The Long, Long Afternoon

by Inga Vesper

  ‘I assure you, our team is on the case. Meanwhile, can I ask you a few questions?’

  ‘It’s horrendous,’ says Mrs Ingram by way of an answer. ‘I don’t know what to think. That kitchen . . .’

  She looks tired underneath the makeup, and she hasn’t yet asked for any salacious details or impressed her theory on him. She is worried for her friend, deeply worried, while trying to keep up the pretense for the girls. One of them is sitting outside on the terrace, forcing her doll to mop up an imaginary kitchen floor.

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual when you last saw Mrs Haney?’

  ‘No, not at all. She was dressed for town and had just returned from the mall. She left Barbara with me for a couple of hours.’

  ‘Was that a normal thing for her to do?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I adore her children.’ A little tremble quivers on her lip. She’s got none of her own. ‘I didn’t mind at all. I don’t start work until just before noon. And it’s much easier for Joyce to do the shopping with just one.’

  ‘Did anything strike you as odd about Mrs Haney’s behavior when she returned?’

  ‘She was a little rushed off her feet. She had a big bag of shopping with her and Lily clinging to her hand. We didn’t talk long. She asked if Barbara had been good, and I said yes, and she said she had to make lunch so I let her go . . .’ Mrs Ingram looks at her soda as if it were a crystal ball. ‘Oh, God. I don’t even want to think of what might have happened . . . All that blood.’

  ‘It must have given you a fright.’

  ‘I had just come back from work and was fixing my face. I heard Lily screaming. She would not stop, so after a while I went outside. The door was open, Ruby was on the lawn, screeching like a harpy, and I just . . .’ She hesitates. ‘I knew right away something had happened to Joyce. Call it a woman’s intuition.’

  Tears are peeping through Mrs Ingram’s mascara. Mick feels compelled to quell them. ‘Blood always looks worse than it is. It’s hard to take a guess, but it looks like Mrs Haney was injured, hopefully not killed.’

  ‘Could she have been abducted?’

  ‘That’s one option. She could have hurt herself and gone to get help. We have an officer phoning around the hospitals right at this moment.’

  ‘She should have called me. Or Laura.’

  ‘Laura Kettering? Is she a good friend of Joyce’s?’

  Mrs Ingram pouts a little. ‘She is a great neighbor, but . . . very involved with her household. Her husband is a movie executive and works like a mule. She has three small kids – there’s not much time for socializing. Her and Joyce are close, but not as close as Joyce and me.’

  Mick shifts his butt and the easy chair emits a squeak. ‘Why did you slap Ruby Wright?’

  A hint of disgust flits across Mrs Ingram’s carefully powdered face. ‘Because she was hysterical. And she couldn’t control those kids. Barbara was putting her fingers in the blood. And Lily . . . my God, dirty and naked like a street child. I just had to take control of the situation.’

  ‘Miss Wright cleans for you?’

  ‘Ruby has been my help for about two years.’

  ‘How often does she come in?’

  ‘Monday, Wednesday and Friday from 1 p.m. to 4.30 p.m.’ Mick can’t help but look around the bungalow. What’s there to clean for more than ten hours a week? ‘After she’s finished here, she goes to the Haneys’ place?’

  ‘When Joyce and Frank moved here, they asked me if I knew someone to help around the house and I recommended Ruby. Joyce is very house-proud, and with the two kids . . .’ Mrs Ingram smiles politely. ‘I am, unfortunately, not able to stay at home entirely, otherwise the household wouldn’t be a problem. But since my husband died . . . I work at the Sunnylakes estate office when they need someone to do viewings.’

  Mick takes another sip. The dark yellow glass makes the soda look like a particularly well-fermented urine sample. ‘Can you tell me about the Haney marriage?’

  ‘Oh, Frank is a wonderful man. Very caring and devoted to his wife. They are a happy couple. I . . .’ She blinks a few times, fast. ‘I don’t even want to imagine . . .’

  Mick puts down the soda and rises. There isn’t more to glean here. ‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘Please call us if you remember anything else of importance.’

  *

  Outside, a big, black Pontiac has boxed him in. He curses and shimmies his car back and forth until he manages to wiggle free. Through the trees he can see an array of dresses and hats. Joyce Haney’s friends, searching for the lost lamb of Sunnylakes.

  This gives him an idea. He leaves the car half-in, half-out and saunters over to what he assumes is the Kettering house. Halfway there, a woman emerges from the trees and cuts in front of him. She is stuffing a folded-up piece of paper into her bag. When she sees him, she freezes.

  ‘Who are you?’

  He lifts his hat. ‘Detective Michael Blanke, Santa Monica PD. And you?’

  ‘Don’t see what business that is of yours.’

  Oh, you bet there’s plenty of business here. He scans her messy hair, the well-worn flats, the turquoise jacket engaged in a lethal clash with her purple skirt. She is youngish, but misery is scrawled all over her face.

  ‘Have you just come from the house?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m here to help with the search.’

  ‘You’re a neighbor?’

  She flinches. ‘No.’

  ‘A friend of the family then? What was the paper you were just putting away?’

  ‘Flyers. To find her.’

  ‘May I—’

  ‘Deena, there you are.’

  He spins around. One of the women has detached herself from the herd. She is wearing a bright green dress, white gloves and a grave expression.

  ‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ she says to the woman named Deena. ‘The first search party has already left. You could catch up or wait with Laura. She’ll stay here, just in case.’

  ‘Laura Kettering?’ Mick asks.

  It is only then she graces him with a look. ‘Yes, sir. Are you from the police?’

  ‘Detective Michael Blanke, ma’am. And you are?’

  ‘How wonderful.’ Her smile is sad. ‘Please, come on over. We are ever so worried. I am Genevieve Crane and this,’ she gestures at the sullen woman, who looks away, ‘is Deena Klintz.’

  ‘A friend of Joyce’s?’

  ‘We all are,’ she says. ‘I run the Sunnylakes Women’s Improvement Committee. You must be here to speak to Laura. I’ll introduce you.’

  Laura Kettering, movie executive wife and mistress of a two-story mock-antebellum villa, is small, mousy and red-eyed. Mrs Crane mentions that Mick is from the police and causes the floodgates to open anew.

  ‘It’s all so terrible,’ Mrs Kettering sobs. ‘And in our neighborhood. It’s simply terrible.’

  ‘It is,’ Mick says. ‘But we’ll get to the bottom of it. Did you notice anything unusual yesterday?’

  ‘No. I was in the house with the kids.’

  ‘You didn’t get a call to pick up . . .’ He scans his mind. ‘Barbara?’

  ‘That’s what is so terrible. Joyce would always call ahead. If I had known . . .’ She shudders and lowers her voice. ‘Do you think she has been . . . violated?’

  ‘Let’s not paint the darkest picture yet,’ says Mrs Crane, but a shadow crosses her face nonetheless. ‘Laura, just answer the detective’s questions.’

  ‘What can you tell me about the Haney marriage?’

  Mrs Kettering looks at him blankly. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is it happy? Has Joyce ever confided in you with any problems?’

  ‘As far as I can tell,’ says Mrs Crane, ‘Joyce Haney is happily married.’

  ‘Apart from the usual stuff,’ says Mrs Kettering.

  Three small hairs begin to rise at the back of Mick’s neck. ‘The what?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Mrs Crane says quickly. ‘Frank works hard and Joyce struggled a little after Lily’s birth
. A bit of the baby blues. She got some great medication and picked herself up soon enough. They’ve always been a happy couple.’

  ‘And the kids,’ says Mrs Kettering. ‘Adorable. Always so nicely turned out. Joyce has a real gift for color. Have you seen what she’s done with the lounge? It’s simply—’

  ‘Did you know Joyce before she moved here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And does she ever talk about her past?’

  Mrs Kettering looks at Mrs Crane, who answers for her. ‘Not much. She grew up in Philadelphia with stepparents, as far as I know. Her own parents died when she was young. She met Frank while she was working as a secretary. They married and had Barbara, and relocated here two years ago when Frank got a promotion. They had had enough of the rain.’

  ‘You must have been glad to get such nice neighbors,’ Mick says to Laura Kettering.

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ve been feeling much safer knowing there’s trustworthy people nearby.’ Her voice drops. ‘Now, of course—’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much.’

  ‘Indeed,’ says Mrs Crane and sends him an earnest glance. ‘I am sure the detective and his men will do their best to find Joyce.’

  Mick tips his hat and casts his glance around for Deena Klintz, but she has disappeared. He marches back through the trees, jumps into his Buick and burns his hands on the steering wheel.

  *

  At the office, he pulls off his jacket and flings his hat into a corner. His shirt is wet under the arms and a ring of moisture has blossomed around his neck like a goddamn watery garrote. He puts his feet up on the table, just because he can, and spends a few minutes with his eyes closed, trying to think about nothing.

  Joyce Haney. Up and vanished. Why the blood? Had she fought someone off? A burglar? Or had she slipped and banged her head? Tottered out into the bright sunshine and down the street without anyone noticing? And why had she sent her daughter to wait outside?

  The sleepsuit. Something is off about the whole arrangement. He’s missed a clue and it’s nagging at the back of his head. He cannot put his finger on it. It makes him desperate enough to pick up the phone and call his wife.

  Fran answers promptly. ‘Hellooo, Blanke residence.’

  Because she cannot see him, he rolls his eyes. ‘Shouldn’t that be Mick’s kingdom? Or Pretentious Palace?’

  ‘What’s eating you?’

  He groans. ‘Why are you answering the phone like we’re the Rockefellers?’

  ‘What do you want me to say? Rest home for disgraced detectives?’

  That stings. It really does. But he has no chance to think of a response, because Fran’s already working those jaws.

  ‘I am really busy, honey,’ she says. ‘Prissie’s cheerleading on Saturday and Sandy’s still not sure if she can make it because of the afternoon traffic. But she might bring Brad. I’m planning an extendable dinner that night. What do you think, chicken or lamb?’

  ‘Whatever. I—’

  ‘Well, what do you fancy?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Mick pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s only Tuesday.’

  ‘Still, you’ve got to know what you like, don’t you? You like chicken.’

  ‘Fran.’ He clutches the receiver until the plastic creaks. ‘Stop talking about chicken. I’m at work.’

  ‘So am I, honey.’

  Mick closes his eyes again and takes a deep, deep breath. These are the moments when he regrets not smoking. A nasty, long, tarry draft would come in handy right now.

  ‘You don’t work,’ he says.

  ‘Is that so? Housework is work – the clue is in the name. Or do you think I cook your dinners for fun?’

  Right after they moved to Santa Monica, Fran discovered the local Women’s Improvement Committee. She’s been going religiously, and her life has very much improved. His own, on the other hand . . .

  ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘When Sandy and Priscilla were little, how long did they wear newborn sleepsuits?’

  ‘Usually only for about a few hours, before they had a mishap.’

  ‘Fran. You know what I mean. How old were they when they stopped fitting into them?’

  ‘About four months.’

  ‘Not older?’

  ‘No. Especially Sandy. She had long legs. She was running holes into them with her toenails.’

  ‘And these sleepsuits, did they get dirty?’

  ‘Mick.’ There’s indignation in her voice. ‘You weren’t the most hands-on father, but even you have to remember—’

  ‘I mean, did they wash out white?’

  ‘What kind of material?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘What kind of material is that sleepsuit you found?’

  Mick grins. Fran is a sharp cookie. ‘Soft stuff,’ he says. ‘Not woven. Like a towel, but without the little loop-things.’

  ‘Flannel. And what is it you actually want to know?’

  ‘Can you tell from looking at a sleepsuit whether it’s new or whether it has gone through some, well, babies?’

  ‘You can’t wash flannel too hot, otherwise it’d shrink. If it’s a well-used one I’d expect at least some discoloration.’

  Aha. So the sleepsuit was new. The little white feet were spotless.

  ‘Unless it’s Sanforized flannel,’ Fran continues.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sanforized. You know.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘When it gets put through a machine by scientists. Then you can wash it at all temperatures and it stays perfectly white.’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘So, anyway, chicken, or—’

  ‘Later, Fran.’

  He hangs up. Back to square one.

  No. Not quite. There’s one more person he urgently needs to talk to.

  He grabs his notepad and goes to the kitchen, where he finds the two least chipped mugs and makes coffee with lots of milk and sugar. He measures the water carefully and lets it brew up just a little bit stronger than usual. Because ahead of him lies what may turn out to be the trickiest task of the day. A conversation with Ruby Wright.

  Chapter Five

  Ruby

  T

  he cops show up in the afternoon and take her to another cell. Ruby shakes all the way. She can’t stop it. The shakes rattle her knees and ring hollow in her stomach. She’s vomited out all its contents during a night spent crying and praying and fearing every sound.

  The new cell has a table and three chairs, instead of the metal bed and unflushable toilet that have been her only company for the long hours. The cops plop her down on a chair and take the handcuffs off. Then they leave. One of them remains in front of the door; she can see his peaked cap and closely cropped hair through the mesh window.

  Another shake crawls down her spine. She fights the panic, tries to press it small like an empty milk carton. It doesn’t help much. Many a woman like her has gone into a cell like this and never come out, or never the same.

  There are footsteps in the corridor, followed by a muted conversation. Ruby folds her hands in her lap and prays, fast and hard. Lord, deliver me from evil. Lord, send me back to my family tonight. Lord, let me leave this place alive. Please, Lord, please.

  The door spits a man into the room. He’s dressed a little tweedy, but his eyes are blue and piercing, the kind of eyes she’s learned to fear. He puts two mugs of coffee next to the tape recorder on the table and grabs himself a chair.

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Wright,’ he says. ‘I’m Detective Mick Blanke, Santa Monica PD. Thought I’d bring you some coffee.’

  He pushes one of the mugs across the table. Ruby fixes her eyes on it so she doesn’t have to look at his face. He helps himself to the other mug and takes a sip. Then he flicks on the recorder.

  ‘This is an interview in the case of Joyce Haney. It’s Tuesday, August 25, 1959, time is 5 p.m., and present in the room are Detective Michael Blanke and Miss Ruby Wright, resident of Trebeck Row, LA. Now, Miss Wright, would you please run
me through the events of yesterday afternoon?’

  Ruby holds on to the seat of her chair as if it were a life raft. She cannot talk. Her throat is all clogged up with sour stuff. She can only think of one thing. Any word that comes out of her mouth is gonna go on that recorder, and that will play in court and put her away for the rest of her natural life. Or worse.

  ‘Miss Wright,’ the detective tries again. ‘This is a serious situation. You’ve been arrested at the scene of a violent crime. If you cooperate, I’ll make sure you get to leave here within the hour.’

  That’s what they would say, of course. Spill the beans, little girl. Trust the big white daddy to make it all right.

  Oh, no, she won’t fall for that. On her momma’s soul, she won’t.

  Her stomach gurgles. The detective looks up. ‘Hungry again?’

  Again? They pushed a sandwich through her door this morning. When she opened it, the cheese on it was moldy and covered with the telltale glisten of spit. She didn’t touch it, but then one of the officers had yelled at her to eat. Eat it, you ungrateful nigger. So she had broken it up and dropped it down the toilet and concealed the sodden crumbs with the last two scraps of toilet paper.

  The detective sighs. ‘Just a moment.’

  He switches the recorder off, leaves the room and comes back two minutes later with a bottle of Coke and a lunch box with a Chevy on the front. The Coke is still capped. He hands it to her and disentangles a bottle opener from his key ring.

  She inspects the bottle for any signs of tampering, finds none and cracks it open. The bubbles make her stomach churn, but she drinks in long drafts.

  When she’s polished off the bottle, she catches the detective’s look. There is anger clouding behind his forehead. But he doesn’t seem to be angry at her.

  ‘Now,’ he says, ‘I’m not going to switch the tape back on just yet. That way, we can have a chat before anything goes down on the record.’

  Ruby sits still.

  ‘Look, this arrest . . . it shouldn’t have happened. I’ll try and get you out, but you’ve got to help me. You were the first on the scene. Your impressions are incredibly valuable to our investigation. I know we haven’t had the best start, but . . .’ He shrugs.