Jailbird Detective

by Helen Jacey

  Something, at the far end of the club.

  Ivory blonde hair.

  Starlet’s hair.

  Lena?

  An elegant female figure, in white furs and a silvery dress, breezed towards the entrance. Her arm was interlocked in a man’s. Right height. Same moves.

  Impossible.

  Lena was rotting in a common grave in cold England, or a numbered coffin in the bowels of a ship bound for Australia.

  Then she was gone.

  I shook off the apparition. In a city that specialized in myriad shades of fake blonde, this head had to be just another.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Lyle asked, his dark eyes peering into mine.

  I couldn’t answer him.

  The pink bubble burst then and there. Five years of dank and decomposing memories splattered from the ripped membrane, surging all over the club.

  My prison dress. The stained mattress. The itchy blanket. Endless days. Piss turning green in the pot. The skin of potato chits planted with frozen fingers. Dirty baths that never got you clean. The vast crater that was the remains of Suffield Road.

  Who the hell was I kidding, swanning around in this place, dressed to the nines and flirting with handsome film producers? It was just one big pink booze-induced sham. I was a total fraud.

  And frauds get found out, don’t they? They should lie low.

  What the hell are you doing? There could be eyes on you. Get out, get out now!

  Lyle was still in the moment, oblivious to my turmoil. He pulled me closer him. I felt trapped and suffocated. I raised my head, meeting his eyes. ‘I’ve got to…’

  Get out! Fast!

  And then Lyle Vadnay did the unthinkable.

  He kissed me.

  33

  The convertible zoomed along the Roosevelt Highway. The ocean was a vast expanse of indigo velvet, under a luminous pearl moon.

  Tall silhouettes of abandoned look-out towers were the only sign that the city had just been in the grip of war.

  Chatting was pointless; the wind forced us to gulp back our words. Occasionally, Lyle would grin at me. I’d grin back, hair in my face, insanely happy that if Lauder shot my brains out tomorrow at least I’d have come to L.A. and, for a brief moment, been one of those girls next to a hunk in a luxury soft-top.

  The car slowed down to cruise through a couple of white pillars with a sign that said Malibu Colony.

  We pulled up outside the double garage of a white gabled house, occupying a double lot. A hedge hid the enclave from the road. Explaining he’d bought his beach house for peanuts in ‘41 from a celebrity who feared a Jap invasion, Lyle led the way through a tall wooden gate into a garden. He’d bought a little piece of paradise in the same year I entered hell.

  It was nothing short of paradise. Lush banana and palm trees, illuminated by lamps buried deep in the foliage. White wooden recliners, were dotted under trees, in bowers. If I lived here, I would never leave.

  I followed Lyle around the side of the house but paused to look back, to where the garden met the beach. Curving its way around the rear of the garden, a swimming pool shone like dark emerald under the moonlight. Dark glossy boulders informally edged the pool, interspersed with some kind of tall grasses, waving in the breeze. As Lyle fiddled with his keys in the lock, I slipped away, drawn to the dark water. On my way, a fountain suddenly sprang to life. As I got closer to the pool, its light flashed on. I turned to see Lyle at the back of the house, waving.

  ‘Champagne?’ he called out.

  ‘Sure!’ I yelled back.

  He was putting on quite the show.

  I slipped my sandals and stockings off, sliding down to dip my toes in the water. Circles of ripples invited me. A midnight swim in Malibu. I might never get another chance. I flung off my dress and slid in.

  Floating, I lay on my back, arms out, looking up into the universe above me. This was freedom.

  Lyle’s face appeared above me. ‘So you’re not such a tough cookie.’

  I straightened up, splashing him. ‘And you’re a real slimeball.’ He jumped back to safety, managing to keep the silver tray upright. He popped the bottle and filled the glasses.

  Forget Cinderella, I’d been Alice in Wonderland, and he’d witnessed it. It was exposure I hadn’t intended.

  I got out of the water and let Lyle wrap me in a fluffy white bathing robe. My body wasn’t used to being coddled and it shuddered, shocked by the sensation. It fit me perfectly. A woman’s. At least it wasn’t emblazoned with her initials.

  We sipped, reclining on the sunbeds. Lyle felt the need to explain himself. His father was in property – oil and shipping – and thanks to the creamed-off interest of an endowment fund, Lyle had set up his production company. But he wanted to pay every penny back from the profits of his movie masterpieces and establish a foundation with the rest. ‘Dollars lined my diapers. I don’t want laziness or complacency, not in me, or in any project I work on. I want to work with real talent, even the ones who haven’t had a shot, who aren’t spoilt by a contract they’ve long outgrown.’

  ‘Like Troy?’

  ‘Exactly. He’s my first real lesson of what not to do. I went for the name, and where did that get me? Twiddling my thumbs waiting for a draft that won’t show up any time soon, while he’s pickling his liver and resting on his laurels. Hunger creates art.’

  I sniggered. ‘Odds are you’ll have to settle for the hunger to feel hunger.’

  His face fell, deflated. ‘You think I’m a hypocrite?’

  `No. It’s good to be hungry. Keep on the edge,’ I lied. My cynicism would wreck the night ahead. He didn’t need me giving him a hard time.

  But somebody had to, right?

  Later, I had a long hot bath in a white marble bathroom swirling with white bubbles. I curled up in immaculate crisp linen sheets in a big soft bed in a vast bedroom with doors opening out onto a balcony, the roar of the ocean providing the music.

  As far as Lauder knew, I was still tossing and turning in the seedy Astral. Why did the jerk always manage to waft in to my thoughts, like a bad smell?

  Lyle came in, with another bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes.

  And a little later, I let the guy who always got what he wanted get what he wanted. I wanted it, too. Badly. There was something irresistible about this once-in-a-lifetime fairytale night.

  Cinderella’s compromise position.

  For someone so self-interested, Lyle was a very tender and attentive lover. Billy and I used sex to communicate. We knew how the other climaxed, and in later years we’d become too efficient. I wasn’t used to generosity in bed. ‘Relax,’ Lyle murmured. He has a lot to give, and he wants to, I told myself. So let him.

  Afterwards, we lay back, exhausted. I smoked, blowing smoke rings that floated up to the gables. Lyle turned onto his side, looking at me. His eyes were massive and liquid in the dark. He wound his finger around a lock of my hair.

  ‘I’m married.’

  This genuinely surprised me. I glanced at him. ‘I won’t hold it against you.’

  I’m a felon.

  It was funny. He’d made the confession after sex. Any other girl might feel tricked and stomp off right now. Lucky for him, he’d picked one fat liar himself. Wait a minute! Had I missed the point of his post-coital confession? I sat up. ‘Is she about to show up?’

  ‘No. Barbara doesn’t like Los Angeles. Thinks it’s full of shallow, greedy fools. Prefers to hang out with her lofty intellectuals in Manhattan.’ He said the last sentence with bitter derision.

  ‘She doesn’t approve of what you’re doing?’ I was suddenly thirsty and leant over to grab the bottle of water on my side of the bed. I knocked it back and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. We’d screwed. Intimacy always lowers the bar on manners.

  ‘She despises mass entertainment.’

  ‘Oh.’ There wasn’t much else to say. ‘What does she do?’ I asked, without caring. Barbara was already boring me.

  ‘She’s on
the board of her family’s bank. We were childhood sweethearts. Married young. It went sour pretty quickly. We practically live separate lives.’

  ‘Kids?’ I lay back down.

  ‘No. Thank God. I want some, though. One day. A whole bunch.’

  I giggled, turning to him. ‘So much for femmes fatales! You’re a cheating cad, a real heartbreaker.’ My joke went down like flat champagne as Lyle pulled an affronted look. ‘We’re both cheaters. She’s got Harold, her playwright. She even had the nerve to ask me to read one of his damn plays. Tedious, self-indulgent bullcrap.’

  I rolled away from him, on my side, my hand reaching for a packet of cigarettes. Hearing about his domestic woes was frankly boring. At least the announcement that he was married provided a handy excuse. I said, ‘So, this is a one-time thing.’

  ‘Doesn’t have to be.’

  ‘You’re spoken for.’

  ‘We don’t even sleep together anymore.’

  Sneaking off to Lyle’s place for sex would be like having a gleaming yacht in a secret bay on tap. Somewhere to escape to, float around in for a little while and be coddled and pampered. Jemima Day wouldn’t bat an eyelid. That had been the deal with Billy, after all. Elvira Slate knew it was doomed. I would just bring us both down. Lyle had it all, his star was rising and soon enough the fawners and hangers-on would be replaced by press and gossip columnists. I had to steer well clear.

  Lauder would see my face in the paper and kill me. The Mob would be next in line. And bringing up the rear? The Old Bill.

  The Lyle Vadnays of this world weren’t designed for jailbirds like me or intellectual uppity types like his wife. Lyle needed a nice girl, somebody straightforward and wholesome. He’d probably be faithful and the brats would be plentiful.

  I rolled back to face him, and ran my finger up through the hairs on his chest. ‘You know what? Let’s forget all about your wife.’

  I ran my finger down again. All the way.

  The second bout of sex was less polite now his confession was out of the way. We both let ourselves go.

  Later, Lyle clutched me to him as he drifted off. I felt hot and stifled by his embrace and wriggled out of it, whispering something about needing the bathroom. His arm was heavy and floppy as I slid out of bed, his face calm and angelic. I kissed his forehead, like a mother would kiss a child.

  An abandoning mother.

  The next room along the passage appeared to be his office. Tidy, dominated by a huge desk overlooking the sea. There was a neat stack of correspondence on the desk. I flicked through it. Boring things like bills and contracts. One between Troy and Vadnay Pictures, dated from July.

  There was a small framed photograph in faded sepia. I held it up to the moonlight. It showed an old castle with turrets, romantic and mysterious. Looked like central Europe, maybe Hungary. The ancient Vadnay homestead?

  If so, he really was Prince Charming.

  Prince Charming – with a touch of the slimeball.

  I left around four in the morning and walked along the beach, sandals in my hand. Here and there, glowing embers. Soldiers lay around the fires, sometimes with a girl in their arms, sometimes alone. Demobilization washed up more guys every day, the beaches providing a strange haven to the uniformed driftwood. How many didn’t have homes to go back to? How many had wives who had moved on? Maybe the GIs dreaded their old civilian life, or were just too shell-shocked to put one foot in front of another.

  Maybe the lapping tide was the only comfort that made sense.

  34

  It was one o’clock, and no Lauder.

  I sat at the table, puffing away. I varnished my nails with a lacquer, CrimsonDelight. What the hell was a crimson delight anyway? A beautiful sunset? An oozing jelly dessert? I mentally came up with some more fitting names, to pass the time.

  Blood Wedding.

  Fevered Lust.

  I still had sex on the brain.

  Three o’clock came and went.

  So did five cigarettes. Four o’clock passed, still no sight of him.

  I lay back down on the bed, stiffly, careful not to crumple my dress, made of a simple gray lawn, with a white collar and cuffs. My curls were fresh and bouncy, too.

  The better I looked, the easier I could play Lauder. At least, that was the hope. So far he had proved pretty immune to any attempt to charm him.

  Four-thirty.

  Maybe the whole thing had been a test, something he dreamt up just to keep me busy. Shimmer was just an informer, who could report back.

  No. She had been straight with me. I’d bet on it.

  I peered through the window.

  Two cars in the lot, Malvin’s and one other. Heat waves danced off the hot tarmac.

  I was starving. Malvin could just tell Lauder I was at Tina’s having a coffee and a sandwich. I pinned on my hat, stuffed a few coins in my pocket and walked out.

  As I locked the door, I heard an engine. Typical.

  Lauder’s car cruising into the dusty lot, like a snake in the desert coming out to hunt. No point retreating inside as he most likely had seen me.

  Lauder turned off the engine and slid out of the car. He looked hot, wiping his forehead with a cream handkerchief.

  ‘Hi.’ I kept my voice steady.

  Lauder came up close, his eyes shadowed by his hat rim. He scowled, ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’

  ‘Grabbing a bite. I’m starving. Thought you’d be here much earlier.’

  He barked. ‘Great fucking job. I should’ve known better than to send you.’ Pure hatred laced his eyes.

  ‘Don’t be sore! They’re coming back. Shimmer said she knows it was a mistake. But she wanted me to tell you something. Let’s go to the café, I can fill you in.’

  Lauder’s expression was irritable, confused and incredulous. ‘What?’

  I fed him the line we’d concocted. ‘She says they’re out of town, for a family matter. A funeral or something? They’ll be back at the weekend.’

  His face darkened. ‘You’re coming with me.’ He grabbed my arm, propelling me towards the car.

  ‘Give them a break! It’s a funeral.’

  Lauder guffawed, all sarcasm. ‘Funeral? Knock it off. Shimmer’s going to a funeral all right. Her own.’

  ‘I did what you wanted.’ I muttered. Lauder heard this but ignored me.

  We reached the car. He flung the passenger door open and shoved me inside. Alberta’s hat was on the passenger seat. I guess he was giving it back.

  ‘Can we go eat? I did it. Shimmer agreed.’

  He turned, facing me down. ‘Shimmer agreed fuck all. She’s dead.’

  35

  The Flamayon Hotel was a grand hotel built towards the end of the last century, long past its former glory and now something of a dump. The striped awnings on the ground floor windows were stained and tatty, battered by the Santa Ana winds year on year. The original clientele of prospectors now had to be tucked up in retirement homes or the cemetery.

  A mob of ravenous reporters surged behind a yellow police cordon. Behind them, the real vultures, the clamoring public, drawn to the morbid events within. Irate cops pushed back. Police cars and a forensics van lined up along the street like zipper teeth.

  This had to be the scene of Shimmer’s last moments. Lauder hadn’t spoken to me the whole journey and had refused to answer any of my questions. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ he’d just barked, when I’d pressed. Now we seemed to have arrived it was worth a shot.

  ‘Is this where she died?’ My voice came out flat. ‘What happened to her?’

  He finally turned to me, a look of disgust on his face. ‘She mention this place?’

  ‘No. She didn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘Liar. Told you about the funeral, right?’

  I nodded. ‘When did she die? How?’

  ‘Crime scene coroner reckoned she’s dead almost twenty hours.’

  ‘Crime scene? What happened?’

  He didn’t answer.

&nb
sp; Had Reba T. found her?

  Beyond Lauder’s profile, I noticed a couple of detectives left the building only to be mobbed by reporters. Cops came to their assistance and got the better of the mob. Beyond the commotion, scattered bungalows were just visible in the grounds of the Flamayon. Past their prime, tatty little cubicles only fit for the desperate and the broke.

  The car suddenly lurched forwards, jolting me. Lauder had noticed the detectives and put his foot on the gas, picking up speed. He didn’t want to risk being seen with me. At the end of the street he turned left onto a main drag. After a while he said, ‘It was an overdose.’

  ‘What?’ I couldn’t square this with the woman I’d met. Shimmer was a tough bird with her head screwed on, off to her meeting to make some money. Crazy. Even now I could see Shimmer’s eyes sparkling at the thought of getting out of L.A. So much for her fresh start with the love of her life. ‘Alone?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I mean, was she with Rhonda?’

  He was slowing for a red light. ‘No. Rhonda’s taken off.’ He spoke flatly, without emotion.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard. See her when you went there?’

  ‘Yes. Briefly.’

  ‘She say anything?’

  Trick question. He might be looking for her, for Reba T. I gulped, looking down. ‘No. I just talked to Shimmer.’

  Think fast. Keep all the dirt you’ve got on him. It’s your little secret.