“No. It was a boy. He came an hour ago.”
“And you let him get away?”
Mr. Melvin spoke into his lap. “I promised him fifty cents if he’d wait for you across the street at the soda fountain.”
“I don’t have that kind of money,” said Anna.
Mr. Melvin slid two quarters across the counter to Anna without looking up.
She pressed his hand. “Thank you. I’ll pay you back.”
He blushed.
Anna didn’t examine the envelope until she was outside on the sidewalk. She lifted it to her wrinkled nose. It smelled of narcissus and coffee. The flap no longer stuck, and a little tear near the edge told Anna the note had been previously opened and probably read.
With two fingers, she pried the letter from the wet envelope. The elegant card swirled with embossed vines, gold leaf, and dragonflies. A soggy Johnny jump-up was pressed inside—velvet violet and yellow, severed from the stem. Johnny jump-ups stood for nothing in the language of flowers. But, Johnny jump-ups were her favorite flower. How could he know?
Anna squinted at the note. The ink was pale, smeared, and mostly unreadable, thanks to Officer Snow’s coffee. Following the rather intimate salutation, “Dear Anna,” she read, “meet me,” and half-way down the page, “jewelry.”
At the word “ jewelry,” Anna’s heart began to pound. She knew now that the whiskey must stop, no matter how much she liked the brand. She could read between the runny lines. This man was obsessed with her, asking for a rendezvous and threatening to give her jewelry. It would be wrong to encourage him when she was already in love with Joe Singer.
She would have to meet him. It was the only way to stop the gifts. Notes certainly hadn’t worked, and she didn’t think he was dangerous. He looked perfectly respectable when she’d seen him that day on the streets. In fact, he looked rich and exceptionally handsome.
But how? She couldn’t rendezvous without the details.
Anna jogged across the street to the soda fountain, hoping the boy courier still awaited his fifty cents. It was after four; school had only just gotten out. The boy must have skipped class, suggesting he was lawless and might be bribed.
Wrought iron ice cream chairs and a few little tables kept company on the sidewalk. Anna swished under the striped awning and through the door. There were potted palms, a black and white tiled floor, and a copper ceiling on which fans twirled. The brass soda fountain gleamed as shiny as a golden mirror.
Anna scanned the long, crowded counter. She noted six boys in knee pants and tall socks, who could possibly be the courier, and three ladies who might meet Anna’s own description, depending on whether Mr. Melvin had said “pretty” or “gorgeous.” The courier boy might be hesitant to approach given those odds. She could stand on a chair, call the room to order, and ask, but that would be rude. She saved rudeness for emergencies. She must simply deduce her way to the courier.
Two of the boys sported school uniforms, which meant parents who could pay tuition. One of the women watched them. These boys would not likely relay messages for a strange man, not while supervised. A deceptively adorable, but scruffy blond child made loud slurping sounds as he sipped his sarsaparilla—a possibility. Another boy’s knee pants were two inches too short, suggesting want, but he was showing off an expensive-looking sailboat to two other boys who ate ice creams. Anna considered the candidates, peering at each in turn, and settled on the boy with the exposed knees. And because she read dime novels, she slipped beside him and said mysteriously, “Fifty cents if you are the right man.”
“Miss Blanc? How did you know it was me?”
“Your patron is generous—I should know—and that sailboat is the nicest I’ve seen.”
“Yes. He saw me eyeing it in a shop window and bought it for me. Just like that.”
If she ever met the man, she would tell him to buy the child pants as well.
Anna whipped the soggy, smeared note out of her pocket. “Regrettably, there’s been a mishap. The note’s totally illegible. I need you to tell me who he is and where I was supposed to meet him?”
“I um . . .”
“You read the note, which was very naughty. I already know. And it was intended for me.”
“It wasn’t as interesting as I expected. But that information will cost you extra.”
“Fine. If that’s how it’s going to be.” Anna pocketed the fifty cents and turned to go.
“I don’t remember his name. La Placita Church at eight o’clock tonight.”
She gave the boy a brilliant smile and proffered his money. The urchin palmed the coins and ran off with his boat.
Anna checked her watch. She needed to leave the station early if she wanted to beat the whiskey man to their assignation. She would rebuff him in no uncertain terms, run home to bathe, change into her most beguiling nightgown, and wait for Joe Singer to come and take it off.
CHAPTER 8
Painted mandalas in rich colors decorated the ceiling of La Placita Church. Portraits of Christ, the Virgin, and the Saints glowed in towering, gilded frames above the altar. Anna wore a black lace mantilla to cover her hair. The sanctuary flickered with candlelight, each tiny flame a petition. She could taste the incense. Anna dropped a penny into the slotted box and lit two wax votives. She said silent prayers to Saint Valentine, patron saint of lovers, first, that the whiskey man would accept her rejection graciously, so she would not need her revolver, and second, that Joe would not get caught when he visited her apartment later that night, lest she be evicted.
A few scattered Catholics knelt in the pews. Ladies, heads covered in lace, sat on one side, hatless men on the other. Their lips moved, breathing the barest whispers of hope, thanksgiving, and sorrow. Anna felt her own sorrows acutely, for they were many—her newfound poverty, having no family, being a woman. Sorrow she knew. But what was Anna hoping for? Specifically, why had she come? She was curious, for certain, and the gifts must stop. Also, the man was a stranger, and Anna’s father had repeatedly told her not to talk to strange men—not without a formal introduction. Crossing her father was a joy in and of itself. This whiskey man was rich and possibly knew her father. With any luck, the news of it would get back to him. Maybe he’d be angry enough to forget he’d disowned her and call.
Anna smoothed her gown, a cascade of ivory lace that emphasized her tiny waist. She moved quietly to the rail in front, turned, and checked each prayerful face, her body jumpy with nerves, her hand on the gun in her pocket for reassurance. She didn’t recognize the whiskey man among the worshippers and tiptoed back into the narthex. The narthex was vacant, but for a wrought iron candelabra, a coat rack, and a basket of spare lace mantillas by the sanctuary door. She ventured to the front entrance and peered out into the darkness toward the Plaza. Was he late? How long should she wait? She moved to collect her cape from the coat rack.
A man stepped abruptly from a shadowy side door. Anna leapt backward. Her gun arm popped up. She shouted, “Reach for the roof,” just as Joe Singer rushed in from outside and clocked the man in the face. Joe’s fist felled him.
The man on the ground bled from his perfectly patrician nose. He wore diamond cufflinks and smelled of freesias. It was the rich young man Anna had pegged with her handkerchief on the street. He held up his manicured hands in stylish surrender. They held a mixed bouquet.
He grinned, and in a thick French accent whispered, “Anna, you came.” He brought a finger to his lips. “Shh. People are praying.”
Anna, still pointing her gun, leaned over for a closer look. He handed her the flowers.
She noted snapdragons. Presumption.
“Thank you.” She turned on Joe and hissed quietly, “Are you spying on me?”
“Anna, I found the note on your desk. You had a rendezvous with another man.” He perused the man’s fine form and expensive suit. “You couldn’t expect me to just stay home.”
“How could you read that note?”
“I was motivated.”
“That doesn’t comfort me.”
The man rose slowly to his feet, holding his hands aloft. Anna still pointed her gun, still held the flowers, still wore her mantilla. “Really ma chère, you can put the gun down.”
“She’s not your chère.” Joe remained on his guard, his fists balled, his biceps tight. “Whoever the hell you are.”
Joe rarely swore, not in front of ladies. It was a misdemeanor, punishable by a fine of two hundred dollars or imprisonment for ninety days. And they were in church.
Anna deduced he must be very mad. He looked so fierce, all flushed and sweaty; it made her tingle. Everywhere.
The whiskey man ignored Joe and spoke to Anna. “Anna, you have nothing to fear from me. I am—”
“She’s Miss Blanc to you,” said Joe. “Who do you think you are?”
Anna’s eyes and mouth widened, and she made a little sound of surprise. “Jupiter. He thinks he’s my brother.”
CHAPTER 9
The mysterious man nodded. “Yes! I am your brother, Georges.”
“She doesn’t have a brother.” Joe turned and looked at Anna. “You don’t have a brother.”
“Regrettably, no. I’m an only child—alone in the world. It’s been a source of profound sadness—”
“Then why did you think—”
“Woodbine. It stands for fraternal love. I just remembered. Nothing about those floral arrangements was romantic. They symbolized protection, comfort, affection . . .”
Georges addressed Anna in French. “Ne l’ écoutez pas. Je suis ton frère. C’est assez facile de le prouver.”
“Manners, Mr. . . . Georges,” said Anna. “Joe doesn’t speak French.” She looked at Joe. “He says I shouldn’t listen to you.”
“Don’t call him Georges. You don’t know him.”
“It would be stupid to address your own brother as Mr. and I told you who I was in the letter,” said Georges.
“That part was illegible,” said Joe.
“Joe’s right. I thought you were another suitor. I didn’t know you claimed to be my brother. I couldn’t read the letter. The ink was smeared with coffee.”
“But the woodbine . . .”
Anna shook her head. “There are hundreds of plants in that book. I’d forgotten the meaning of woodbine until just now.”
Georges’s eyes widened. “Oh, la la. You didn’t know, and you came anyway? Anna, you shouldn’t meet with strange men.”
“That is the only thing he’s said worth listening to,” said Joe, still tense, ready to spring.
“Hah! I can take care of myself. I’ve had to.” She cocked the gun. “Go on. Say what you have to say.”
A priest appeared at the side door. His eyes widened when he saw the gun. He disappeared back the way he came. In a moment, Anna heard the door to the sanctuary lock.
“For years, I did not approach you. I thought father was right. You wouldn’t be thrilled to have a bastard brother. You were untouchable, the stainless Anna Blanc.”
She smiled sourly. It was no longer true. Stain stuck to her like gum.
“I wanted to do something for you after he cast you out, so I brought you the flowers. Father mentioned you had liked that flower book, so . . .”
“That strange bouquet,” said Anna. “That was a clever introduction, really.”
“And then you said you wanted whiskey.”
Joe threw up his hands, “You asked him for whiskey?”
“Not exactly,” said Anna.
“It’s shameful the way father has treated you. But he does care, Anna.”
Anna winced. She wished it were true. But never once had her father called to make sure she was okay, or sent her a letter, or even a check. He told people he didn’t have a daughter, when everyone knew very well that he did.
Anna said softly, “Cardamine. It stands for paternal error.”
Joe made a scoffing sound. “What do you want?”
Georges sighed. “A sister. That is all. And that my blood sister is not abandoned to the cruel world alone.”
“She’s not alone.”
Anna was silent for a moment, oddly touched. But for Joe, she was alone in the world. “That’s very kind, Mr. Georges.” She lowered her gun.
“Father didn’t want you to know because it didn’t reflect well on him. But now, I think, you need me.”
Anna looked at Joe, her eyes widening. “That sounds like father. It’s all he cared about—his reputation.”
“I reasoned that you were an experienced woman—not the naïve girl father made you out to be. You went undercover in the brothels last summer, no? I thought maybe you wouldn’t be so shocked to learn that your father kept a lover. And maybe not so judgmental of your bastard brother.”
Anna’s eyes truly popped. “Father kept a lover?”
Joe pulled her by the arm. “Let’s go. This man is up to no good.”
Georges grabbed Anna’s other arm. “Anna, stay.”
“Let go of her!” Joe said in a tone that gave Anna the chills.
The two men tugged on Anna, which was neither mannerly nor good for her frock. She heard her uniform rip. “Biscuits!” Anna shook them both off violently. Her face felt hot, and her limbs were shaking. A breeze cooled her armpit beneath the tear. “I’m not leaving. Not yet. I want to hear him out.”
“And who are you? What does this have to do with you?” Georges examined Joe, like he was merchandise that fell short of his expectations.
“I’m her fiancé.”
“Really Anna? A cop?” His words dripped with sticky French disdain.
Joe’s brows shot up.
“He’s a very good cop,” Anna said.
Georges looked him up and down. “Oh, I don’t doubt it.”
Anna said, “This is Detective Joe Singer. And you are Georges . . .”
“Devereaux.”
“Not Blanc?” said Joe.
“I told you I was a bastard. I have my mother’s name.”
Joe shook his head. “Anna, I don’t believe it.” He leaned close and spoke low into her ear, “Don’t get hoodwinked. You’re missing your father and you want to have family. It makes you vulnerable. You don’t know anything about him.”
“I’m not saying I believe him,” Anna said defensively. “But he understands my father’s motivations, says ‘Oh la, la’ just like father, and he’s well-dressed and good looking, just like me.”
Joe said, “Why arrange to meet her in a church at night? That’s kind of shady. Why not meet her at the police station?”
Georges addressed Anna. “You couldn’t have your illegitimate brother showing up at the station. It would raise all kinds of questions. You were confirmed in this church.”
She looked at Joe. “How did he know that?”
Georges smiled. He’d scored a point. “Church is respectable. Anna, would you really have met me in a restaurant or at my hotel?”
Joe narrowed his Arrow Collar Man peepers. “Why so late? Why meet at night?”
“Police matrons work late. I read it in the paper.”
Anna supposed Georges would be considered good looking by any measure, but strangely, she felt nothing for him, not that familiar pull she experienced with beautiful men—especially Joe Singer whose pull was stronger than a riptide so that it threatened to sweep her out to sea.
Could Georges be her brother? Had her father taken a lover?
“Come to my hotel, Anna. We’ll talk. I’ll call father on the telephone. If you wish, bring your cop.”
“She’s not going anywhere with you, and certainly not to a hotel,” said Joe.
Georges smiled cynically, and for a moment Anna saw a flash of her father.
“Yes,” said Anna. “I’ll go.” She turned and put her hands on Joe’s cheeks. “How could he know about my confirmation? About the flower book?”
“Anna. You can’t just—”
“My love, you d
on’t get to decide.”
CHAPTER 10
Georges lived on the top floor of the Hotel Alexandria, on the corner of Spring and Fifth Streets—the best Los Angeles had to offer. The lavish, eight-story hotel had opened only two years before. All the furniture was fresh and new, opulent, like her father’s house, but in the latest style. Everywhere was the sparkle of crystal, the glow of polished wood, and moldings climbing the apartment walls like vines. The windows framed glorious views of her city.
Anna noted cigar butts on an ash tray, and five scattered crystal glasses as if he’d had male company, and no one had cleaned up.
Georges hurried to clear the glasses. “Sorry for the mess. My man is off today. I entertained some friends.”
Anna stared at the décor in reluctant admiration. She didn’t want to like it too much, not before she knew. Still, she couldn’t help but murmur, “It’s so à la mode.”
Georges beamed when he saw her appreciation. “My home is your home, ma petite soeur.”
A framed picture of Anna’s father graced the side table. In it, he was a much younger man. Anna had the same photograph. She supposed Georges could have bought a copy from the photographer. But he also had her father’s thick French accent.
“So how are you Anna’s brother?” Joe picked up the photograph as if to examine it for authenticity. He set it down. He flicked a crystal dangling from a candlestick. It sang like the real McCoy.
“Anna, you should sit,” said Georges.
“And you should put a steak on that eye. It’s starting to swell,” she said.
Joe gave her a look, like her concern somehow betrayed him. “Let him swell.”
“I’ll order one.” Georges glared at Joe then called the front desk to request raw meat.
Anna plopped down on the most beautiful couch she’d ever seen—all mossy velvet with curved, carved wood. To Anna it looked like a butterfly. It seemed like it could fly away. Like it could fly her away.
Joe wandered around the room, examining it like the scene of a crime that had not yet happened. He picked up a Kodak Brownie that sat on a table, raised the camera to his eyes, and pointed it at Georges. He set it down. A little gray mutt was curled up on a chair—perhaps an Affenpinscher mix. It followed Joe with its eyes, growling softly.
The Body in Griffith Park Page 6
