JO03 - Detour to Murder

by Jeff Sherratt

  “Pull up a beanbag and stay a while,” I said, bracing myself in the opening to the kitchenette off to the right. “We have a lot to talk about.”

  “Do you have coffee?” she asked.

  “Of course.”

  She glanced around again. “And a table?”

  I nodded over my shoulder toward the kitchenette. “Yeah, all the modern conveniences. The designer insisted.”

  “Let’s sit in the kitchen. I’ll make the coffee.”

  I couldn’t remember the last I had been alone in my apartment with a beautiful woman—any woman, for that matter. Not since my divorce. But I had questions that needed answers.

  “I want to know what in the hell is going on. Why are you here, anyway?” I said.

  “I’ll tell you the whole story while we have coffee.” She shrugged out of her coat and dropped it on a beanbag. Underneath she wore tight fitting, bell-bottom jeans with a plain sleeveless knit shirt. Her figure was just as I’d remembered it—stunning.

  I stepped aside and she marched into the kitchenette. Looking in the cupboard, she found a can of Yuban and proceeded to make a pot of coffee. Soon the fresh-brewed aroma filled the air. She brought two cups and sat at the table across from me. Clutching her cup with both hands, she raised it slowly and took a sip. I waited patiently to hear her story.

  She set the cup down, paused, and focused on the tabletop. “Where shall I begin?”

  I leaned back and folded my arms. “Why are you involved?”

  “As I told you, my last name is Rayfield. I was given my mother’s maiden name when my father at first disavowed my parentage. I was born in Los Angeles, but spent my childhood in Europe. I didn’t really know my father until I was practically grown up. Oh, I knew he’d been in the movies. But when I was a child he was just a name and a face.”

  “Your mother never talked about him?”

  She shook her head. “I rarely saw my mother, even when I was young and living with her in Beverly Hills, before she lost the house.”

  “That must’ve been tough.”

  “After my mother’s marriage fell apart she hung on for a while, but then things deteriorated. She went from a life of luxury, the wife of a big-time movie star—living in a mansion with servants and a five-thousand-a-week allowance—to being a five-dollar party girl. It happened in a matter of a few years.”

  “You didn’t have relatives? Grandparents, cousins, aunts, uncles?”

  She scowled. “Oh, I had lots of uncles, all right. Uncle Tom, Uncle Bill, Uncle Mac, Uncle Bob, Uncle Joe—men my mother would bring home at night. I lost track of how many uncles I had,” she said sarcastically. “It wasn’t long before I was taken away by my father’s parents, from back east. They sent me to Europe to live in a boarding school. I was confused and too young to understand what it was all about. Later, I went to the university in Montreux, Switzerland. After graduation I came home.”

  I began to feel a certain compassion for her, the life she’d led—not the part about living in Europe, but the loneliness she must’ve felt not knowing her father, and the sorrow that must’ve filled her heart, realizing her mother had hit the skids.

  I needed to understand why she had wanted Roberts to remain in prison. She had her reasons, and I felt she’d get around to telling me. But I couldn’t get the thugs in the Buick out off my mind. Kathie came here of her own free will to explain why she was involved, and that counted for a lot. I hoped her alluring charms weren’t prejudicing my reasoning, but it was hard to believe that she could have been the type of person who would’ve hired thugs to murder an old woman like Mrs. Hathaway.

  “What happened when you came back home?”

  “By then I knew a lot more about my father. I mean, I knew he’d been a big motion picture actor in his day. But still I had no desire to meet with him. First of all, I didn’t think he’d want to see me. Secondly, I didn’t care.”

  “What about your mother and your grandparents?”

  “While I was away, I hadn’t heard anything about my mother. But when I got home, I contacted my paternal grandparents and they told me she had died. So, naturally, my grandparents wanted nothing to do with me. After all, I had my mother’s blood in my veins. I was a grown woman and their obligation to their son’s daughter was finished.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I bummed around for a few years, and then I finally got a job at a magazine in San Francisco, Rolling Stone.”

  “Sooner or later,” I said, “you must’ve made a connection with your father. You’re driving his car.”

  She looked surprised that I knew about the Mercedes. “Oh, so you did do your homework.”

  “Yeah, I got the plate number—”

  “He has no license, can’t drive anymore,” she said, a slight edge to her voice.

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t prying. I had to know more about you, that’s all.”

  “Of course, Jimmy, I understand. Is it okay to call you Jimmy?”

  “Sure. But tell me. When did you get together with Jerome?”

  “A few years ago,” she said. “It’d been a long time since he’d agreed to have me sent away to Europe. I’d heard that he had retired and was in ill health and had moved into the home.”

  “So you decide to make your peace?”

  “Yes, and he finally acknowledged me as his own flesh and blood. He explained how it would have hurt his career being a single man with a child in…” she practically spat out the last word, “…Hollywood.” She pushed her coffee cup aside. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “I’m now doing what his parents did all those years ago, taking care of him, fostering his image.”

  “I guess he was kind of wild back in those days.”

  “He deserted my mother when she was pregnant with me, and chased every skirt in town. He was an alcoholic and a reprobate. But, hey, we all have our little faults.”

  I was beginning to like this woman more and more. To maintain a sense of humor after all she had been though and not carry a grudge against Jerome made her a rare person, indeed.

  “My father explained how it would have been impossible to provide a decent home for me in those days if I’d lived with him,” she continued. “That he wouldn’t have been the best role model for a young girl. And he felt if I were raised in Europe instead of the hostile environment of the film industry… well, you know the rest.” She paused again, massaging her temples with the knuckles of her hands. “Perhaps he was right. He also told me my mother was being well cared for.”

  She stopped talking and I took a sip of coffee and set the cup down. “It’s cold,” I said.

  “I’ll warm it up.”

  She went to the stove and picked up the pot. “Did you know Al Roberts and my mother had been engaged back in New York before she left him to come to L.A.?” she said.

  I watched her refill my cup. “Yeah, I knew. I heard a little about his life in New York. He didn’t talk much about Sue, but I put together a few facts from what he had told me and from other sources. I knew she’d dumped him to become a movie star.”

  “She loved Alexander Roberts, you know,” she said as she sat down again. “She married my father for fame and prestige, but she really loved Al.”

  “Must’ve been tough being married to one guy and in love with another.”

  “She had a complete mental collapse. It destroyed my mother when she’d heard that Roberts had murdered two people while trying to get to L.A. to be with her.”

  “He didn’t do it, you know.”

  “Yes, I know that now.”

  “You do? You believe me?”

  “Well, yes…”

  “How come you think he’s innocent all of a sudden?”

  “I… don’t know if I should tell you. I was asked to keep quiet—”

  “What are you talking about? Asked by who?”

  “My mother.”

  “Your mother? My god! I thought she was dead.�
�

  “No, she’s in a sanitarium. My father wanted to keep her out of the spotlight. For her own good.”

  I jumped out of the chair, spilling my coffee. “Christ Almighty, do you realize Al Roberts may be trying to find her?”

  “It was Al who told me about the new evidence you uncovered. And I believe him.”

  “What! You talked to Al Roberts? Where? When?”

  “I talked to him this afternoon.”

  3:28 a.m., October 1944

  Sue Harvey sat at her makeup table in the makeshift dressing room at the Break O’ Dawn Club, New York City. Her head was bowed, her hands folded in front of her as if in prayer. Off to the side lay the business card handed to her by a Hollywood bigshot.

  Al Roberts’s piano music drifted in from the dining room. She felt the beat of his improvised boogie-woogie in her toes. She knew he liked to mix it up. Every now and then he’d throw in a lick of Chopin, shift the tempo while keeping the rhythm, his own arrangement. The customers ate it up and showed it by laying a little bread in the tip jar at the end of the piece.

  It’d break his heart. But she couldn’t go through with it, and with the date looming she had to tell Al tonight. The engagement would have to be delayed. The marriage would not take place Saturday as planned.

  Part of her gig was to dance with the customers between sets. A little over a week before the big day at City Hall where Al and she were scheduled to tie the knot, a well-heeled customer slipped his card to her and whispered, “Look me up if you’re ever in Hollywood. Baby, I could make you a star.” He told her she had the voice of an angel and the body of a goddess. Johnny Hyde, the famous talent agent, had promised to launch her movie career.

  How could she pass up this once-in-a-lifetime chance at making it big? But what about Al? she wondered. Would he follow her to Hollywood, as she wanted him to, or would he stay behind, too proud to take a backseat to her fame?

  She rearranged the lip gloss, foundation powders, and brushes on the table and thought. Al could tag along. He could be her accompanist. She’d see to it. She’d demand that Al be put on the studio payroll. Maybe not at first, but as soon as she hit the big time.

  She glanced once more at her image reflected in the mirror. Makeup okay, but there wasn’t much she could do about her hair now. She quickly adjusted the orchid pinned in her blonde swirls and stood.

  All eyes in the room followed as she made her way to the bandstand. She stopped at a few tables and laughed it up with the customers, mostly old, withered guys with plenty of dough. But every now and then a sailor or soldier on leave would wander into the club. She’d have to be careful with these boys. They’d been away a long time and now they all liked to play a little game of grab-ass as she moved on by. They meant no harm, and it didn’t bother her. But Al, watching from his piano stool, would always throw a fit.

  When she ascended the two steps of the small stage for her next set, the spotlight shifted to her. She drifted to the mike and glanced at Al. His eyes found hers, he beamed, and his fingers switched from the upbeat tempo of the blues to the bittersweet harmony of the romantic ballad, “I Can’t Believe That You’re In Love With Me.”

  Even though she ached inside—the sad, long walk home with Al later that night when she’d have to explain her new plans weighed heavily within her heart—she gave a bright and cheery smile to the audience. She was a pro, instinct took over, and her body swayed rhythmically with the music as she performed the number.

  Your eyes of blue,

  Your kisses too,

  I never knew what they could do…

  Lovers always had a song, it was part of the deal, and that one was theirs. The title spelled it out, as far as they were concerned.

  But now that would all change.

  5:30 a.m., November 1955

  Willy maneuvered the gearshift lever, cranked the wheel, and adroitly backed the huge sanitation truck into the small alley behind the celebrated Formosa Café on Santa Monica in West Hollywood. As the truck slowed, his route partner, Nat, jumped from the passenger seat, ran back and started wrestling the trash containers. The well-toned muscles of his sleeveless arms gleamed like polished black granite as be grabbed the first container and effortlessly rolled it out to line up with the truck’s dump hopper. He darted back and pulled the second bin away from the pink stucco wall.

  “Holy shit!” he called out. “Willie, get yo’ ass back here.”

  Willy slid out of the seat, grumbling, “You need help? That ain’t the deal. This week I drive, you dump—”

  “You best hurry, man.”

  “Don’t flip your lid. I’m a’comin’.”

  Willy lumbered around behind the rig and saw Nat facing the back wall of the restaurant, standing frozen and staring slack-jawed at the ground, “Hey, Nat, let’s get a move on.”

  Nat pointed. “Take a look.”

  Willie’s gaze followed Nat’s outstretched arm. He almost gagged. A white female body lay sprawled in the filth behind the bin. The woman had been savagely beaten. Her battered face was bloated and caked in dried blood and vomit. The dark roots of her blonde strands were tangled and enmeshed with the garbage overflowing the containers.

  “Is she… dead?” Nat asked.

  “Goddamn if I know.” Willie crept closer to get a better look. It had been cold during the night, he knew, and she had nothing on but a thin, almost sheer cotton dress.

  He leaned in and shuddered as he looked at her face. He could only guess her age, somewhere between thirty and fifty, he figured. Too bad, at one time she might’ve been a looker. He raised her arm and with his thumb and forefinger felt the back of her wrist, checking for a pulse. He jumped back.

  “Nat! Quick, get a cop. She’s alive.”

  C H A P T E R 32

  I jumped up from the table, spilling my coffee. Kathie had a startled look on her face; I must’ve frightened her. But I had to get to Roberts fast.

  “Where is he? Damn! Don’t you know I’ve been trying to find him?”

  “He asked me not to tell a soul where he’s staying.”

  “I’m his lawyer, for chrissakes. You gotta tell me!”

  “I gave my word—”

  “Kathie, don’t you realize the police are out gunning for him? If they find him before I do, there will be trouble. He could get hurt.”

  “They would use force?”

  “Of course they would! They think he’s a mad-dog murderer.”

  “Oh, my God. If anything happened to Al Roberts it would kill my mother.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s staying in a hotel close to the rest home where she’s living.”

  I started for the door. “Take me there right now!”

  She grabbed her purse and jacket. “I’ll drive,” she said.

  While riding in her red Mercedes to the hotel located close to Vista Del Mar Estates, an assisted living facility in Laguna Beach, she told me why—at first—she’d tried to convince me to drop the Roberts case. It was obvious to me now that she’d been trying to protect her mother’s mental health as well as her father’s image.

  “Roberts had been sending letters to my mother. We moved her several times, but he’s always been able to find her.”

  “What’d she say about the letters?”

  “She never saw his letters. We told the staff to destroy them.”

  “Why?”

  “She was in bad shape at the beginning, but over the years she seemed to be making a little progress. The doctors said any mention of Roberts—or anything about her past, for that matter—would probably set her back. All the tragic mistakes she had made would come to the forefront. They felt that the horrible events of her past life would be lived over again in her mind. She’d descend into that dark place where she stayed for so many years.”

  I sat still, looking out the window and watching as the white lines on the dark freeway unfurled before us.

  Finally, Kathie broke the silence. “We couldn’t take the
chance. I knew if Roberts were released he’d find my mother.”

  “It wasn’t your decision to make. It was hers.”

  “You don’t understand. She was almost like a zombie. I’d visit her nearly every day and she’d just stare at me, no expression or anything. She’d just sit there and stare at me. There were days, weeks on end where she wouldn’t even get out of bed. The doctors said—”

  “The so-called doctors were feeding you a line of crap, damn it. They pumped her full of drugs and kept billing your old man’s trust fund. Didn’t they?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I know that now.”

  “The sons-of-bitches were warehousing her. So she wouldn’t make trouble. Couldn’t you see that?”

  Kathie shook her head violently. “I just didn’t know what to do. She was so helpless. Oh God.”

  At night, with no traffic, we made good time. About a half an hour after we left my apartment we turned off the Santa Ana Freeway onto Laguna Canyon Road and wound through the darkness, heading toward the coast.

  With her eyes focused on the road, Kathie continued to talk about Roberts and Sue. “I know now how wrong I was, Jimmy. Al Roberts came to see my mother a few days ago and he’s been with her every day for hours on end. He only goes to the hotel to sleep.”

  “Roberts got there three days ago?”

  “Yes, and since then it’s almost like a miracle has happened. My mother’s been alert and active. She gets up in the morning and puts on her makeup while humming an old love song she used to sing. She even took a long walk with him on the beach yesterday.”

  Looking up at her in the rearview mirror, I could see the smile on her face. “They hold hands like a couple of teenagers in love,” she added.

  Questions flooded my mind. How did Roberts get clear down here to Laguna without being spotted? Did he hitchhike the final leg of his journey, which had begun all those years ago back in 1945? Another thing: how did Roberts know where to find her? But that didn’t matter now. What mattered was how soon it would be before the cops figured out where to look for him.