Anna waited five minutes in the officer’s kitchen before Joe stole in and locked the door.
Anna whispered, “Don’t lock the door, it’s suspicious.” She unlocked it.
“Why do we have to wait to get married? Marry me this afternoon. I want you now.”
“Have me now.”
He locked the door.
Anna unlocked it. “No. What if Snow is watching? Tonight, I’ll leave my window open. But you must be prepared to move my things if my landlord catches you. I’d have to find another place to coop.”
“We’d get married and I’d move you into my apartment.”
“My things wouldn’t fit. And besides, it’s too soon. I need time. Months at least. Years maybe. I will marry you, but I’ve only just secured my independence. I can’t simply give it up.”
“I told you, Anna. I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”
He looked so sincere and so delicious, she almost believed him. Almost. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Joe Singer. He never deliberately lied. It’s just that men were so accustomed to bossing women, they no longer even noticed.
“Oh, I want to.” She took his hand and played with his fingers.
Joe leaned over and locked the door.
Anna unlocked it.
He took a deep breath. “I have an idea. You’re searching for that kid, Eliel Villalobos. You’ve searched Chutes Park, right?
“Right.”
“Why don’t you search the regular parks. I myself am going to Griffith Park. We’ve had a tip that the men who robbed the bank in Boyle Heights were hiding out there.”
Griffith Park comprised three thousand acres of mountainous wilderness squished between Los Feliz and Glendale. It had once belonged to a wealthy rancher, Don Antonio Feliz, and should have gone to his niece, Petronilla, upon his demise, but due to some shenanigans with a false will, she got nothing. Luckily, she was able to curse the land, dropping dead on the spot, thus sealing the curse with her own blood. People had been dying ever since. The last owner, Griffith J. Griffith, had donated it to the city to get it off his hands and avoid the chain of misfortune, ruination, and death. Regrettably for Griffith, it didn’t work. Cursed or no, it was a perfect place for hiking or hiding.
Anna squinted. “That robbery was weeks ago. Surely the bank robbers are gone by now.”
“Yeah, but what if they’ve come back? I’m obliged to be thorough. Like I said, I’m going all by myself. And I was thinking, truants hang out in parks. Why don’t you go search the park all by yourself? There’s a particular spot I know about, very secluded, which would be a perfect spot to look, all by ourselves.”
“Oh,” said Anna, her heart beating faster. “Oh, yes.”
“Tell Matron Clemens . . .” He locked the door, leaned in, and kissed her slow and peppermint sweet. “Tell her finding truants takes time. Tell her you’ll be gone for hours.”
Anna freshened up before leaving to hunt for truants alone with Joe Singer. When she bounded down the stairs, her mouth salty from brushing her teeth, matron Clemens intercepted her. “May I have a moment, Anna?”
Anna took a sharp, shallow breath, fearing she was in trouble for something she hadn’t even done yet. Matron Clemens strode upstairs, into her office, the embodiment of authority, Anna in her wake. Anna quickly concocted a story about how she hadn’t gone to Griffith Park to make love to an officer, which felt like a lie, though at present it was entirely true. Then another chilling thought crossed her mind. What if Snow had seen them going into the kitchen alone?
Matron Clemens looked stiff and cool, in contrast with her cozy office. The place resembled a grandmother’s parlor. An afghan draped across the back of a blue settee. A giant needlepoint of a shepherd, which some poor woman must have gone blind producing, hung framed on the wall. Doilies melted on the furniture like snowflakes. All it lacked was a piano for singalongs.
Of course Matron Clemens’s office would be homey. The lady worked most of the time. The station was her home, though she had ten children somewhere in a house on Hill Street, cared for by a relative. If one had to have ten children, it was a sensible way of dealing with the problem.
Matron Clemens closed the door, indicating for Anna to sit in a rocking chair. Anna did as commanded. The superintendent’s face was unreadable, her voice matter of fact. “When you were hired, Detective Wolf somehow got the impression you were married.”
Anna laughed mechanically. “Yes. Isn’t that a strange misunderstanding? I don’t know how he would have gotten that impression.” She held her breath. She knew very well how Wolf had gotten that impression. Anna had lied.
“I suppose Wolf made a mistake,” said Matron Clemens.
“An easy mistake to make. I look very married.” Anna arranged her face matrimonially—that is, she tried to look grown-up, haggard, and a bit sour.
“It’s preferable to have a married woman, Assistant Matron Blanc—someone who’s world-wise, so to speak. Captain Wells has allowed you to stay because you’ve proven yourself useful. But, in response, the police commission has imposed a set of rules, which apply to unmarried police matrons.”
“In other words, they apply only to me.”
“That’s right.” Matron Clemens paced in a circle. “I opposed them, for the record, but I have no say.” Her lips tilted down, and she extended a piece of paper for Anna to take.
Anna read aloud. “Do not leave town without permission. Do not keep company with men. Be home between the hours of 8 p.m. and 6 a.m.” Anna glanced up, wide-eyed. “But I’m often still working . . . Do not smoke or imbibe. Do not loiter around ice cream shops, dance halls, or skating rinks? That’s where the bad girls are. How can I reform them if I can’t go where they go? Do not dress in bright colors? Do not dye your hair? Do not wear any dress more than two inches above the ankle? Do not get into a carriage or auto with any man except your father or brother? I don’t have a brother. And you know my father has disowned me. So, am I not to ride in cars and carriages? I can’t take a cab?”
“I don’t have time to monitor your activities, Assistant Matron Blanc. You are primarily responsible for patrolling yourself, but the men are watching. I will trust you to do the right thing.” Her superintendent looked at Anna blankly.
Anna nodded, unsure whether Matron Clemens thought the right thing was to obey the rules or ignore them. Thankfully, patrolling the more secluded corners of Griffith Park all by herself was not explicitly on the list. And matrons were allowed to keep company with officers for police purposes. And who knows. She and Joe might actually find a criminal. Or a truant.
CHAPTER 2
When Anna got off the trolley near the least popular entrance to Griffith Park, Joe was leaning up against a wooden rail looking more delicious than the man from the Arrow shirt collar ads who enticed every woman in America. He wore a pack on his back with a beer bottle peeking out the top, and held a Mexican blanket rolled up under his arm.
The marine layer was burning off in the warming winter sun. A red-tailed hawk made lazy circles in the sky. No one was around, just oak trees, hills, and, higher up, the sun-soaked chaparral—sage, cacti, yucca, and manzanita. Joe wasn’t taking in the scenery. He was looking at her with a strange expression, which Anna could not read.
“Detective Singer.” She used his title in case they were being observed from the bushes. “Fancy meeting you here. I’m hunting truants. And you?”
“I’ve scoped the place, Sherlock. We’re alone.”
“Except for Don Antonio Feliz and Petronilla.” She called to the sky and raised her gloved hands, “We come in peace.”
The hawk landed in a tree above their heads.
Joe laughed, but his smile quickly disappeared, replaced by that inscrutable expression, and he ceased to look at her, once more puzzling Anna. Was he in pain?
Anna hurried to Joe, slipped her arms around his neck, and leaned in to kiss him. He made an anguished sound and turned his head. Her kiss landed firmly on
his cheek.
“What’s wrong? We’re here to hunt truants. You always want to . . . hunt truants.”
“I do. More than anything.”
“Good.” Anna moved to kiss him again. Again, he dodged her lips. Anna frowned in puzzlement.
Was this Petronilla’s foul hoodoo? Was Anna now cursed, repulsive in the eyes of Joe Singer? What had she ever done to Petronilla? Anna hadn’t stolen her land.
“Sherlock, you know about . . . hunting truants, right? Someone has explained this to you? Your father? No, not your father. The nuns, maybe? Okay, maybe not the nuns.”
“I . . .” Anna’s cheeks flushed pink. “Of course,” she lied, and laughed, and looked everywhere except at Joe. Despite her keen powers of deduction and extensive reading, when it came to marital matters, Anna remained just where society wanted her—in the dark. She knew some things, for example, that men had to do it, and women weren’t supposed to. Men liked it. Women did not—at least that was the party line. This was clearly a mismatch and an oversight on God’s part. She knew that men paid prostitutes to do it and then despised them for it. But as for knowing specifics, Anna didn’t.
No one would tell Anna about the marriage bed. Not her married best friend Clara, who merely giggled and said, “You’ll see.” Not Madam Lulu at Canary Cottage, who stopped the prostitutes from giving Anna details. Not every bride’s guidebook, What a Young Wife Ought to Know, which was so vague as to be useless and had no pictures. Not her mother, who passed when she was just a babe.
Joe Singer would tell her. He was the only one. It sent a warm flood of love surging through her body. She could always count on Joe. Always.
But if her innocence was part of his reticence, she dared not ask. Thus, she assumed what she hoped was a knowing expression and waited for him to show her. She felt Joe’s eyes studying her, and her composure slipped. She looked down.
He made another agonized sound. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this. Maybe we should wait until we’re—”
“No, we shouldn’t wait.”
“It hurts the first time.”
“I know.” She hadn’t known.
This sent her imagination racing. How could making love to Joe Singer possibly hurt? No doubt it was some divine booby trap. Worth it, though, she thought, if it only hurt once.
She glanced up at him. “Did it hurt you very badly?”
“Anna, it doesn’t hurt men. Only girls.”
Her blush deepened. Wasn’t that just the way of the world.
Joe lifted his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “If anyone found out, you’d be ruined.”
“I was already ruined in the papers.”
“And fired.”
Anna sighed. “How could they possibly find out? Joe, you always want to—”
“I do, but . . .” He made that anguished sound again. “I don’t know, Anna. Are you sure? Maybe, we should look for some bank robbers.”
This was definitely Petronilla’s doing. Joe Singer had always wanted to make love. Always. And he did now, too. She could see the battle behind his eyes.
“I’m sure.” Though hunting bank robbers was a close second. Pain or no pain, she was wholly committed. She wanted to do whatever it was that people tried so hard to keep her from doing. And not just to spite people.
She wanted to.
Possibly, she was a man inside.
“No. I just can’t ruin the girl I love.”
“This isn’t you. This is Petronilla talking.”
He laughed. “I don’t believe in ghosts or curses.”
If Anna hadn’t before, she did now. And she didn’t like to be laughed at. “Fine. If you don’t want to make love to me, I’ll . . . I’ll make love to myself.” Anna frowned. She knew she wasn’t making sense. She kicked herself.
Now Joe was staring at her with a crooked smile. He said in his lover’s voice, “Really?”
Above them, Bee Rock clung to the mountain like a hive in the sun.
Joe took Anna’s hand and pulled her off onto a side trail, which looked more like a coyote road than a proper path. He dragged her bushwhacking through the chaparral, around a rocky outcropping, and into a secluded haven protected by oaks, but with a view of the hills and in the distance, Glendale.
The spot was so romantic, it would make nuns feel like spooning. Joe retrieved the blanket from the pack and spread it out on the ground.
Anna smiled. She had won. She had bested a ghost.
Joe pulled her against him. “I do want to make love to you. More than anything.” He lifted her chin with one finger. “What you need to know about . . . hunting truants is that I love you. I want to grow old with you. I’d do any crazy thing for you, provided it’s legal. And maybe even if it isn’t.”
Anna nodded. She knew it was true. Joe Singer never lied.
“Me too,” she said.
“The rest—it’s too beautiful for words.”
“Too beautiful.” She closed her eyes and presented her lips.
Joe kissed her. He kissed her again. His kiss was melting fiery and burned with all the intensity of their situation, and all the passion required to overcome it—her innocence and eagerness, his experience and reticence, the danger he posed to her career, and the ghost of two dead Angelinos.
Joe drew her down onto the blanket.
CHAPTER 3
The wind rose suddenly, carrying with it an ungodly odor.
Joe lifted his head. “What is that smell?”
Anna smelled it too. She gagged a little at the scent—like rotting pork in a sweet sauce.
He groaned. “I’m finally alone with the girl of my dreams, and some creature decides to die in the most romantic spot in the park.”
“It’s probably a possum. Can’t you find it and fling it off the hill with a stick?”
Anna slid off Joe so that he could stand. His hair poked out in odd directions from Anna’s caressing fingers, but he still looked good enough to eat, and the front of his drawers was pooching out most interestingly. She was starting to see the shape of things.
Anna rose gracefully in her drawers and chemise, stuffed her feet into unhooked boots, and took his hand. She wasn’t going to miss one moment of touching him, stench or no. They turned in a circle, sniffing the air.
“It must be upwind.” Joe licked his finger and held it up, then tugged her toward the edge of the hillside and a panoramic view of the city below.
Anna saw a trail of ants marching in a row and followed them. There, near the edge, she saw the source of the smell.
A dead man lay on his side with a hole in his head. His hair and face were covered with ants, as if they found whatever oil his barber used particularly delectable. A revolver lay in his limp, open hand. Los Angeles spread out before him.
“Jupiter, a deado,” said Anna. “It’s the curse.”
“Holy hell.”
“You think somebody corpsed him?”
Joe moved closer, “I don’t know.”
Anna noted that Joe’s underwear no longer pooched out so dramatically. Her own skin had grown suddenly cold. This dead man was killing the mood. Petronilla had foiled her lovemaking with Joe Singer after all, something she’d ached for since he’d first kissed her on a police sting operation last summer. She didn’t know when they’d get the chance again. But while there was nothing in the world she loved more than spooning Joe Singer, there was one thing she loved just as much.
Catching killers.
She might get to help with this case.
Take that Petronilla.
Joe stood reverently. “Looks like he shot himself in the head, poor fellow.”
“Are you sure?” Anna let go of Joe’s hand and squatted, trying to ignore the bare, muscular legs now at eye level, and moved forward, examining the ground like an Indian tracker. She felt a breeze through the split in her two-piece drawers.
“Oh Lord,” said Joe.
“Only one set of footprints, and they are clearly from the victim�
��s own ant killers, by which I mean feet.”
“Anna, not a step closer. How would I explain your little footprints near the body?”
She stood. “Say you were having a lover’s tryst. They don’t care what you do. Just don’t say you were making love to me. Because they’d hang me.”
He strolled toward the body. “Turn around and walk back.”
Anna’s upper lip twitched and she didn’t move. He was bossing her.
“Sherlock, it’s not worth it.” Joe returned to her side, took a scowling Anna by the hand, and dragged her away from the death scene, back to the blanket and the pile of their clothing. He pecked her on the lips. “Anna, sweetheart, I’m sorry. We’ll hunt for truants another day—”
“We’ll have to find a different spot. This one’s spoiled now.”
“Marry me and we won’t have to find a spot. We could make love every night, all night, in your great big canopy bed. Mornings too. And vacations. Mercy. Think about vacations. We could go to the courthouse tomorrow.”
“Mm,” said Anna, considering. It did sound like heaven.
He bent to pick up his pants and shook them out. “Now, I’m going to hike back to the trailhead and use the call box to send for the coroner’s wagon. You stay here and guard the body in case vultures or a coyote or some hiker stumbles on it. Keep every living thing away from the scene. There better not be any girl footprints when I get back.”
The corner of Anna’s mouth twitched. He was still bossing her.
He appeared to read her thoughts and threw up one exasperated hand. “Sherlock, I outrank you.”
“Just say the footprints belong to some other girl—a lost hiker or . . . or a prostitute—”
“I’m not gonna lie.”
Joe and Anna somberly dressed themselves—an unhappy event, so unlike the joyful removal of their clothing. Anna sighed as she watched him button up his trousers. He smoothed her hair and straightened her tie, but she would not meet his eyes. Then, she watched Joe’s wool-clad backside disappear behind the outcropping. She was alone with the corpse and the ghosts. She stared miserably in the direction of the body, which she could smell but could not see. Now she could neither hunt truants with Joe nor help determine whether the death was suspicious. As usual, Anna was denied everything good. “Curse you back, Petronilla.”
The Body in Griffith Park Page 2
