Jailbird Detective

by Helen Jacey

  Pammie wore crisp aqua linen shorts, a white sleeveless tennis shirt, and blue sunglasses. Her toes were varnished with a pale pearly pink as if dipped in candy floss.

  She yanked me inside an inner lobby with a white polished marble floor and palms in burnished copper pots. A bronze sculpture of a wolf and three cubs sat on a white marble plinth.

  A housekeeper, around sixty, silently appeared from nowhere. She was tall, her elegance wasted on her white starched apron and blue dress. She looked at me, more than a little surprised. ‘May I help you, Miss?’

  ‘Miss Slate called to see Auntie. I said she could,’ Pammie butted in again.

  ‘That’s a lie, Pammie. You know it, and I know it. She’s writing.’

  Pammie blushed.

  I looked from one to the other. ‘If this is a bad time…’

  Pammie interjected. ‘Even so, Miss Slate is a very important visitor.’ She turned to the housekeeper. ‘Phyllis, tell Auntie I’ve gone to the movies, to see Reign over the Heart. I’ll read her lines later.’ She spun back to me. ‘Isn’t Grayson Carling to die for? I love him.’ Pammie grabbed her purse and gave me a grin. ‘You’re a lifesaver.’ She ran out of the door, her sandals not fastened properly.

  Phyllis suddenly yelled, ‘Frou-Frou!’ I jumped. What the hell?

  Suddenly a massive white ball flew past me, knocking me off balance. It was a giant French poodle. Phyllis grabbed it by the scruff of the neck, and dragged the animal to the car. ‘Pammie, you ain’t going to the movies, so you’re taking the darned dog. Needs its walkies!’

  Pammie groaned but Phyllis lowered her voice. She seemed to win. Pammie nodded and the dog jumped into the car.

  Pammie zoomed off. Frou-Frou’s ears flapped in the wind from the front seat, as if to wave goodbye.

  Phyllis returned, laughing at me. ‘So she fooled you? Pammie’s little tricks, Miss. You better go. I’m sorry. Miss Grainger don’t like interruptions. Would you like to leave a card?’

  I hesitated. I wouldn’t be able to talk her around. ‘Fine.’

  I must have looked fed up as Phyllis looked at her watch. ‘She’ll be having a break soon. Let me see what I can do. What’s your name again, Miss?’

  ‘Elvira Slate. Thank you for trying, but Mrs. Grainger doesn’t know me.’

  ‘Miss Grainger,’ she corrected me. ‘There ain’t been no Mr. Grainger for years.’

  After a few minutes, Phyllis came back to the room and nodded, gesturing to me to follow. We walked along a wide white corridor with windows that overlooked an idyllic rear garden. I soaked up the garden views. The opulence was alluring; the pool was the jewel. An oasis of pure azure, gently rippling in the breeze, with curved steps descending into the water. There were palms, exotic trees in blossom, and several more fountains. If a unicorn had trotted past, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

  ‘Not bad,’ I said. ‘You live in, Phyllis?’

  ‘Weekdays. I take the car home every Friday night, and I take care of my grandkids. Got five now, all under five. And all together still less work than Pamela Grainger.’ She shot me a meaningful look.

  She led me into a drawing room. French doors at one end opened out onto the garden, letting in the evening sun. The walls were adorned with framed portraits of movie stars, all personally signed. ‘Martell, dearest collaborator, dearest friend, keep the creative rivers flowing, darling. Yours, Laura.’ And ‘My partner in crime, John’. Another declared, ‘Missing your imagination, many thanks, Cx’. And a row of framed photographs – Martell arm-in-arm with stars. No kids, no husbands. In each one, Martell had the same glossy dark auburn hair, the same smile. The only thing that changed was the style of her gowns.

  ‘So Pammie was off to see that hopeless dope. Gee, she frazzles my nerves. So…Miss Slate, was it? I don’t think we’ve met.’ I turned to see Martell Grainger floating in in a satin pink housecoat. The collar and cuffs were a darker pink, with matching covered buttons. The skirt was full and swished as she walked, revealing pink satin slippers topped with pink fur, her toe nails painted the same shade of pink at the housecoat. Against the rosiness, Martell’s chestnut hair and green eyes were brilliantly set off. I scrutinized her face. No lines, no wrinkles, no furrowed brow.

  She looked me up and down as sharply.

  I was glad I’d dressed the part.

  We shook hands. ‘No, we haven’t. I called, there was some… confusion.’

  ‘My niece is supposed to be reading my dialogue. It bores her. She says she wants to act, but I think that’s the big act. Still, now you’re here, what’s the story?’

  Her arm waved me over to an ivory velvet sofa. It looked far too immaculate for human use so I perched on the edge. Martell Grainger sat down opposite on a high-backed armchair covered in gold brocade.

  I fed her the story about my client, the well-to-do producer I was working for, wanting to make Tatiana’s life story. I hinted that Darlene had mentioned Martell as a possible writer.

  Martell Grainger studied me. ‘Oh. May I ask who this producer is?’ Her brows arched high, in anticipation of juice.

  ‘He wants to stay anonymous, for the time being. He’s really interested in picking up the project again.’

  ‘He hasn’t talked to my agent, then? Harry Freeland?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Tell him to keep it that way. But tell your producer to get in touch when he can at least introduce himself.’

  Frederick Lyntner was a gabby kid compared to Miss Fortress. ‘If he gets involved, he would consider asking you to write it.’

  Martell burst out laughing. ‘Poor child, you just haven’t got the facts right, sweetheart. Don’t embarrass yourself by saying any more.’

  She was talking herself up; Lyntner had played her importance down. ‘Wait a minute. You’ve signed an agreement already?’ If so, Lyntner hadn’t said that.

  ‘You don’t take a hint, do you?’

  Martell looked at me like I was the biggest fool in town. She got up and went back to the bar to retrieve an ivory cigarette holder, stuffed a cream cigarette in the end and lit up. She stood with her back to me, admiring the garden, one arm folded across her waist, the other holding the cigarette up.

  ‘I’ll say just one thing. Darlene’s demise kicked my and Tatiana’s butts. Skate on thin ice, gonna fall in some day.’ Then she turned around. ‘Have you seen any of my movies?’

  I squirmed a little. ‘Not really.’

  ‘No, you don’t look the romantic type. I bet you’re more of a thriller lady, right? Well, I’m not ashamed of all the sentimental stories I’ve penned. The public wants its happy endings. But I’m craving something a tad less corny to do. This story is it, and the project is mine. Tell your client I look forward to discussing the project in person with him, then I’ll see about introducing him to Tatiana.’

  ‘What about Frederick Lyntner?’

  ‘What about him? He’ll do the paperwork when required.’

  ‘So you know Darlene was on her way to sign an agreement when she died?’

  Martell hesitated for a moment before declaring that of course she did. I got the impression she didn’t like to reveal ignorance of anything. If she hadn’t been asked to sign an agreement, it meant her position on the film could be uncertain. She just didn’t want to admit it.

  ‘Well, tell your producer to get his skates on if he wants to hear more. I’ll show you out.’

  The only one of us who could have gained much from this meeting was Martell Grainger. All I’d found out was that she was very good at protecting her interests, making out she was in with Tatiana Spark. I wondered if my next lead should be Frank Acker, but other than going back to Olive and asking her if she knew anybody who knew him, I had no idea how to go about finding his connections. I certainly didn’t want to be poking around the Heymann Studio.

  Martell led me back to the lobby. Before she opened the front door, she turned back, almost blocking the way. ‘Do you work for your client on an exclusiv
e basis?’

  ‘Not at all. Why?’

  Martell leant back, musing. ‘I might be interested in having some individuals vetted. Pammie’s beaux. There’s a number of them. How can I get hold of you?’

  I had Beatty’s business cards on me but I didn’t want to give one to Martell. She just knew too many people. I told her I was moving offices and getting a new number. When I came back in the next day or so, we could talk.

  56

  The client was around fifty, a fake yellowing blonde bob, with heavily caked white skin and something dead about the eyes. Her style was a hangover from the Twenties, as if she hadn’t realized times had moved on. Her hat perched dramatically on the front of her head, a complex affair of thick beige felt, cream velvet and gold-edged ruffles. She was dressed in pale ivory – a silk coat edged with pale mink. The triple string of pearls around her neck gleamed and the pale feathers of her boa rippled softly around her neck like tiny writhing worms.

  I’d seen a feather like that very recently.

  And it was still in my purse.

  The atmosphere in the office was tense as hell, almost as thick as the veiled disgust on her face. Beatty’s eyes glanced at me, then back again, barely acknowledging me. She gave my flashy cream and red ‘fixer’ getup a despairing look.

  The client looked me up and down, a long gold cigarette holder in her mouth. The ivory cigarette protruding from the end was unlit. She growled, ‘This her?’

  Beatty shot me a sharp play-it-cool look. ‘Elvira, this is Mrs. Reba Turlington. Take a seat.’ I couldn’t quite read her mood.

  Reba T. How the hell had she found me here? Joyce. It was the only link. HadJoyce been careless in finding out about Rhonda? Or was she more in cahoots with her ex than she had admitted to me?

  I pulled a chair away from the back wall and positioned it as far away as possible. I lit a cigarette. Playing it cool. I had the gun, I reminded myself, if things got nasty.

  Reba T. noticed my hand on Violet’s purse, giving it a withering look. She removed the cigarette holder, pointing at the purse. ‘That purse is an abomination.’ She turned to Beatty. ‘Your associate needs to pay attention to her couture.’

  I looked at Beatty. ‘What’s going on?’

  Reba T. pulled a strange grimace. It probably was supposed to be a smile. Her teeth weren’t in such good shape. ‘Let me explain, sugar. I was telling Mrs. Falaise here that I don’t appreciate snoops sniffing around my business uninvited. You want to know something, ask me straight to my face.’

  So Joyce had talked. ‘All right. Where’s Rhonda?’

  Reba T. let out a tinkle of a laugh, addressing Beatty. ‘She’s got some balls on her.’ Beatty glanced at me. Cool it.

  Reba T. went on. ‘Listen good, sugar. First, I don’t know Rhonda’s whereabouts. And don’t you dare shoot your mouth off around town suggesting I’ve got anything to do with anything. As for Shimmer being dumb enough to OD, girl could add up but she was a fool at the best of times. And a darned thief. Dumb, too, trying to pull that off under my nose. I’d like to know where Rhonda is because I want my money back. She should’ve just come back and I’d have let her work off what Shimmer owed me.’

  ‘She’s sick, but I suppose you don’t care. So why should we believe you?’ I tried to sound tough but inside I was quaking. Reba T. just had to tell Lauder to deal with a pesky private eye called Elvira Slate and he’d know all about my new sideline. This was not good.

  Reba T. turned to Beatty. ‘She ain’t very bright either, is she? Or is she deaf? Did I or did I not just say I don’t know Rhonda’s whereabouts?’

  Beatty gave me a look of reprimand. ‘Pay attention, Elvira.’

  Why was she being so groveling to the cow?

  Reba T. examined her nails. ‘So much for gratitude. Shimmer was a useless bookkeeper, only kept her on because I felt sorry for ‘em. And Rhonda, seemed like to me I was paying for her not to come to work. What I wanna know is how do you know them?’ Reba T. shot me an icy glare.

  ‘We were neighbors. Got friendly. I played chess with Shimmer,’ I said.

  ‘Shimmer? That’s funny. I thought Rhonda was the chess nut.’ Reba T. smirked again, winking at me. ‘Chess nut, get it? I’ll do you a favor and take your word for it. Just like I’ll take your word for it Elvira Slate ain’t a phony name. All kinds of folks move out here to make a fresh start. Funny there ain’t no record of Elvira Slate in the Hall of Records. So what’s your fresh start all about, sugar?’

  Fuck.

  So she’d been looking into me. She was a damned snake. A slow, slick mover until she spat her sudden dart of venom. That’s why Beatty hadn’t kicked her out of the office.

  Reba T. had been snooping on the snoop. How, and using whom, I had no idea. Lauder? Or did she do her own dirty work?

  I glanced at Beatty who avoided my glaze. She hadn’t asked for my story, but she would insist on it now.

  Beatty lit her pipe, saying nothing. Reba T.’s gaze was fixed on me. Finally, she spoke. ‘By the way, I do feel bad for sweet Rhonda. You keep lookin’ and get her home. Hell, I’ll even cough up for the operation. Just quit badmouthing me around town, or else.’

  What the hell?

  ‘All right,’ I said, acting calm. Beatty’s expression remained inscrutable.

  Reba T. finally lit her cigarette. She took a long drag and puffed the smoke out dramatically, in my direction. ‘Now we have an understanding, I’ve got my own missing person case. I want you to find somebody who’s been bothering me.’

  ‘Who’s rattling your cage?’ Beatty asked.

  ‘Goes by the name of Slim Caziel. Elmore Caziel.’

  My stomach lurched, aware of two very shrewd women’s eyes on me. Reba T. went on. ‘Slim used to work for me, some years ago. Back then, I had a small venture, private magazines. They were tasteful. Beautiful girls, classy shots. Bona fide erotica. Slim was my photographer. Times moved on and so did I. Running nightclubs now. We all gotta start somewhere, right? I ain’t ashamed of my beginnings, and neither are the girls who made a stack of dough with me. It ain’t the same for Slim. Kinda went downhill, into the muck.’ She sniffed with distaste.

  Beatty studied Reba T., pulling her spectacles down her nose a little. ‘Why do you want to find him?’

  Reba T. sighed dramatically. ‘We had a business arrangement. Thing is, he hasn’t been around in a while. I just want to make sure he’s not in any trouble.’

  The feather. Just like the one she was wearing at the place he was rotting. She either had shot him herself and she was playing a game, or she had paid a visit before or after somebody else bumped him off.

  Another feather was detaching itself from her boa. I willed it to fall on the floor before she left so I could compare it with the one I had. Maybe stress was making the boa molt.

  Beatty said, ‘Why not tell the cops? I guess it’s too delicate a matter?’

  Reba T. bounced back fast. ‘Now you’re catching on.’

  Beatty interjected, ‘Where does this Caziel creep operate?’

  ‘He had a flophouse, but got sloppy. Apparently the joint was burned down in a raid. Then I heard he’d flopped in some warehouse near Ventura but he wasn’t there when I paid him a visit.’

  So she’d gone before he was killed?

  Beatty asked, ‘Any known associates?’

  ‘Slim’s a loner. He had a man – Carlos, or was it Jose? Something like that. Cheap muscle. Nobody’s seen him around.’

  Because he was in custody, I thought. Whatever form of custody Lauder used. He might have Jose in the Astral, for all I knew.

  ‘We don’t exactly have much to go on,’ said Beatty, looking at me. ‘Elvira? You want to ask Mrs. Turlington anything more?’

  I turned to Reba T. ‘Does Caziel still have anything to do with your nightclubs?’

  Reba T. thought about this. ‘No! I said that, already.’ She stood up, heavily, and completely ignored me as she addressed Beatty. ‘You just find Caziel, w
hatever it takes.’

  Then she shot me a meaningful look.

  With that she swanned out, paying her retainer in the form of a loose feather.

  57

  Beatty got up stiffly and opened the windows wide, to let the breeze in. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve got a nasty taste in my mouth.’ She buzzed through to Therese.

  As she did, I grabbed the feather, which had floated under the desk. The sounds of the traffic did little to shift the atmosphere. ‘A couple of brandies, s’il vous plait.’

  I spoke up. ‘I had no idea. Joyce, the ex-husband who runs the dyke nightclub, convinced me he hated her. But he…she must have tipped Reba T. off.’

  ‘The same person who lived a lie for most of their life? Hardly the most reliable type.’

  I met her eye. ‘Elmore Caziel. He’s dead. I know it for a fact.’

  ‘What?’ I’d never seen Beatty jump but she did now. Her eyes bugged out. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I saw his corpse two days ago. There’s a lot you don’t know.’