by Helen Knode
My hands got covered with dust. I dumped sack after sack and shoved the contents into a pile. It was nothing but cheap, useless junk.
Erma called from the living room. “Find anything, honey?”
I stood up and searched the sacks on the kitchen counter. I searched the sacks in the sink. I searched the sacks in the cupboards over the sink. I searched the sacks that blocked the kitchen door. I searched all the drawers. I searched the broom closet. Dust rose and stuck to my clothes. I brushed it off and sneezed and sneezed.
I pulled sacks out of a corner cupboard. There was a lazy Susan for pots and pans. I twirled it and pulled sacks off. I searched the sacks one by one. I reached behind the lazy Susan and felt around the back edges. My fingers touched something. I pulled it out. It was just another sack—a crinkled paper sack from a defunct local grocery store. The top was twisted shut.
I untwisted it.
The sack wasn’t full like the rest of them: I had to reach way down in. I found a bent-up license plate. I pulled it out and unbent it. Enamel flaked off at the crease. It was an old gold-on-black California plate. The number: 59 B 875.
I set the license plate to one side. I was suddenly moving in slow motion.
I pulled a woman’s ring out of the sack. It had a violet quartz stone in a filigreed setting.
Amethyst.
I set the ring beside the license plate.
One last thing at the bottom of the sack. I pulled it out.
A roll of light brown, stretchy material. Thin red borders and a frayed end—like someone had torn a section off it.
No labels or identifying trademarks. I took a guess: a Tetra Brand, ten-inch, nonrubber elastic bandage. Obsolete in America by 1944. Impossible for the cops to trace, because any soldier could have brought it home from a foreign hospital. Impossible to find because it was hidden on a back shelf in a private whorehouse in Culver City.
I sat down on the floor and pressed the bandage against my mouth.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I WAS CLOSE now. I had one idea and one goal.
I borrowed twenty dollars from Erma and headed out to Malibu. It was Friday afternoon—the coast highway was jammed with traffic leaving town. I sat in the car and sweated because my jacket hid the bloodstains on my shirt. I inched along in first gear. I was in pain but I didn’t want to take any pills. I didn’t want to mess up my clarity.
I turned inland at Ramirez Canyon and drove up to the Silverman estate. Silverman’s gates were standing open. I didn’t stop to wonder why—I drove straight in. There was nobody on the road. I drove almost to the house, veered off, and hid the car in the trees.
I’d brought my smallest tape recorder from home. I loaded a tape and wedged the recorder into my jeans. I threaded the microphone wire under my shirt and clipped the minimicrophone to my collar. I checked the mirror. The round black dot looked like a button.
I turned on the recorder and cranked the volume. I closed my jacket over the bulge in my jeans.
I left the cane in the car and limped to the edge of the tree line. A helicopter was parked in a clearing on the land side of the house. The propellers were spinning. I saw a man in the cockpit and a man crouched beside the landing gear. Hannah Silverman was bent over talking to the guy outside. She held her hair to protect it from propeller wash.
The Silvermans were making a getaway.
I stayed in the trees and circled the drive on the ocean side. Stacks of Vuitton luggage sat on the terrace of the house: it was too much for just the weekend. Three Latin maids walked out the front door. One had a picnic basket, one had carry-on bags. One was pushing a dolly. They piled some of the luggage on the dolly, then argued over how to get the dolly down the steps. I ducked, left the trees, and limped across to the terrace. I hid behind the stone balustrade and waited.
An excellent time to run for it, I thought. Doug in trouble, the cops sequestered: when the smoke cleared the Silvermans would not be available for questioning. Jules wasn’t taking chances.
I watched the maids wrestle the dolly down the terrace steps. Luggage fell off. They piled it back on and headed to the clearing. I lost sight of them around a corner of the house.
I climbed the balustrade and dashed for the front door. I hopped on my good foot for speed.
The front door was open and the foyer was empty. The whole big place was quiet—I couldn’t hear any maids or medical help. I started down the hall toward Silverman’s den. Silverman was coming up the hall toward me. He wore street clothes and bombed along in his motorized wheelchair. A blanket covered his lap and legs. On the blanket was his Oscar statuette. He looked fine.
Silverman saw me and stopped the chair. He said, “How did you get in?”
I kept walking. For technical reasons I had to be closer to him. I said, “Your gates are open.”
Silverman tried to go around me. He called, “Hannah!”
I stepped in front of his chair. He dodged the other direction. I stepped in front of him. His rubber tires squeaked on the marble floor. I smelled menthol rub.
I said, “59 B 875.”
Silverman tried to go around me again. I grabbed the wheelchair and wedged one foot against the tire. He hit the green button on his chair arm. I put my finger on the red button. The wheelchair stalled out.
I said, “An amethyst ring. A license plate. A bandage roll.”
“Hannah!”
I said, “You stole her car and the contents of her purse to throw the cops off. You wanted them to think it was a burglary gone bad and they were looking for a thief. You drove east instead of west to throw them off. You picked a black neighborhood to dump the car to throw them off more. When you ran out of gas, you removed the license plate and hitchhiked back to the Casa de Amor, where you knew a drunken brawl was in progress. You needed an alibi because you knew you were seen talking to her in the Canteen parking lot. You picked the worst drunk for your alibi—”
Silverman’s face had gotten hard. He said, “You want money, of course.”
“I found the sack in Dorene Johnson’s kitchen. The cops don’t have anything else on you. The lightbulb with your thumbprint was tossed, and Dorene’s too alcoholic to make a retraction stick. But the cops may or may not care about Georgette Bauerdorf now that they have a confession on Abadi and Stenholm. They were looking at you for Greta because she was found in a bathtub, too.”
Silverman grabbed his wheels and tried to back the chair up. I held on. “Are you interested in who killed Ted Abadi?”
Silverman stopped fighting me. He let go of the wheels and shook his head. He said, “Not in the least.”
I stood back. “How is it that Dorene still had the sack? Why didn’t you get rid of the evidence?”
Silverman glanced down the hall. There was nobody around—nobody to come save him. A leather pouch hung off the wheelchair arm. Silverman reached in and pulled out a glasses case. He got out his glasses and put them on. He said, “Remind me what your name is, I’ve forgotten.”
“Why didn't you get rid of the evidence?”
Silverman tilted his head and studied me. “Ann, if memory serves, and I’m told you’re some sort of anti-industry critic for Barry Melling.”
“Why didn’t you throw everything down a sewer? Why carry it all the way back to the Casa de Amor?”
Silverman crossed his hands over the Oscar in his lap. He had relaxed. “You’re offering me a trade. You have the sack but you don’t want money. Like every reviewer in the world you want a job in pictures, and you’d like me to arrange it for you.”
“I want what Greta Stenholm wanted.”
Silverman smiled. “Good, because I don’t believe anyone who claims altruistic motives. The first time the Stenholm girl blackmailed me, she wanted the name of Ted’s killer. I didn’t believe her. But I believed her when she asked for money and a deal to write and direct. You want me to satisfy your curiosity on a few matters and provide you an entrée to the picture business.”
I sai
d, “Yes on both counts.”
Silverman nodded. “I will help you on one count. I’ll pick up a telephone and find you a job by next week at the latest.”
He reached for his wheels. I wedged my foot against one tire.
“You were in a panic, maybe even a blackout. You arrived at the Casa and realized you still had the license, ring, and bandage roll. You also had a time crunch because your ship left Long Beach at six in the morning, and it was already, say, three. Everybody at the Casa was drunk or passed out. Dorene was a famous pack rat and your best alibi, so you buried the evidence in her kitchen. You meant to come back and get rid of it, and you tried to, say, after the war. You couldn’t find it, but Dorene suspected something because you searched her kitchen. To be on the safe side, you’ve supplied her with booze all these decades. No need to kill her outright—not with her thirst. Besides, you’re not a killer. You just had a thing for Georgette that got out of hand. She told you she was engaged to the soldier in El Paso, and you forced your way into her apartment to convince her of your feelings. You were young and in love.”
Silverman took off his glasses and put them back in the case. He said, “You tell a good story.”
“It was an accident—you didn’t mean to kill her.”
“You’ll hear from someone next week. I’ll have them call you at your newspaper.”
“But rape isn’t an accident. You stuffed the bandage in her mouth to keep her quiet. That’s how she died—suffocation.”
Silverman looked at me. “You’re an imaginative girl. You have a great many story ideas, I’m sure.”
“Only one. It’s about the murder of a Hollywood Canteen hostess and her best friend’s search for the killer.”
I unbuttoned my jacket and showed him the tape recorder.
Silverman went pale. “I admit nothing!”
I turned to leave. He grabbed the Oscar and swung it at me. I blocked his arm, ripped the statue out of his hand, and chucked it away. It went clanging and skidding along the marble floor. Silverman stood up to retrieve it. He got his legs caught in the lap blanket. He flailed and fell forward and hit his head on the floor. The wheelchair shimmied and tipped over on top of him.
He moaned once. I saw him convulse, then he lay there, silent. I stepped around him and walked out of the house.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I DROVE straight to the Malibu Sheriff’s substation. It wasn’t far from Silverman’s. The coast highway was clear going that direction.
I parked in the parking lot. I pulled Scott Dolgin’s confession out of the glove compartment and put it in the sack with the Georgette Bauerdorf evidence.
Grabbing the cane, I limped into the reception area of the station. I was spotted with blood. I’d taken off my jacket, and the effort with Silverman had popped more stitches on my left side. The deputy at the desk took one look at me and asked if I was the lady from the Tunnel Massacre. I said I was, and said I had something to report. He ran around the desk, showed me into an empty office, made me sit down, and asked me to wait.
He came back in a minute, followed by what appeared to be every cop on shift. One guy identified himself as the watch commander. I didn’t get his name; he was a sergeant. He started to tell me the situation with the tunnel, how the Sheriff’s and LAPD viewed it, what the district attorney was saying, how the media was acting. I only heard words; I couldn’t absorb what they meant. I knew the cops were waiting for a firsthand account from me. But I was in no way capable of that.
When the sergeant finished, I told him we had to locate Doug Lockwood. I held up the sack. I said it contained physical evidence pertaining to our three murders.
Three, the sergeant said. He’d heard there were two murders. I told him to tell his Unsolved guys McManus and Gadtke that I got what amounted to a confession on Georgette Bauerdorf. An audiotape and other proof were in the sack. And they should hurry, because Georgette’s killer was trying to leave L.A. as we spoke.
The sergeant took the sack and took off. The other cops filed out behind him. The desk deputy asked if I felt all right, if I’d like water or a Coke. I said, water, thanks, and aspirin if he had some. He brought me water and two aspirin, and left me alone again. I wanted the painkillers now, but they were in the car.
I sat there.
I was in a strange state. My brain registered that everything was over. But my thoughts were racing down a very strange track. I couldn’t control them.
I didn’t want to talk to Doug. I didn’t want to talk to the authorities. I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t want to go to the paper. I didn’t want to go any place where I’d be mobbed by reporters. I didn’t want to rest. I didn’t want to see a doctor. I didn’t want to think about the future.
I was thinking about my sister.
Father flew back to Texas today. Sis would be a wreck. She always was after their visits. I had to try again with her. I had to get her away from Father. Not everything was finished: I had to get her away. He was killing her. He’d kill her. I had to prevent it.
Part of me knew this was craziness.
Part of me thought it was stone-cold reason. Saving Sis was absolutely the only thing left for me to do now. I had to do it without delay. I had to do it right this exact very minute.
I reached for the telephone on the desk and dialed her number.
A woman’s voice answered the phone. I said who I was, and the voice said she was Sis’s neighbor. She’d been trying to get ahold of me. Come to Venice as soon as possible, she said. Something had happened to Sis.
***
A DOZEN PEOPLE stood in the hall outside my sister’s apartment. They turned and looked as I stepped out of the elevator. I knew from their faces it was bad.
A woman walked toward me. It was a neighbor I’d met, a friend of Sis’s from AA. Her eyes were red from crying.
She said, “I only found her an hour ago. Nobody heard anything—we were all at work. I’ve called the ambulance.”
I lifted my cane and pushed people aside. The neighbor followed me into Sis’s apartment.
She whispered, “We had a date for coffee. I called but her phone rang and she didn’t answer, so I came down...”
I stopped still.
“Ann, I’m sorry—”
I put my finger to my lips. I had seen.
Sis did it in front of her shrine. She’d called it that when she put it together. She’d taken family photographs and mementos of her past and made an altar on an old table that was a Whitehead heirloom. She burned candles there, she’d told me. She talked to Mother’s picture and prayed for Father’s enlightenment.
She lay twisted sideways in a chair facing the shrine. Her eyes were open and she was staring at the ceiling. She’d shot herself through the heart. Blood was crusted around the wound. It had soaked her clothes and the chair upholstery. Both of her hands were clenched around the Colt. She’d laid the muzzle right on her chest and pulled the trigger with her thumbs.
I could not move. I could only stare at the body.
The phone started to ring. I didn’t move. The neighbor waited for me to answer. I didn’t move. I had no power to move.
The neighbor answered it herself. “Hello?...One moment, please.” She tapped me. “It’s your father.”
I just stood there. She put the receiver up to my ear and tapped me again. I said, “Yes?”
Father said, “I’ll be damned—Elizabeth Ann.”
“Yes.”
“Where the hell’s your sister? She’s supposed to take me to the airport. On second thought, since you’re there, how about you drive? I had plenty of your sister on Wednesday.”
“Yes.”
“Then get over to the hotel and I mean pronto. I like to be there early, you girls know that.”
He hung up. I just stood there. The neighbor hung up the telephone. She took my arm and tried to lead me to a chair. I pulled away from her. I raised my cane and smashed it down on Sis’s shrine. Photographs and mementos flew. I raised my
cane again and smashed it down on the shrine. The neighbor tried to catch my arm. I raised my cane again and smashed it down on the shrine. Glass shattered and wood cracked. I raised my cane again and smashed it down on the shrine.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I TOOK THE off-ramp at La Cienega and turned south.
A primer-gray van curved down the ramp behind me. We were being followed. I knew now it wasn’t coincidence. There was a van like it parked in Sis’s alley. I’d seen it again outside Father’s hotel. It had followed me from Venice; now it was following me to the airport. I couldn't see who the driver was. I had my suspicions.
Father looked around. “Why’re we going this way, missy? I believe the 405 takes us directly to the airport.”
I said, “I want to show you the pumpjacks in Baldwin Hills. It’s kind of great in the middle of a city.”
Father shook his head. “They’re just old producing fields.”
I shrugged. He said, “You better not make me late.”
I’d picked him up at his hotel downtown. He was waiting out front with a drink in his hand—he had a buzz on. Night was falling; I stayed in the car. He didn’t notice my injuries. He hadn’t heard about the tunnel. He only watched two things on TV: sports and weather. The Colt was wedged under my seat.
Father turned on the radio.
“There is sad news for Los Angeles tonight. Retired film producer and prominent philanthropist Jules Silverman died this afternoon at his Malibu estate. He was eighty-five. Silverman won an Academy Award for—”
I turned the radio off. Father said, “What is wrong with you?”
He turned the radio back on. I turned it off. I said, “Didn’t Grandpap make his first bundle in the East Texas oil boom in the thirties?"
Father looked at me. I said, “Did he know a wildcatter named George Bauerdorf?”
Father reached for the radio. “I don’t recall the name. Why?”