by Inga Vesper
Mick takes pity. ‘Hold the fire,’ he says. ‘Don’t waste your bullets on the greenhorns.’
Murphy spins around. ‘Blanke,’ he yells. ‘You are the biggest failure since the fucking Pusan Perimeter.’
‘I have a theory that would explain—’
‘We all have a goddamn theory, Blanke. Mine is that she was struck by ball lightning and instantly evaporated. What the hell were you doing, having tea with all the womenfolk?’
‘I was questioning important witnesses, if you don’t mind. I—’
‘I swear, if you pull over here what you pulled in New York, you’ll get more than a goddamned transfer. I’m not having my officers screw a civilian just to tie up a case.’
Hodge whistles through his teeth. ‘That why you’re out here?’
‘First of all, I wasn’t scr— It was all part of the plan to infiltrate O’Leary and his boys.’ He’s not sure why he feels the need to explain the thing with Beverly to these idiots, but something in Hodge’s astonished look begs for correction. ‘That girl was a means to an end. And I kept it professional, no matter what they might have told you.’
‘They told me you overstepped your boundaries, Detective.’
Mick balls his fists behind his back until he’s about to break his own knuckles. ‘I wasn’t found culpable,’ he says.
‘And yet they booted you all the way across the nation, as far away from that little minx as possible. How old was she, Blanke? Legal, I hope.’
‘Twenty-four. And she . . . misread the situation.’
‘Sounds like she wasn’t the only one.’ A mean smile creeps onto Murphy’s face. ‘Well, at least you know your way around the ladies. Let’s hear your damn theory, then.’
Mick pauses for effect. ‘Abortion,’ he says.
Murphy’s eyes bulge out like he’s auditioning for a Haunted House. Then he composes himself, folds his arms and growls two words. ‘You’re kooky.’
‘Think about it, Chief.’ Mick smacks his lips. ‘How about this? Joyce Haney falls pregnant, but she doesn’t want the child. She waits until her husband goes away to a conference and schedules an appointment with Dr Morton at the mall. In the morning, she goes to the mall to get pain medication. The doctor makes a house call in the afternoon, when the street is quiet. The younger child is sleeping, so she sends her older daughter out to play with the neighbors. They perform the operation in the kitchen, where . . . where it’s easiest to clean up. That would explain the blood.’
Murphy puts one finger to his chin and taps it. ‘Where’s Mrs Haney now?’
‘She could have been injured. Picture this. The doctor realizes she is bleeding internally. So he puts her in his car and drives off. Maybe he wanted to take her to a private hospital, but if she died on the way . . . well, he got rid of the body.’
Murphy sways his head. ‘You mentioned a sleepsuit. Doesn’t make sense to buy that if she was planning to scrape the little bastard out.’
‘Sorry, Chief. I’ve got no explanation for that one.’
Hodge opens his mouth and utters with some difficulty: ‘Female hy-steria?’
‘Do me a favor,’ says the chief. ‘Don’t mention your shitty theory to Frank Haney, not before you’re certain.’
‘Gotcha, Chief.’
Back in his office, Mick presses himself into the last remaining bit of shadow and thinks. Genevieve Crane was hinting that not all was well in the Haney household. Joyce had mental problems, and Frankie-boy seemed to take it hard. Maybe he buckled under the strain and—
Before he can finish the thought, Jackie pops her head in. ‘A Mrs Crane called. She wants to see you about someone called Deena. Can you stop by her house?’
‘I can,’ Mick replies. ‘In return, can you see if you can get some tickets for the Amblioni exhibition? It’s for the case.’
Jackie nods. ‘Will do. You going to fill out an expenses form for me?’
But Mick is already out of the door.
*
Genevieve Crane opens the door in her gloves and hat. She locks up behind her and directs him to the black Pontiac parked up in the driveway. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, she opens the driver’s door, sits down and unlocks the passenger side.
‘Please,’ she says.
It takes a moment for the whole truth to dawn. This is not Mr Crane’s car. It’s hers. That is . . . incredible.
She turns the ignition with an elegant flick of her wrist. Mick sits down on the passenger seat and his eyes fall on her knees, how her legs muscle up as she pushes on the gas.
Mrs Crane graces him with a half-smile. ‘Are you all right, Detective?’
He pulls himself together and looks straight ahead. Mrs Crane reverses elegantly and rolls into the street. They glide out of Portland Avenue and through old Speckleton toward the freeway. The Pontiac floats like a yacht under full sail.
‘It’s Deena’s day off today,’ Mrs Crane says, accelerating. ‘She wants to talk to you, but she asked me to be there, too. She’s not comfortable with law enforcement. But I suspect you get that a lot, don’t you?’
He dodges the question. ‘This Deena, she seems an unusual addition to your group. She’s not very “Sunnylakes”, is she?’
‘There are two sides to this community, like there are two sides anywhere in America,’ Mrs Crane replies. ‘There is Sunnylakes as you know it. The spacious houses, the barbecues, the husbands who work and their wives in the home. Then there is the other side. People struggling to make a dime for breakfast. The side where marriage and home ownership are a far-off dream. I invited Deena to our committee because I felt it important that the other women understand that their world and all its privileges are not awarded to all of us.’
Mick shifts in his seat. Some kind of smart sociopolitical observation seems to be in order. But all he can say is ‘I see’, which is only one step up from going huh?
Mrs Crane, undeterred, flashes a driver swerving into her lane. ‘Of course, not all of the women agree with that. But Joyce and Deena hit it off immediately. Then Nancy warmed to Deena as well and the three were quite inseparable.’
That is not quite what Mrs Kettering said, but he’ll keep that to himself for now. ‘Why do you think Joyce and Deena got on so well?’
‘I always thought they had something in common. Some kind of kindred spirit, or shared experience.’
Two orphans from the wrong side of the tracks, Mick thinks. Two women thrown into a society where they don’t belong. But at least Joyce got the chance to play pretend, with dresses and a car and two beautiful children.
They exit the freeway at Crankton. Mick has never been here before, and he soon wishes it had stayed that way. Crankton is half trailer-park, half run-down farmland. Plastic bags flutter in the dusty shrubs that line the road. Cans gleam in the ditch, and unpettable dogs peer warily, their kennels made from chicken wire and palettes. There’s a smell in the air: fertilizer, spiced up with a hint of sewage.
They stop at a trailer that was likely once blue but has now faded to a moldy gray. Mrs Crane parks the Pontiac, turns off the ignition, and the car gives off a purr like a panther at rest. She leads the way up the porch and, since the doorbell is hanging from its wires, knocks against the wall.
‘Deena, it’s me. And Detective Blanke.’
Deena Klintz emerges behind the screen door, her pale face blurred by the mesh. She flips three latches and lets them in.
The door leads right into a living room, which also serves as dining room and closet. The furniture – a sofa, coat stand, TV set and folding table – is battered, but some attempt at neatness has been made. The same could be said for Deena, who has washed her hair and put on a new blouse that reveals a little too much of her blotchy bosoms. Her lipstick is the same color as Mrs Crane’s, but thick and mealy.
Coffee and bottled soda are produced and Mick, uncertain about the state of the kitchen, opts for the latter.
‘Now, Deena,’ says Mrs Crane. ‘Tell
the detective everything.’
‘It’s about Joyce,’ Deena says, as if that weren’t obvious. ‘There’s something you might like to know.’
Mick sips his drink and waits for the revelation. But when it comes it makes him sit up so fast, he spills a little soda on his pants.
‘Jimmy showed up,’ Deena says.
‘Who’s Jimmy?’ Mick wipes at the soda stain. ‘And why the hell haven’t you told us before?’
‘She’s telling you now,’ says Genevieve Crane.
‘I promised,’ Deena says. She adds quietly, ‘I swore not to tell, because of Frank. Jimmy is an old friend of Joyce’s. From back when she lived in Philadelphia. They hadn’t been in contact for years. He joined the army and went to Korea. But now he’s back.’
‘Five years after the war ended?’ Mick raises an eyebrow. ‘Joyce wa— is married with children. He must have been a very good friend indeed.’
Deena cringes. ‘I swore on my soul . . .’
‘Tell him,’ says Mrs Crane. ‘Tell the detective, for Joyce’s sake.’
Mick digs his nails into his legs and smiles. The detective will strangle you if you don’t spill the beans right now.
‘Joyce said that Jimmy wanted to marry her,’ Deena explains. ‘You know, before he went off to Korea. But while he was away, Joyce met Frank.’
‘And when did this Jimmy show up again?’
‘About three weeks ago. He came to her house.’
‘To her house?’
‘One afternoon, when Frank was out. But Joyce sent him away.’
‘Do you know why? Did they argue?’
‘A little. Joyce said that it took him so long to track her down. He asked why she had abandoned him. She was . . . embarrassed. And obviously worried that Frank would find out. So, she told him to come here instead.’
‘This man was here?’
Deena lowers her gaze and blushes. ‘Just . . . briefly. Just so they could talk in peace. Joyce didn’t stay long. She told him the truth. That she wanted to stay with Frank.’
‘Do you think her marriage was happy?’
Deena looks at him as if she does not know what this means. Which, Mick reflects, is probably the case. His suspicions are confirmed by her answer.
‘Frank never hit her,’ she says. ‘And he gave her money every month for the household. She never went without.’
And if that a happy marriage makes, one Mick Blanke would be constantly somersaulting with delight.
Mick clears his throat. ‘And the full name of this Jimmy?’
‘I don’t know. He . . . he left also. I just wanted to tell you in case it helps to find Joyce. But that’s all I know. I swear, Detective.’
Mick has a feeling that this isn’t quite true. ‘What happened? Did this Jimmy get angry when Joyce rejected him?’
‘A bit. He said he’d give her some time to think it over.’
‘Ah. I thought she’d already said no.’
‘Some men don’t necessarily accept such an answer outright,’ says Mrs Crane.
Deena nods along. ‘I heard there’s a reward out,’ she says. ‘Nancy told me.’
‘Word travels fast. It’s a thousand dollars for whoever provides the vital clues that solve Joyce’s disappearance.’
‘OK.’ She cocks her head. ‘I guess . . . I will let you know if I can remember anything else.’
Of course she will. Mick clicks his tongue and fixes her with his best cop stare. ‘We don’t pay unless the information works out. And there’s a fine for false reports and wasting police time.’
‘Sure.’ She holds his gaze. ‘I’m not gonna waste anyone’s time, sir.’
He takes a description of Jimmy from Deena and does not return to her comments until much later, long after they’ve driven back to Sunnylakes and he’s said goodbye to Mrs Crane.
By the time he’s stuck in traffic near the half-finished bridge again, he has forgotten what he meant to figure out. He curses himself for being dippy as a school kid. Something wasn’t said in that battered house. Something reached for air and was drowned again before he could catch it.
Chapter Nineteen
Ruby
T
he moment Ruby sets foot in the Haney house she knows she’s not welcome anymore. Mrs Haney senior has arrived. She is a plump lady with blueish-white hair and a crimped expression that tightens as soon as she opens the door.
‘You must be the help,’ she says. ‘Are you always this early?’
‘Mr Haney asked me to come in the mornings, ma’am.’
‘How very inconvenient. What’s with the bag?’
Ruby lays her hand over her tiny purse. ‘My money and my bus pass.’
‘Leave that on the doorstep. I’m not having you walking around this house with a bag.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘That outfit . . . you need a uniform with slippers. Our carpets are expensive. We’ll have to halve your salary for today.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And don’t touch anything belonging to the children.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Mrs Haney senior stares at her like the mother of all dragons. Her bile-green dress and dead hair complete the impression. She’s about to shoot flames from her mouth when Mr Haney appears. He has Lily on his arm, and his chin is covered in stubble.
‘The garden is suffering,’ he says. ‘When you’re done, go water the flowers. They’re drying up. It’s so—’
‘I don’t see why you need those geraniums, anyway,’ says Mrs Haney senior. ‘They’re in the way. The children could stumble.’
‘Mother, they belong to Joyce. She wouldn’t—’
Ruby doesn’t catch the rest because suddenly Barbara starts wailing and she uses the moment to slip away into the kitchen.
*
Once the floors are done, she escapes outside. She is just drawing water into the can when Mr Haney rounds the corner. His shirtsleeves are rolled up and his hands are dirty from plucking out weeds. His mouth is twitching. Bad news. He takes the watering can from Ruby’s hands and pulls five bucks from his pocket, neatly folded in half.
‘My mother thinks it’s best that you go,’ he says.
Well, that wasn’t a long time coming.
He mops his forehead. ‘She thinks she can manage alone with the kids and the cleaning. But you can come back on Tuesday for the floors. At your former rate.’
‘All right, Mr Haney.’
Just at that moment, Mrs Ingram makes an appearance. She is wearing a gardening apron and clam-digger pants that make her butt stand out. The perfect outfit to fish for a man like Mr Haney. She quickens her pace and takes the watering can from Mr Haney’s hands.
‘Oh, Frank,’ she says. ‘Don’t worry about the flowers. Not now.’
‘They’re looking horrid,’ Mr Haney replies. ‘Especially the potted ones. I hate to see wilting flowers, but I just can’t keep up . . . there is so much to think of. Mother thinks we should get rid of them. Oh, God. I should have—’
Mrs Ingram lays a hand on his arm. ‘You have other things on your mind than flowers. Give them to me. I’ll throw them out.’
Ruby presses her lips together. This ain’t right. These flowers are Joyce’s pride and joy. And now Mrs Ingram, with her tiny butt and her hair freshly plumped, is gonna dump them in the trash. As if she’s already making space for her plastic parakeet.
‘How about you give them to me?’ The words are out before she can stop them. ‘I . . . I could look after them.’
Mrs Ingram crumples her nose, but after a moment Mr Haney smiles. ‘Yes, that’s a great idea.’
‘Really?’ says Mrs Ingram. ‘You’re giving them to her?’
‘Why not? Better than throwing them out.’ Mr Haney lifts the pot with a groan. ‘Just take these home and do your best. You can bring them back once Joyce returns.’
The pot is heavy, even though the soil inside is all dried out. Mr Haney and Mrs Ingram smile at Ruby, and she
realizes with horror that they’re expecting a thank you.
*
Five minutes later, she is wondering how a body can be so stupid. The pot is huge and heavy. Most of the geraniums inside have wilted. Scraps of brown decay fly into her face every time the wind picks up. Her arms begin to ache before she’s past Mrs Ingram’s house. And Roseview Drive stretches on and on.
At the bus stop, a glance at her watch reveals that she has twenty minutes to wait. The watch also reminds her of Joseph, and her inner scaffold comes crumbling down. He hasn’t called. She doesn’t know what to do. He’s her first, after all. She’s still figuring all this out. But she’s real gone for him. Which makes the pain so much worse.
Then it occurs to her that she just got fired. Which means no more money. And without access to the Haney house she’s not gonna help find Joyce, so she won’t win the reward, either. There goes the dream of going to teachers’ college. She’s got no man, no money and no future. What gives?
The bus arrives. The pot gets wedged in the gangway and the driver shouts at her to move. A white man in a cowboy hat hisses that word and it stabs her to the bone. She sits down in the very last row, leans her forehead against the pot on her lap and cries all the way to Compton.
By the time she gets off the bus she is wrecked with tears and thirst. Enough with this. She should leave the damned pot right here on the sidewalk. Let someone else have mercy on those flowers.
But then what will happen if Joyce returns and wants them back? Sorry, I left them on a ghetto street. They got drowned in hobo piss.
If only Joseph were here. He’s strong. He’d lift this pot, and Ruby herself, with ease.
At home, she is greeted by Mimi, who doesn’t even notice the burden in her arms. ‘Where’s Momma’s hatbox?’ she shouts by way of greeting. ‘It was under my bed. Why d’you always put stuff where no one can find it?’
‘Why don’t you tidy up our room sometime?’ Ruby hollers back. ‘Then you wouldn’t have that problem.’
‘If you didn’t have boys round the house I wouldn’t have to tidy.’ Something vicious creeps into Mimi’s eyes. Sister love and sister hate. ‘Well, sounds like Joseph’s beat it, so that’s one problem solved.’
