The Body in Griffith Park

by Jennifer Kincheloe

  His face registered what looked like euphoria. “Hallelujah.”

  Anna looked around her. “Could someone please call a doctor?” No one responded. Anna began wading through the crowd toward the lady on the rug. Across the room, another member of the congregation collapsed, and was similarly ignored. Two more dropped. Anna turned in circles. She changed her mind and began wading away from the stricken as the disease seemed quite virulent and she didn’t want to catch it.

  The girl in the white dress burst into song, unintroduced, and without accompaniment. No embarrassed family member stopped her. People swayed with their hands in the air, like grass on the hills in the wind. Anna felt exceptionally hot and confused. The room was flooded with sound and high-strung emotion, as if wrung from a dirty sponge.

  Four men carried in a writhing, hissing man, each holding an arm or a foot. He reminded Anna of Mrs. Michaelchek. They were quickly surrounded, and Anna could barely see the man through the bodies. She heard the preacher shout. “In the name of Jesus, come out of him!”

  She heard a soul-chilling scream. Then the people lay the man on the carpet. He was limp and possibly dead.

  “Jesus!” someone shouted. “Jesus, Jesus, Jeeeeeeesus.”

  Anna took stock of her situation. She could run, and she wanted to. Or she could help Georges. But how would she find his mother in this confusion? She closed her eyes and steeled herself. Then, she went forward, farther from the safety of the door. Since shouting out seemed to be something they did here, she shouted herself, to the best of her corseted ability. She shouted until she felt breathless and slightly faint. “Jeanne Devereaux! Jeanne Devereaux! Jeeeeanne Devereaux!”

  The people still swayed like grass, reaching for the sun. Some craned their necks toward Anna as she pushed her way to the front begging everyone’s pardon and shouting, “Jeanne Devereaux!” A mulatto woman waded through the crowd after Anna, possibly to exorcise her. She moved gracefully and wore bohemian clothes. Anna grimaced and held up her hands defensively, backing away. “No, thank you. I’m not possessed.”

  “I’m Jeanne Devereaux.” Her accent was French.

  The preacher put his hand on Anna’s shoulder. She swooned, defeated by shock, heat, her corset, and the overwhelming scent of too many Protestants.

  Anna had the vague impression of being touched by a dozen hands. Her eyelids fluttered. “Stop it. Please stop it.” She began swatting at them ineffectually.

  A man scooped her up and carried her away, holding her against his suit jacket. He lugged her up a flight of stairs and laid her on an itchy horsehair couch.

  “I think I know this girl. It’s Anna Blanc,” said a woman.

  “She’s been slain in the Spirit,” said a man.

  “I’m not dead,” murmured Anna.

  Jeanne Devereaux knelt beside her. She smelled nice, like Anna’s own Ambre Antique perfume, and Anna wondered if she knew anything at all about the world.

  CHAPTER 30

  The lady’s eyes were like amber with fire trapped inside—this woman, Christopher Blanc’s mistress. “Do you have a prophecy for me?”

  Anna squinted at her. If God was playing telephone, Anna was certainly not in the loop. “I rather think not. God never tells me anything.”

  “Of course he does, but you have to listen.” Jeanne Devereaux looked to the man who had carried Anna.

  He had glistening ebony skin, round wire spectacles, and smelled of eucalyptus. He assured Anna firmly. “You have a message.”

  Anna blinked. Asking Anna for a prophecy was like asking a poodle for legal advice. God didn’t favor her. God didn’t talk to her. God never helped her, although sometimes the saints came through, but even that was spotty. Anna’s head swam. “I’ll pray to the Magdalene.” She was, after all, the patron saint of bad women, and Anna had been very, very bad.

  Mrs. Devereaux and the man exchanged a knowing glance as if Anna needed instruction.

  It dawned on Anna that she did have a message, though it wasn’t from God. Still, she could borrow his credibility. She struggled to sit up. “God says Georges is in trouble. He says tell me where Georges is.”

  “Trouble? What is his trouble?”

  “God says, ‘Don’t talk here.’ He says, ‘Talk in your hotel.’”

  Anna and Mrs. Devereaux rode in silence, though, behind them, the cabby spoke incessantly in what Anna took to be a thick Scottish accent. Like the people in the church, she couldn’t understand him. All the while, Mrs. Devereaux stared at Anna, almost pleading for information with her eyes. Luckily, the woman was trying to obey God, because Anna couldn’t bear to speak of Georges’s troubles in a cab. Anna could hardly bear to speak of them at all.

  Anna snuck peeks at the lady. She had the nose of a European aristocrat, an enviably long neck, and wavy black hair swept up beneath a simple but striking hat. This elegant mulatto woman was her father’s lover and Georges’s mother. This meant Georges was passing as white, but any children he had may look black. His children’s children might look white, and their children might look black, and so on.

  Her family was a veritable checkerboard.

  Georges had a hard road as a bastard. If people knew he was a white black man, it could make things worse for him. A jury wouldn’t sympathize. No wonder Georges said he’d never marry.

  His children could give him away.

  Anna didn’t care if Georges was part Negro any more than she cared about the color of his eyes. Except for this; she knew the fates of people who came from mixed unions. If Georges were found out, he would be ostracized by whites and Negros alike. He would fit nowhere. He would have to go back to France where people weren’t so hateful, and Anna would lose him—the only family she had.

  The cabby stopped in front of the Fremont Hotel. Anna and Mrs. Devereaux took the elevator in awkward silence.

  Anna didn’t know how she should feel about this woman who had possessed Anna’s father first—who Georges said her father had loved, maybe still loved if old people still had feelings. Mrs. Devereaux hadn’t betrayed Anna. Rather, Anna was incarnate proof of her father’s betrayal of Mrs. Devereaux. By all rights, Mrs. Devereaux should hate Anna.

  Anna cast down her eyes. “Are you a forgiving woman?”

  “I’ve seen a man with no arm grow an arm right in front of me. I know a blind man who can now see. I know a dumb woman who now prophesies. I’ve known God’s power.”

  It wasn’t quite what Anna had asked.

  “I am called to forgive, just as He forgives. He gives me the power, and He has power, indeed.”

  Anna inclined her head and nodded, unsure of what to say. She didn’t speak Protestant. She wanted to ask the woman everything—had Mrs. Devereaux loved her father? Did she love him still? Were she and Anna related? Why didn’t she take Georges to see Anna? Why wasn’t she Catholic? Would she please invite Anna to church the next time men were growing arms?

  She didn’t feel like she had the right to ask.

  Mrs. Devereaux let her into a simple, well-appointed suite and shut the door. Her amber eyes burned, and she commanded Anna, “Now, Anna Blanc, prophesy. What’s wrong with my son?”

  “He’s going to be indicted for kidnapping and contributing to the downfall of minor girls, and he’s a suspect in the murder of a man who tried to blackmail him. He’s fled and it’s going to make things worse for him. God says you must tell me where he is.”

  “What do you want with Georges?”

  “To prove his innocence, of course. He’s my brother. Naturally, I love him.”

  Mrs. Devereaux stared at Anna long and hard. “Yuma. He’s in Yuma.” Then, she fell into prayer.

  CHAPTER 31

  The next morning, a line of Chinamen stood at the booking desk, no doubt victims of a fan-tan raid in the wee hours that would result in payoffs—the LAPD extorting the Chinese. Anna found Joe working at his desk. “Hello, Detective Singer. How are you?”

  He glanced over toward the booking desk. “I’m dis
gusted, and you, Assistant Matron Blanc? How’s your day?”

  “Interesting.”

  “I think that’s good. I have news about the case. You’re not going to like it. Sit down.”

  Anna sat.

  “Georges’s fingerprints were inconclusive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We couldn’t rule him out. The partial from the gun is kind of smudged, but it could be a match.”

  Anna said, “Or not.”

  “Or not.”

  “They aren’t his fingerprints anyway.”

  “What?”

  “The fingerprints you took from the glass obviously belong to Thomas, his man. The glass was full when you took it from the nightstand. Georges doesn’t get his own water. Thomas brought him the water glass. Georges never touched it.”

  “Whether the prints were Georges’s or Thomas’s, it ties Georges to the murder.”

  “Or it would if the test wasn’t inconclusive.”

  “There’s a guy coming to visit from New York. He’s the NYPD’s fingerprint expert. He’ll be able to tell.”

  “Thank you for going the extra mile to hang my brother.”

  “Anna, I have a cousin, Jeremiah, and he’s really charming, but he’s not a good man. He’s a card sharp and he cheats, and he’s mixed up with all kinds of bad people in Chicago. Well his little brother, Luke, was the opposite—honest, hardworking. And he was a musician, like me. Played the harmonica and the fiddle. My favorite cousin. We would play together. Jeremiah and Luke were also close, and people knew it. That was Luke’s downfall. Jeremiah crossed the wrong people, and Luke was found shot through the heart. They killed him Anna. We lost him. They punished Jeremiah through Luke. So, if Georges is a bad seed or he has nefarious associates, I don’t want him anywhere near you because you might get hurt.”

  “Why do men always think they know what’s best for women? Aren’t men the ones causing all the trouble? Joe, I’m a grown woman.”

  “And, Sherlock, I’m a cop.”

  “But what if he’s innocent? He is innocent.”

  “If Georges is innocent, I’ve still got to find him and bring him in. It’s my job. Then, he can defend himself. It’s much worse for him when he’s on the lam. So, if you know anything—”

  “Georges is in Yuma.”

  Joe gaped. “Yuma? There’s nothin’ in Yuma. It’s just a place on the way to somewhere else.”

  “It’s the desert, and that’s good for your health.”

  “Anna, he’s hiding. It’s one place I’d never think to look. How did you find out?”

  She tapped her lip. Joe might not believe the word of her father’s mistress given the lady’s stakes in the game. “The hotel clerk told me. I just had to ask. See, nothing to hide.”

  Joe looked skeptical. “Unless he paid the clerk to lie to us.”

  “Unlikely. Georges could have left us misleading information in his note if he was in the habit of misleading sisters, which he is not.”

  “Well, we don’t have any other leads. All right. I’m going to Yuma.”

  “We’re going to Yuma. Wolf said I could help.”

  Anna and Joe planned to meet at La Grande Station to catch the afternoon train. Joe returned to his apartment and Anna to Georges’s hotel room to pack. By necessity, they would stay two nights, maybe three. It was unfortunate that Anna could no longer stand him. She piled three hat boxes on top of her steamer trunk and dragged the thing backward, bump bumping it down the steps to the curb where she flagged down a hansom.

  The dome of La Grande Station towered over the corner of Second Street and Santa Fe like an Arabian palace, its golden turrets gleaming in the sun. Anna’s hansom driver hopped down and handed her out onto the wide, dusty street. She reached into her purse to pay the man and found a monogrammed handkerchief, Princess Pat rouge, and a tiny silk purse for coins, which, regrettably, was empty. She had forgotten to plan for her fare.

  She should have gone through the pockets of Georges’s cashmere coats and checked beneath his cushions for change. She bit her lip, looked up at the cabby, and offered him her lace handkerchief and a hopeful smile. He twisted his ruddy face into a sneer and spit near her shoe. The man climbed up onto the top of his hansom and drove off, leaving her trunk and hat boxes in the dirty street. Anna gaped after him. There was no reason to be so rude, simply because she had forgotten to plan for her fare. She would have paid him someday, but now she had no inclination to do so. She piled the three hat boxes on top of her trunk, bent over and pushed the trunk along the concrete. She hit a bump and the hat boxes rolled like coins into the gutter. “Biscuits!”

  Joe Singer appeared and scooped them up one by one. “I would have come by with a wagon, Sherlock, if I’d known you’d be bringing the kitchen sink.”

  “Pardon me if I like to change my drawers.”

  Joe’s eyes widened and he laughed. “Matron Blanc, you shock me.” He grasped the three hat boxes by the strings, setting his own small carpet bag on top of the trunk. It had a floral pattern, and Anna wondered if it had belonged to his mother. He pulled the trunk by the handle, dragging it up the steps, onto the wooden platform. Anna tried not to appreciate it.

  He said, “I got our tickets. I’m afraid we’re traveling third class.”

  “Maybe you are.” She approached the ticket counter. “Hello. I’m Anna Blanc. Can you attach the Blanc car to the train please?”

  “Which train? The one to San Francisco?”

  “No, the one to Yuma.”

  “But ma’am, that train is scheduled to leave in . . .” He checked his watch. “Fifteen minutes.”

  “Surely you can attach one little railcar. It won’t make us too late, will it? We can make up the time on the tracks. How long is it to Yuma?”

  “Fourteen hours.” The man at the ticket counter looked dubious. “Let me ask the station master, Miss.”

  “You have your own railcar?” said Joe.

  “My father did, so I assume that Georges has it now. And he would want me to travel in comfort when I capture him. You, however, he would want in third class.”

  “If he has the railcar, wouldn’t he take it to Yuma?”

  “It’s a very conspicuous car. I don’t think he wants to be found. Not when he’s convalescing.”

  “Uh huh,” said Joe. “Don’t you think your father would have told them not to let you take the railcar?”

  “Only if he thought of it.”

  The ticket taker returned with another man in a long coat and an official looking hat. He had a great bulbous nose and short, flipper arms. He resembled an elephant seal. He introduced himself as the station master. “Good evening, Miss Blanc.” He cleared his throat. “How do I know you are Anna Blanc?”

  Anna beamed at Joe. “He didn’t think of it.”

  “Don’t you recognize her?” asked Joe. “She’s only the most beautiful woman in Los Angeles.”

  “I’m impervious to flattery,” said Anna.

  “It’s only flattery if it isn’t true,” Joe said.

  “You can’t ride in my railcar.”

  Joe reached into his suit jacket pocket and pulled out his badge. “I’ll vouch for her. Detective Singer, LAPD. But just ask any of your men. Her picture’s been in the Herald a dozen times.”

  The ticket taker examined Anna’s face. “That is Anna Blanc, Georges Blanc’s half-sister,” said the ticket taker.

  “His favorite sister,” said Anna.

  The station master looked to Joe. “Why would she want to go to Yuma? It’s nothing but desert. You’re not going on further east? Maybe New Orleans? Oklahoma City?”

  “No. I hear Yuma has a very nice prison,” said Anna.

  “We’re on official police business,” said Joe.

  The station master wagged his big nose back and forth. “Watch out for rattlesnakes and Gila monsters.”

  “Monsters?” said Anna.

  “Gila monsters. They’re big lizards, big as dogs. Nasty creatu
res. They leap through the air to attack and can spit venom ten yards. And their breath is poisonous. They’ll kill a grown man with their fetid breath alone. My cousin knew a man who was bitten by a Gila monster. He died slowly.”

  Anna looked at Joe. “It would be a shame if a Gila monster got you.”

  Joe smirked.

  “We are definitely going to Yuma,” said Anna. “Add it to the Blanc tab.”

  The station master frowned. “We don’t have men to staff your car, Miss. This train is mostly carrying freight.”

  “I don’t need staff. Much,” said Anna. “There must be men on the train. Trains don’t drive themselves. Somebody shovels the coal.”

  “I beg your pardon Miss Blanc. If they stop shoveling, the train stops.”

  Anna tapped a finger on her lip. “Well then. If I truly need assistance—if there are plumbing problems for example . . .” She lifted her chin and looked at Joe. “I’ll simply call the police.”

  The station master turned to Joe for confirmation. Joe frowned but nodded.

  Anna smiled. “It’s settled then.”

  The Pacific Fruit Express rolled into La Grande Station. It was a mixed train with three passenger cars and a string of refrigerator cars carrying lemons, oranges, grapefruit, artichokes, and strawberries for the people in the East. Attaching the Blanc car to the middle of the train took an hour, delaying departure. Anna waited on a bench, hoping that the other passengers milling about impatiently didn’t realize it was her fault. Rather, she hoped they thought Joe was to blame. She stared at him reproachfully to make it seem so. Also, she thought that if she stared at his face long enough, he would no longer seem so handsome, like when you say the word “the” so many times in a row that it begins to sound wrong.

  “What?” he said, still handsome.

  “Nothing.” She stared harder.

  Two men in black bow ties and tails passed by carrying large baskets covered in white cloths. They boarded the lonely Blanc railcar. Ten minutes later, the men disembarked empty-handed. At last, the station master snuffled over. He offered Anna his flipper and escorted her to the train while Joe followed dragging Anna’s trunk, three striped hat boxes grasped by the cords, and his small carpet bag tucked under one arm. Her hat boxes banged against his shins as he walked.