mother had been taken from me abruptly. That one event had shaped me. An uncanny desire to do something to complete my relationship with my mother overtook me. Something ritualistic, something profound. I had meant to spend the night evaluating the case, pulling it all together for a new attack the next day. I didn’t know how to do that, not from where I was existing in that moment.

  A blinking light on my answering machine called to me. The first message was from Carl. It was obvious that he’d been drinking. My heart went cold when he said he couldn’t stop thinking of me, especially once he saw me at Harry’s. He wanted me to understand that he didn’t love Debbie the way he loved me. Lucky her. I had tried very hard to put an end to all “talks” with Carl, especially when he’d been drinking. Such conversations repeatedly ended with him threatening suicide or worse, clumsy efforts to seduce me that bordered on attempted rape. These talks only made it impossible for me to be his friend. My feelings for Carl spiraled from discomfort to rage with an occasional dizzying spin of pity. I would have had a restraining order put on him, but it would have been detrimental to both our careers. Besides, I was pretty sure I could handle him for the most part and could take him if I had to. Shadows of my father, full up on Johnny Walker Red, haunted my thoughts, but I pushed them back into the recesses of my mind.

  The second message was from Gus, saying that Autumn Riley’s parents had arrived and were down at the station and that they wanted to meet with us this evening. A wave of relief overtook me. That sounded like a much better idea than having my evening interrupted by a visit from Carl. I could only guess that Carl would drive by my place several times during the night until he saw my car was parked in the alley and then make his appearance. I dialed Gus on his cell phone.

  “Sling it!”

  I don’t know why Gus answers the phone like that. I guess he thinks it’s funny.

  “They want to meet with us tonight?” I asked.

  “You got it. Plus, they want the body.”

  “Did the captain tell them it’s gone?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What’s he waiting for?”

  “Can you make it?” Gus asked.

  “Sure, I can.”

  “The Rileys want us to meet them in Hollywood.”

  “Hollywood?”

  Autumn’s parents had picked the chapel on the same grounds where Marilyn Monroe and Valentino were buried in the heart of Hollywood for their daughter’s memorial. They wanted Gus and I to meet them there while they made arrangements. I found this highly irregular. I could only guess that the captain was bending over backward for them.

  Why were the Rileys in such a rush to throw a memorial for the friends who waylaid their daughter and put her in danger? I maneuvered through fast-moving traffic on Sunset, snaked down Franklin, and took Vine toward the cemetery.

  Everyone and everything was out on the street. Transvestites in overt sexual display strolled down Santa Monica Boulevard. I recognized one of them: Gilda. She, as she liked to be referred to, truly bore a striking resemblance to Rita Hayworth. The image was enhanced by her costume of a strapless ankle-length dress and gloves that came up over the elbows. Three years earlier, Gilda had helped me out. Several transvestites had been murdered and Gilda had worked as bait for three weeks making it possible to catch the killer. I was disappointed but not surprised that she was still on the street.

  I pulled up beside her and she purposely ignored me for a moment. I had learned, under Gilda’s tutelage during the investigation, that the working girl initially ignores the driver; it’s all part of the dance. I kept on riding alongside her and finally she acknowledged me. I stopped the car and waved her in. A strong but pleasant fragrance filled the car as she slid into the front seat. Her personality had a radiance, and you couldn’t help but grin in her presence. “Oh my, it’s been so long!” she exclaimed.

  “Gilda, thought you’d be off the street by now.” I didn’t hide my disappointment.

  “Oh, this is my last week. I’m outta here.”

  “How long you been sayin’ that now, three years?”

  “I know, but I mean it. I almost didn’t come out tonight.”

  “How come?”

  “There’s some nasty people ‘round these days.”

  “Always been nasty people Gilda, that’s how we met.”

  “Yea, but its real bad now. I heard there’s a man and woman, real predators. Story goes they’re out here now and they got a whole graveyard full up of young girls, some boys too.”

  “How’s that?”

  “They go for the runaways, pick ‘em up and torture them to death, even heard they set ‘em on fire.”

  “That a fact?”

  “I believe it. Some of these kids disappear quick. Runaways don’t even have a chance.”

  “You got a line on that?”

  “No, and I don’t want one. No, no, I’m really getting out. I met a nice man. I’m going to move in with him.”

  “Where’s he live?”

  “Frasier Park.”

  “What�
�s he do?”

  “He’s an astronomer.”

  It did sound like she had found a nice man. That’s more than I could claim.

  “He knows everything about you?”

  “Everything. And he doesn’t judge me, either.”

  “That’s good.”

  “He’s my dream man, honey, I swear. He says only thing that’s wrong with the world is people can’t see the stars and don’t even take the time to look up.”

  “Sounds like he’s got a philosophy going.”

  “That he does, that he does.”

  “Well, when you move in with him, invite me over for dinner. I wanna meet him.” I scratched my phone number on the paper pad I keep on my dash.

  “If you don’t come, it will hurt my feelings,” she said.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “With a date?” she asked, teasing me.

  “Now that I can’t promise.”

  We laughed together and she put the paper in her beaded purse. Then she gave me a kiss on the cheek, opened the car door, got out, waved, and strolled, deftly avoiding a broken beer bottle.

  I pulled away from the curb and back into the traffic and considered, not for the first time, the realities of Gilda giving her body to strange men. It caused me distress and that was nothing compared to my distress when I pondered a graveyard of runaways. I found I was enraged. People always say that when you do police work for years you become inured to the atrocities. All I can say is, that’s not been my experience.

  Carl constantly warned me that my emotions were my fatal flaw. He said that if I weren’t careful, I’d end up eating my gun. It’s not uncommon. The suicide rate is high among cops, but suicide never held much attraction for me. Carl was probably talking more about himself than me. I always felt the eyes of my grandmother on me, and she would never approve of such behavior. That woman had the strength and the wisdom of a hundred oak trees. Plus, I owed it to my mother to live and thrive. If anything, my emotions were blown fuel and I was a fast car in a NASCAR competition. I had to be careful, though, had to control myself, couldn’t work Special Section with flames shooting out my ass.

  I drove in through wrought-iron gates and stone pillars into the grassy green and statuary-riddled Hollywood cemetery. I parked in a white gravel lot next to the small chapel. I paused and said a short prayer for my mother and grandmother before I entered and asked them both to help me with this case. Or any other way they saw fit. I was open.

  The chapel had nice wood everywhere, including a large cross in the pulpit. There was one stained glass window plus rows and rows of wooden pews. For an instant I was reminded of the Mt. Zion Baptist church where we held both my mother’s and my grandmother’s services in the Ozarks. Gus was already talking with who I assumed were the parents. They were gathered around the podium.

  Two men were conversing in quiet earnest in the corner. The coolness of the air-conditioning caressed me as I crossed toward Gus and the parents.

  Mr. and Mrs. Riley stood close together, leaning on each other for support. My first impression was that they were of the “one can never be too rich or too thin” ilk. I could see where Autumn got her fine looks. Her mother had short curly auburn hair and green eyes. She didn’t have a matronly bone in her body. One might have mistaken her for Autumn’s sister. Mr. Riley appeared quite healthy and vibrant with thick white hair and dark piercing eyes. Gus stepped away from them and toward me when he saw me approach and pulled me to the side. The Rileys watched our transaction with intensity.

  “How’s homicide?” I asked.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Riley have made a formal complaint with the city regarding the loss of their daughter’s body. And how are you?”

  “The voodoo doll is from Haiti, part of a spell having to do with ambition, power, and control. What’re the parents like?”

  “Hard to explain. You’ll see.”

  Gus introduced me and I gave my condolences. Mrs. Riley’s hand was hot. She definitely ran at a higher temperature than most folks.

  “I understand Autumn sang opera,” I said.

  “She was a prodigy,” said Mrs. Riley.

  “Yes, I thought she was a little young to have performed at the Muni.”

  “She was fifteen the first time she performed. The critics were wowed.” The woman was a live electric wire. Her eyes burned with intensity.

  “When did you first notice her talent?” I asked.

  “She was five. But one doesn’t sing opera naturally, it takes years of training.”

  “I would think so, especially since many of the songs are in other languages,” I said.

  “Autumn spoke Italian, French, and Spanish fluently.”

  “Fluently?”

  I had never met anyone in St. Louis who spoke three foreign languages fluently.

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Riley. “When a child’s mind is forming, it is capable of learning a great deal. We hired language tutors, professional opera singers, and acting coaches as soon as we saw the bright flame of Autumn’s talent.”

  I gave Mrs. Riley a slow nod and tried to imagine the pressure that the five-year-old Autumn Riley must have been under.

  “You have to understand,” said Mr. Riley. “Once you learn that your child is a genius, you have a responsibility to nurture their gift. Autumn learned languages and musical scores like other children learn the alphabet.”

  “I see,” I said. “I wish I could have seen her perform.”

  I’ve had more than my share of experiences with the next of kin but none were anything like this.

  “It was something to behold,” said Mrs. Riley. “Perhaps we spoiled her a bit. Maybe her life was not like other children’s.” Her voice quavered as she continued, “But she was not destined for normalcy. She was an exception. She was beautiful and brilliant and she had presence. Most adults never claim the dignity that Autumn had at ten.” Tears filled Mrs. Riley’s eyes. Mr. Riley put his arm around her.

  “In her teens,” the father continued, “she became more impetuous and less disciplined. We tried to give her free reign. Her senior year she begged to have the exchange student at her school stay with us and we agreed.” He sighed a heavy sigh and shook his head.

  “Where was the exchange student from?” asked Gus.

  “Australia, Dani was her name. A bright girl but inappropriate. We still regret it, but there was no way to know.”

  “Know what?” asked Gus.

  “Dani had deep psychological problems,” said Mr. Riley. “In fact, I had to peel her off of me on several occasions.”

  “Don’t think we didn’t try to be compassionate,” said Mrs. Riley. “We hired a psychiatrist. We even spoke with the school counselor, but there was no undoing what was wrong with that girl. And we couldn’t persuade Autumn that Dani was anything other than her truest and best friend.”

  “Did you feel that Dani had undue influence over Autumn?” I asked.

  Mr. Riley said, “Yes, I did feel that. And nothing Dani did was wrong in Autumn’s eyes. It became impossible. Things went missing from our home. Dani stayed out all hours. Once, she disappeared for three days.”

  “Autumn was sick with worry for her friend,” added Mrs. Riley. “Turned out Dani went on a weekend cruise with a married man.”

  “To make matters worse, Dani got it in her head that Autumn should try out for a pop star audition here in Los Angeles,” said Mr. Riley. “We thought maybe if we were supportive, Autumn would go have an adventure and get it out of her system. We knew she wouldn’t make it as a pop star, she didn’t have that sort of voice. She was an opera singer, not one of these tarts that sell Pepsi Cola.”

  Gus slid his eyes over to me and then back to Mr. Riley. “Do you think Autumn enjoyed the adventure?” he asked.

  “No. Not at all. Autumn has never had any real competition,” said Mrs. Riley. “She has always been the only one, the complete focus of all attention. She was a phenomenon. It had to have been very painful for her not to be chosen.
We didn’t recognize her after that. It was as if an alien being took over her body and Autumn disappeared. I started noticing credit card bills for a psychic. I’m telling you, my daughter was a devout Catholic. She used to go to confession once a week. I don’t know how she could possibly have had anything to confess, she worked so hard on her training. Thoughts, I guess. Next I noticed credit charges for some goddess workshop. It was all so unlike her.”

  “I believe the pop star audition absolutely destroyed her,” said Mr. Riley.

  “Yes, that was the turning point,” agreed Mrs. Riley.

  “She had her credit charges sent to you?” I asked.

  “She never bothered to change the address,” said Mrs. Riley. “I send all the financial documents to her accountant, our accountant. It’s much easier that way.”

  We were distracted from our conversation when the producer Glenn Addams entered the chapel with an entourage of mourners in black. It was a couture group, admittedly a Hollywood crowd, but there was something over-the-top-glamorous about the Glenn Addams camp. An air of impropriety hung about them. Had the parents invited Addams to this impromptu meeting as well?

  What I took to be a chapel attendant gestured to Mr. Riley, and the couple immediately excused themselves, leaving Gus and me to talk.

  “Was it Dani or Addams that took Autumn Riley down a dark, dark path?” I asked.

  “Either of them must have seemed cheery compared to those old passion plays in foreign tongues,” said Gus.

  “Why would anyone do that to their kid?”

  “Ought to be against the law.”

  “Are there any roles that a fifteen-year-old can play in those things?” I asked.

  “Carmen, maybe.”

  “Carmen? That’s racy stuff. She gets stabbed in the end.”

  “By her jealous lover.”

  Mrs. Riley was speaking with a man in hushed tones. From the back, I could see the man’s skin was tanned to a fine caramel color and he had dark curly hair, a strong upper body. Mrs. Riley’s body language was deferring to the man. That could be her DNA responding to an alpha male, or possibly the man was giving her valuable information. The man and Mrs. Riley whispered back and forth and at one point Mrs. Riley looked over at Addams and asked the man a question. The guy nodded and she glared back at Addams.