by P. J. Conn
Murder Me Twice
A Detective Joe Ezell Mystery
Book One
by
P.J. Conn
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ISBN: 978-1-61417-808-8
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Dedication
MURDER ME TWICE is dedicated to Jeffrey C. Ingwalson who gave me an irresistible idea for a book, and to Sally A. Morrison who loves a good mystery. You guys rock.
Chapter 1
Los Angeles, June 1947
A distant siren woke Hal in the dead of night. Drenched in sweat, his heart racing, he shook off the tangled bedclothes to stumble into the kitchen for a glass of cold water. It didn't help. The nightmare came often, and even without a trigger he'd be plunged into the murder, nearly choking on the coppery scent of her blood pooling on the sidewalk. He'd once had such an orderly and ordinary existence until one evening after work he'd gotten off the Red Car one stop early. He'd simply longed for a few minutes to himself before going home, but the break in his routine had sent his whole life spiraling out of control. If only he could go back and undo that one tragic mistake, she wouldn't have died, and wouldn't now haunt his dreams with gunshots and terror.
* * *
Los Angeles, late January 1947
Hal looked out the window and cursed the rain. He'd lost track of how many days he'd gotten up to gloomy gray skies. Faye was the most attentive of wives and thought whenever it rained he ought to leave for work fortified with a steamy bowl of hot oatmeal. He hated oatmeal and doused the spongy lukewarm mass with raisins and brown sugar to add some much needed taste. When she turned back to the stove, he dripped on maple syrup.
Faye was too sensitive a woman to bear even a hint of criticism, so he'd drink his orange juice, down one cup of her awful weak coffee and do his best to finish a bowl of her wretched oatmeal. Thank god he'd convinced her a division manager often had luncheon meetings and there would be no need for her to make him lunches. That meant he could look forward to one palatable meal a day. He was often asked how he managed to stay trim when he worked at a desk. With Faye's menus, it would be difficult to gain even an ounce of weight a year.
She kissed his cheek and handed him his briefcase while her gray Persian cat, Mr. Cuddles, regarded him with his usual evil eye. Hal hated the spoiled beast, but Faye doted on the heavily furred feline so he did his best to get along with her beloved pet, but Mr. Cuddles made no such effort in return.
He'd read the Los Angeles Times on the Pacific Electric Red Car into town and search for good news and some humor in the comics. Most of them weren't nearly as funny as they'd been before the war, but he gave thanks every day that he'd survived. He hadn't seen any action stationed in Washington, D.C., so it hadn't been difficult, but still, he was enormously grateful, nonetheless.
His firm occupied the whole fifth floor of a starkly modern skyscraper located a convenient two blocks from the train station. He always arrived at work early, before the sidewalks were crowded, and his overcoat, hat and big black umbrella kept him dry until he pushed his way through the gleaming brass revolving door.
"Good morning, Mr. Marten," Joe, one of the elevator operators greeted him. "Looks like we've got us another rainy day."
"It's good for the farmers and crops," Hal replied.
"That's what I like about you, Mr. Marten. You're always looking on the bright side."
Hal sold insurance, and he couldn't afford to be gloomy. "It's the only way to be."
He got off on the fifth floor for the California West Insurance offices and said hello to Brian Babcock and David Holmen, who'd also come to work early. They were right out of college and eager to make their mark in the world. His interest was solely in their sales figures, but he smiled as though seeing them at their desks was the highlight of his day. He unlocked the door to his office, hung his overcoat and hat on the oak hat rack in the corner and carried his dripping umbrella into his private bathroom. He sat at his desk and checked his calendar for the day.
He'd meet with his salesmen at nine and then compile reports until noon. George Sharp, the vice president for sales, often complimented him on his reports and for having a gift for relaying information in a concise way. Other division managers buried facts under a dozen sleep-inducing pages, while his reports were a beacon of clarity. He was on track to make vice president before he reached forty. He got up and adjusted the blinds on his office windows. Even on a gray day open blinds made his office brighter, and he needed every drop of sunlight he could find.
His secretary, Lorraine Adams, was a dear woman with a desk right outside his door. She was barely five feet tall, preferred dresses with lace collars, and was the best secretary in the building. He wrote himself a note to buy flowers for her desk when it finally stopped raining.
"Mr. Marten?"
One of the early boys stood at his door. He smiled and welcomed David Holmen in. "Do you need something before the nine o'clock meeting?" he asked.
"I have a question about my vacation, and I didn't want to waste everyone's time then."
Hal laughed. "So you'll just waste mine now?"
David blushed deeply and stood up straighter. "No, sir, of course not. I'm hoping to get married this summer, and I wondered if it's too early to put in a request for the last week in June."
"Mrs. Adams keeps the vacation book. Ask her about the date when she comes in. June is a popular month, but if you have a wedding planned—"
"I haven't proposed yet, but I thought if I had a June vacation, it would be an incentive to have the wedding then."
"Excellent planning, Mr. Holmen," Hal replied. "It ought to impress your girl. A man with your vision can go far with California West."
"Thank you, sir. I certainly hope so."
Hal hid his smile until the young man had returned to his desk. He'd been a captain in the Quartermaster Corps during the war, and had gotten used to young men saluting and addressing him as sir. With fair hair, blue eyes and a slim build, he'd looked good in his uniform, even if he hadn't felt like a soldier. He got up to glance out the window, but the rain hadn't let up. He walked around his desk three times and sat down to review his notes for the meeting.
* * *
After another day, remarkable only by its ordinariness, Hal got off the Red Car one stop early. He'd noticed the Golden Bear Lounge on the corner months ago, but he'd not frequented bars on the way home even before he'd married Faye. Today, he felt compelled to break the monotony of his routine and wen
t on in. There was a bar closer to home, The Square Deal Café. The front windows where painted black and whenever he walked by, he was enveloped in a smoky haze, and the jukebox was so loud the music could be heard from across the street. Clearly, it wasn't his type of place.
The Golden Bear Lounge was quiet, and comfortably dim with dark mahogany paneling. Deep green leather booths lined the wall opposite the bar. He left his hat, overcoat and umbrella on the coat rack near the door and joined the half-dozen patrons seated on stools at the long bar.
The bartender had a handlebar mustache right out of the last century and parted his hair in the middle. Hal had never enjoyed barbershop quartets and hoped there weren't three waiters about to join him in song.
"Name's Mitch," the bartender announced. "This is my mom's place, so don't get rowdy."
Hal hadn't gotten rowdy his whole life and laughed at what he hoped was a joke. He asked for a beer and sipped it slowly. The two men seated closest to him were bragging about their service in the Pacific during the war, and Hal strained to hear their accounts of the action they'd seen. Their voices rose and fell with the excitement of their stories, and he caught only half of it.
The nearest man turned to Hal. "You serve during the war?"
"Yes, I was in the Army Quartermaster Corps," Hal replied.
"Where were you stationed?" Mitch asked.
"Washington, D.C."
The two veterans laughed. "Bet you never fired a shot," one said.
Hal had heard that remark so often he had a ready reply. "No, I didn't, but you must have been grateful to have food and supplies."
The older of the two men guffawed. "The army food kept me from starving to death, that's all I'll give it."
"Don't let them bother you," Mitch offered, and continued polishing the mahogany bar with a clean towel.
"I'm used to it," Hal replied. "After a soldier has bullet holes shot through his clothes, it's natural he won't have much respect for a man who's merely battled moths."
Mitch had a loud booming laugh and everyone seated at the bar leaned forward to get a good look at Hal. That's when Hal saw the woman. She was seated in the last booth and dressed in a black suit and little black cocktail hat with a veil covering her eyes. She had to be waiting for someone, but she got up and walked out alone. From the pride in her posture, she didn't strike him as the type who'd forgive a man for being late, or even worse, standing her up.
Hal could easily imagine a big man coming in and shouting her name. Mitch would tell him to get out and things might get ugly. Hal had wanted only a beer, not the chance to be in a bar fight. He laughed to himself, finished his beer before any mayhem ensued and caught the Red Car for the short trip home. He unwrapped a peppermint he'd taken from the bowl at his favorite restaurant for lunch and chewed it up quickly to keep Faye from guessing he'd stopped for a drink. He'd liked the bar, and thought he might stop by again, and soon.
Thursday nights, Faye served meatloaf with mashed potatoes and green beans. It was difficult to ruin mashed potatoes, so hers weren't too bad, and the green beans were out of a can, but the meatloaf, well, a brick would have been equally tasty. He loved to take his wife out to dinner on Saturday night. She regarded it as a special treat. He considered it a matter of survival. Mr. Cuddles ate the finest of cat foods on the back porch while they dined, and he often thought the cat had the better meal.
Their one-story stucco Spanish style duplex had arched windows, a red tile roof and a lush magenta bougainvillea framed the front door. Sundays were quiet at their place. Mr. Cuddles slept all day on his cushion by the front window, as he did every other day. Hal read the Sunday paper and worked the crossword puzzle while Faye finished whatever sewing project she'd begun that week. She loved to sew and model her new clothes, but she had the worst eye for color and pattern he'd ever seen. He'd thought of going with her to her favorite fabric store to offer an opinion on the material. She liked to shop during the week, however, so far there hadn't been an opportunity.
Her sewing had improved with the new Singer sewing machine he'd given her for her birthday. He'd thought it an odd present for a man to give his wife of less than a year, but it was what she had truly wanted. She'd unwrapped the box with a childlike glee and covered his face with kisses. She'd wanted to make him a shirt, but he'd encouraged her to make something she could wear herself.
When he made vice-president, he'd insist she shop at Bullock's or I. Magnin rather than wear clothes she'd sewn herself. She could still sew curtains, or clothes for the children they hoped to have. They hadn't had any success on that score as yet.
She was affectionate, but he wished there were more passion in their lovemaking. Sex was new to her and perhaps he was doing a poor job of teaching her how to enjoy it, although she always snuggled against him when they got into bed. He'd have to peel off her nightgown, she never came to bed without it, but she had a lovely figure he wished she'd be proud to display. She had a cute birthmark on her right shoulder that resembled a cat's head with the pointed ears. It made her laugh when he called her his kitten, and he did enjoy being with her. It was just that he'd thought being married would be more fulfilling than it had turned out to be. Maybe when they had kids things would improve.
* * *
The next week the weather improved slightly, but there had been floods farther north. Floods meant claims would be coming in, but California West believed customers remained loyal if they were loyal to them. It was simply a matter of shaking out the claims, because sadly, there were always a few people who took advantage of any chance to profit from fraud.
Despite the busy week, in slow moments Hal thought of the woman in the bar. There was a world of sophistication in the way she moved. Her suit had been expensive and her saucy hat perfect for the cocktail hour. She had beautiful legs too. He wondered whom she had expected to meet and why he had not showed. Only a fool would keep a woman that lovely waiting alone in a bar.
Thursday night, he made his second trip to the Golden Bear. Mitch remembered him, but the talkative veterans were gone and there were new people seated along the bar. Hal surveyed the other patrons without giving himself away, and when he looked into the mirror behind Mitch, he found the woman he'd hoped to see seated in the last booth.
She was dressed in navy blue tonight with a new cocktail hat slanted on her dark upswept curls. The veil shielded her eyes, and he wondered if they were a striking blue, or perhaps an exotic green. She wore black kid gloves and sipped a martini.
The radio behind the bar was tuned to a station playing big band music. Les Brown's hit, "Sentimental Journey," with Doris Day singing, provided an evocative melody for such a lovely woman. He wondered where she'd been that day, and where she'd be going if no one came to join her. When Mitch spoke, he'd been so lost in thought, it startled him.
Mitch rested his arm on the bar. "Have you been reading about the Black Dahlia murder?"
"Yes," Hal replied. "What a gruesome case. What sort of man would kill a woman and cut her body in half?"
"I keep thinking about the young mother who was out for a walk with her baby in a stroller, and found her, half here, half there. The murderer made no effort to hide the body, so he must have wanted her to be found."
A man seated two stools away, whose eyebrows were startling white tuffs, cleared his throat, but his voice remained gravelly. "It has to be a man. Women don't butcher each other like that. You think he'll go after someone else?"
"I'm afraid so," Mitch offered. "A man couldn't be that violent and go back to listening to ball games."
Hal caught sight of the woman in the corner of his eye as she stepped out the front door. She'd been only a flash of dark blue, but her parting brought a quick sense of loss. He hid it well, and continued to sip his beer.
Faye didn't like having liquor in the house, and he wasn't much of a drinker so he hadn't minded the ban on spirits. He couldn't imagine her mixing up a pitcher of martinis for him when he got home. He stifled a laugh so
no one would believe he was amused by the gory story of Elizabeth Short, the young woman known as the Black Dahlia, but even with the dreaded meatloaf for dinner, his mood remained upbeat going home.
* * *
Faye turned in front of him showing off her new dress. "What do you think?" she asked.
She had sewn several dresses from the same pattern and this time had chosen a floral print that would have been more appropriate for a bedspread. "I like the color," Hal responded with all the tact he could muster. "Would you call it peach?"
"Peach or apricot," she replied. She tied her purple apron around her waist and went into the kitchen to finish preparing dinner. It was Wednesday night and that meant macaroni and cheese with a slice of ham left over from last night. She never used enough cheese on the watery macaroni, but it helped to wash down the piece of dried ham. Sometimes she added a spiced peach. He hoped this was one of those nights.
He leaned back in his easy chair and closed his eyes. Everything was going well at work, and his days passed quickly. It was the nights that were beginning to wear on him. Their duplex had been freshly painted before they moved in. Even if he'd had any useful skills to make repairs, which he didn't, they weren't needed for upkeep. The pale beige carpeting was new too, and Faye vacuumed daily to keep it clean. She was a terrific housekeeper, but that was a given in his mind, not a reason to rejoice.
"Dinner's ready, sweetheart," Faye called. "I remembered the spiced peaches you like."
"Thank you." Hal stood and tried to look forward to tasting something she couldn't ruin. Tomorrow would be Thursday, and he couldn't wait to stop by the Golden Bear again. He bet the woman in the veiled hat couldn't cook worth a damn either, but no man would possibly give a damn.
* * *
Thursday, the evening held a bitter chill, but Hal still got off the Red Car a stop early and walked to what had become his favorite place. The veterans were back and nodded to him as he sat down near them at the long mahogany bar. He drew in a deep breath, and told himself, as he had all week, that he deserved a few moments to relax before going home at least once a week.