by P. J. Conn
Mary Margaret caught herself before she snorted in a most unladylike fashion, but she was tickled clear to her toes. "I love that you always make me laugh, Joe."
"Thank you. I'll wait until we're back at your place to show you what I love most about you."
"I'm looking forward to it." She winked at him this time.
* * *
Joe's Coast Guard uniform was taking up space in his closet, and he was relieved to find it still fit. He wore a sports coat, dress shirt and trousers to Pete's Cameras and carried his uniform in its travel bag.
"Hi, Pete, you offered to take some photos for me. Do you have time this morning?"
"We have the place to ourselves, so come to the back with me." He locked the shop's front door and hung up the small sign indicating he'd reopen in fifteen minutes. "I did some photos for an attorney last week, and he was real pleased with them. I need to advertise this as a portrait studio as well a camera shop."
"That's a good idea. I need photos to help me pose as an actor for a case. A couple of head shots, and one in my uniform should do it."
"And you'd like them tomorrow?" Pete asked. He was a lanky, red-haired young man who'd taken the business over from his uncle after the war.
"You needn't rush the order, but Wednesday would be appreciated."
"You got it."
Joe was more amused than embarrassed by the photo session and came up with both smiles, and an expression mirroring the ruthlessness of a weary soldier or trail-worn cowboy. "How’s that?" he asked.
"Are you trying to look tough? If so, you're almost scary."
"Scary is good." Joe donned his navy blue Coast Guard dress uniform and Pete whistled. "By the end of the war, I was a Chief Warrant Officer, not the captain of our ship, so don't get too excited."
"I was merely appreciating the uniform, Joe. Turn so we have a three-quarter view. This would be good for a recruitment poster."
"Let's not go overboard. I only have to look as though I can play a part."
"You've convinced me."
"My girlfriend, or I should call her my fiancée, would want these photos too. Will you make a set for her?"
"You're engaged? Congratulations! I'll bet she's a great girl. I sure wish I could meet someone nice. There are plenty of nice girls, of course, but not many come in here to buy cameras or film."
Joe couldn't resist making a friendly suggestion. "One of the young women who lives in my apartment building complained to me only yesterday that she hadn't met any nice men." He named the market where Abby Hicks worked as a checker. "Do you know where it is?"
A bright gleam of inspiration filled his gaze. "Yes, and I have to buy groceries somewhere, don't I?"
"My thought exactly. Her name is Abby, and she's pretty. She has light brown hair, brown eyes, and a nice figure. If you make a point of standing in the line for her register, you can see if she appeals to you without having to suffer through an awkward blind date."
"Thanks, Joe. I hope to have your photos ready by tomorrow afternoon."
"Give me a call if you do." Joe thought Archibald Sutton would be suitably impressed with them. He doubted he could add the cost of photos for the agent to his expense account unless he uncovered something that led directly to Cookie Crumble's killer, but he'd save the receipt and try.
He put his uniform in his car trunk and made a quick stop at the hardware store. They had bulletin boards in several sizes, and he chose the three feet by two feet version he could easily grab and turn toward the wall if necessary. He added some thumbtacks and went on his way. Once at the office, he duplicated the information written in Cookie Crumbles' file folder on three by five cards, pinned them to the board and was grateful for the larger format. He called it a fine morning's work, and just to be on the safe side, he turned the board to the wall, and went to lunch.
* * *
Joe drove to Sherry's at one o'clock that afternoon and sat down at the bar. Mae greeted him, and he ordered his usual beer. He drew a business card from his wallet and handed it to her.
Her eyes widened. "You're a detective?"
"Why are you surprised?" he asked. "Does it seem like an unlikely profession?"
"No, not at all. I love detective movies. The Big Sleep is one of my favorites, but I love anything with Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall."
"So do I," Joe responded, although they'd always struck him as an unlikely pair. "I'm working on Alice Reyes, or Cookie Crumble's, case for an interested party. Do you know of plans for a funeral?"
"Excuse me a second." She left him to fill orders for a waiter, and then hurried back. "No. From what I heard, there's a wait for the coroner to release her body, and then she'll be shipped home for burial there. That a person could be shipped, like a crate of oranges, sounds awful, doesn't it?"
"It does. Do you know her hometown?"
"Kansas City, Missouri. She used to laugh about the fact her family believed she was employed as a model and studying acting. She said she was lucky no one from Kansas City ever came in. Stripping involves acting as far as I'm concerned, but not everyone agrees."
"Her friends aren't planning any sort of a memorial for her here?"
"No. I liked Alice a lot, but the strippers here aren't good friends. Alice made it plain stripping was simply a way into the movies, not something she intended to do much longer. Quite naturally, the other girls were insulted."
Joe sipped his beer. "Would you say she looked down on them?"
Mae grabbed a towel and polished a glass to look busy while they talked. "She was more proud of herself than rude, and she had big dreams."
"Thank you, Mae. What time do the strippers come in?"
"Six o'clock at the earliest. They spend a lot of time on their make-up and their costumes. Natalie Ryan, she performs as Ginger Snap, is already here working on a new routine. Shall I call backstage and see if she'll speak with you?"
"Thank you." Joe crossed his fingers as Mae made the short call, and it sounded good from her end.
Mae smiled as she hung up. "Natalie says come on back. She's here early, so the owner can't complain she's wasting time on his dollar, but it wouldn't be wise to stay too long."
Joe doubted Corky Coyne got up before four o'clock in the afternoon, so even if the owner did complain, he wouldn't have the muscle to throw him out. He walked up the stairs at the side of the stage and found Natalie behind the curtain.
She was a very pretty girl even without her seductive, theatrical make-up. She was dressed in navy blue shorts, a red halter-top, and ballet slippers. She read Joe's card and slipped it into her back pocket.
"Are you looking for the truth about Cookie Crumble?" she asked.
"Yes, the better I know her, the easier it will be to find who killed her. Please don't censure your thoughts." They sat on a couple of bent back chairs on the side of the stage.
As she spoke, Natalie fluffed her dark brown hair with her fingers. "Her name was Alice Reyes, Alice, of all things. Doesn't that sound too sweet to be believed?"
"Maybe. What else about her annoyed you?"
"Strippers all play into men's fantasies, but her naughty schoolgirl act was popular with men who really would like to have a cute little girl sit on their lap. The whole number nauseated me."
"I've heard her act described as 'cute.'"
"Oh it was cute all right, but every move she made was calculated to titillate. That's our job, of course, but she enjoyed it more than any of the rest of us. Men sent her big bouquets, and she'd pass them along to the rest of us, like we were poor orphans who'd never seen a rose. I'm sorry she's dead, but she was one of my least favorite women in the world."
Joe leaned forward. "Could I see her dressing room?"
She covered her mouth to muffle her giggles. "This isn't a movie studio, and we share a single room, but come on, I'll show it to you."
Joe followed her off stage and down the stairs to the basement. The dressing room was at the end of the hall, and not much wider than th
e outer hallway itself. The air reeked of perfume, and not the expensive kind. Lighted mirrors covered the long wall above a counter cluttered with jars of makeup, hairbrushes, and combs. Bent back chairs sat at each station, giving the effect of a beauty parlor struck by a hurricane. Stockings hung over the backs of several chairs and rolling racks held a colorful variety of costumes. He recognized Natalie's Ginger Snap apron and hat.
"Is Alice's costume here?" he asked.
"No, the police took everything of hers. Her spot was on the end, and it's been wiped clean."
"You said she passed along flowers, did you save any of the cards?"
"Someone else's love notes? No, I'm not that desperate for attention." She walked to her place and plucked a card from the mirror frame. "See, here's one written to me."
Her name was scrawled at the top. The message read, "I'd love to eat what you're cooking." It was the signature that impressed Joe: Brett W. "Do you know this man?"
"Brett, yeah, he comes in here often. Nice fellow, but my dad's age and not my type anyway. I'd never say that to a man's face, mind you. I flirt with everyone while I'm on stage, but not on my own time."
"I understand completely, although some men might not be able to separate the performer from the young woman off the stage." Brett had mentioned going to Sherry's occasionally, but Natalie pegged him as a frequent visitor. "May I keep this?"
"Sure, I don't know why I kept it. Just to have something to put on my mirror when Cookie had so many cards she could barely see her reflection."
"The police took them all?"
"Yes, they were very thorough. The detective wasn't nearly as nice as you, Joe."
She was flirting with him for sure, whether on her own time or not. "Thank you. Do any of her fans stick out in your memory?"
"Too many to name. I had the same conversation with the police detective on the case. He warned me to keep my thoughts to myself rather than alert any of our regulars to the investigation. You're a detective, even if a private one, and you claim to be discreet, so I figure it must be all right to talk with you."
"It is, and you've been very helpful," he insisted. "Did any of Cookie's regulars stop coming in last week before her body was found?"
She pursed her lips with the effort to recall. "Frankly, when I'm on stage, I don't really look at the audience but slightly above them. I also make it a point to forget every catcall and whistle the minute I exit the stage. I've not struck up friendships with any of the men who come here. Maybe one of the other girls will be more of a help to you."
"Have any suggestions?"
"Luisa Miller, she calls herself Carmella Cordova, lives to gossip. She may know all sorts of incriminating things about Cookie and her fans. She usually comes in just before six. Do you want me to tell her you'll come by?"
"That would be great." The cluttered dressing room was making him claustrophobic, and he needed a breath of unscented air. He left Sherry's through the exit at the back of the stage and checked the time. With four hours to spare, he needed to return to his office, update his bulletin board information, and hope for more business.
* * *
At three-thirty, he heard a faint tap at his door. He quickly turned the board to the wall. "Come in," he called.
A blonde girl in a starched white blouse, plaid skirt, and saddle shoes, clearly her school uniform, glanced in the door. She projected a true schoolgirl's innocence rather than a stripper's polished naiveté, but for her to turn up at his door today struck him as a very odd coincidence.
He stood. "How may I help you, miss?"
She edged only a single step inside his office. "It says Discreet Investigations on the door."
"Yes, it does. Have you lost something you'd like to have found?"
"No, I've found something I shouldn't have, and I need to know what to do."
"Please take a chair by my desk, and tell me what concerns you." He hoped it wasn't anything too serious, because he couldn't charge a child more than her weekly allowance.
She came in, sat down on the edge of her chair, and hugged her schoolbooks to her chest. Joe opened a new file folder and picked up a pencil. "Let's begin with your name."
"Lacy Fitzgerald." She looked around the sparsely furnished office, but there wasn't much to see other than the desk and file cabinet.
"How old are you, Lacy?"
"I'm fourteen and in the eighth grade at Saint Veronica's."
"What is it you've found?" he asked.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly before beginning in a rush. "Well, last Sunday afternoon, I took my little brother, Tommy, to the movies. When we came out, I saw our father across the street walking with a woman I didn't know. He was carrying a little boy in his arms, and they were all laughing. They went into The Pepper Mill Café, and if Tommy hadn't been with me, I would have followed him in and asked to be introduced."
She was sitting up very straight, the way the nuns at Saint Veronica's must insist upon. "Could you have been mistaken?" he asked.
"I know my own father, and he's supposed to be in San Francisco. He's an architect and working on a hotel being built there. He'll spend a week home with us, and then go up to San Francisco for a few days. Or at least that's his story."
Joe nodded thoughtfully. She was a very smart girl and had drawn the most obvious conclusion from what she'd seen. "What is it you'd like me to do?"
"Don't you follow people around and take photos?"
"Yes, if the case requires it, not all do. If I took photos for you, what would you do with them?"
"I'll show them to my mother so she'll have grounds to divorce him."
He leaned back in his chair. "Has it occurred to you that your mother may already know where your father actually is?"
Lacy shuddered at the thought. "She has principles and wouldn't stay with him if he were seeing another woman. Walking down the street in board daylight with her sure wasn't being discreet about it either. That the little boy he held might be his son is doubly nauseating."
Joe couldn't believe he was having this conversation with a fourteen-year-old and felt way out of his depth. "Even if a husband or wife strays, couples are often able to work things out and put it behind them."
"You don't know my mother," she insisted. "Will you take my case?"
He wanted to help her, but he foresaw serious complications and only one possible answer. "I'm so sorry, Lacy, but I really can't work for a minor against her parents' best interests. If your mother came to see me, I'd take the case."
She leaped to her feet. "You think I'm just a little kid who doesn't know anything! Well, you're wrong!" She ran out of his office and nearly collided with the building custodian.
CC looked in the door. "Goodness gracious, she was sure in a hurry."
"She was disappointed I couldn't take her case."
He came in to empty the wastebasket. "Why would a sweet little girl need a detective?" he asked.
"I won't betray her confidence, but she saw something upsetting and thought I could put things right."
"Poor child. I'm afraid too many children see things they shouldn't."
"You can say that again, CC."
The custodian went on his way, and Joe closed Lacy's folder and set it aside. He doubted he would meet her mother, but Lacy might be underestimating her. He got up to stretch, and then left the building to take a brisk walk around the neighborhood. Exercise kept him awake in the afternoon, and while he had no employees at present, he wanted to cultivate the habit and set a good example.
* * *
At six o'clock, he parked on the Sunset Strip near Sherry's. Mae worked only the lunch shift, so he bypassed the bar and went backstage. He'd discovered early that few interfered with a man who walked with purpose, and no one stopped him. He found his way to the dressing room. The door was open, and Natalie waved to him.
"Come on in," she called. "Everyone wants to talk with you."
He and Mary Margaret had seen only two acts, N
atalie, and Luisa, or Carmella Cordova's. He recognized the other two women from their glossy photographs at Sherry's entrance. They were in varying stages of undress, but smiled at him and welcomed him warmly.
"Good evening, ladies. I'd like to speak with you one at a time if I may. Luisa, would you step out in the hall with me, please?"
She wore a red silk wrapper she might have bought in Chinatown, and fluffy white feather mules. Rather than spit out her chewing gum, she blew big pink bubbles as she followed Joe down the hallway. Her jet-black hair glistened in the light from the overhead bulbs, but without thick layers of dark mascara and eyebrow pencil, it was plain she was no more Spanish than he was.
"From what I've heard, Cookie Crumble was very popular with Sherry's clientele. Can you tell me something about her?"
She rolled her eyes, and then stuck her gum in her cheek. "It's hard to know where to begin. She borrowed a scarf from me one night when it was raining, and I never saw it again. It was always, 'Oh, I'm so sorry, but I forgot it at home and will bring it tomorrow.' But she never did. She always needed something someone else had, but she kept treating loans as gifts, and we learned not to trust her.
"Men would send her flowers, and she'd make sure we all saw they were prettier than whatever we got. She claimed the applause was louder after her numbers. She sometimes wore expensive jewelry she swore a devoted fan had given her, but she'd never wear it twice. Maybe she pawned gifts from men, but she made sure we all saw them first."
"It sounds as though she took advantage of everyone," he remarked.
"I'll say. We'd all had more than enough of her, but she kept telling us she'd be leaving soon to appear in a movie. We couldn't wait to throw her a good-bye party."
"How do the rest of you get along?"
Luisa paused to blow a bubble. "None of us are best friends. We'd all like to be the headliner here, but we don't fight about it. I suppose you could say we try to outdo one another, but the competition is good. It keeps our routines fresh. I'm trying to figure out how to do a mermaid, but I don't know what to do with the blasted tail."
Joe gave it some thought. "What if the stage were lit with blue and green lights? You could begin as a sleeping mermaid, reclining on a chaise decorated to look like a reef, and then dreaming, you could turn human, discard your tail, and rise to dance?" Calling what she did a dance was generous he supposed, but he wanted to be kind.
