by Arlette Lees
The drapes were open, sunlight flooding the front room, a dozen potted geraniums blooming on the balcony. She invited Hallinan into the den and they sat across from one another at the desk.
“I have something to tell you,” she said.
“Is this about the photos?” he said. “Did you recognize the child?”
“I recognized both of them, Lieutenant.”
“Both of who?”
“Daisy and the woman with the red hair.”
“Are you sure, Helen? The woman has a history of mental illness. Delusions.”
“They weren’t delusions.”
“I’m confused. What are you talking about?”
“Years ago Nathan and I took an extended vacation and returned with a newborn baby. Daisy. We said she was ours. We were lying. The Catholic Church helped us adopt from The Home for Delinquent and Wayward Girls.”
“You’re Jewish, aren’t you? The church doesn’t sanction adoptions outside the faith.”
“Money talks, Hallinan. Our overnight conversion was nothing short of miraculous. I couldn’t recite the rosary if you held a gun to my head. Libra Gordy was a kid back then. A lot of the girls at The Home couldn’t wait to get rid of their babies so they could go to the senior prom, get on with their lives, and pretend this never happened. Libra Gordy was stubborn and bright. She fought to keep her baby. I admired her for that.”
“One day we were called to the convent and told they had a baby for us, that the mother had died in childbirth. That mother was Libra Gordy. She was probably told that her baby had died. As you see, they are both very much alive.”
“I don’t get it. How did she end up with Daisy?”
“I have no idea. Maybe, she uncovered records. Maybe it was Divine Providence, if you believe that kind of thing.
“I should have known there was something off from the beginning. The whole operation was riddled with corruption.”
“Helen, I don’t know how I can help you. You know I can’t pretend this conversation never happened.”
“And you don’t have to. I’m not going to be around much longer, Hallinan, but I intend to set things right. I want to see Daisy one last time and I need your help.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
THE ROAD TO WILLOW SHADE
After several phone conversations between Hallinan, Deputy Stoneacre, Helen’s lawyer, Shmulie Braverman, and Libra Gordy, a meeting was scheduled to take place at Willow Shade. Everyone was on edge, not knowing what kind of reception they would receive.
On the last leg of the drive from L.A. heat crackled like a furnace. Hallinan could smell the asphalt melting under the tires as he followed Deputy Stoneacre’s car deep into the desert. Everyone had dressed lightly except Shmulie in his black suit, dark hair curling around his yarmulke, nose buried in documents. He looked like a pubescent yeshiva student, thin, pale, and studiously myopic in his Coke bottle glasses.
The landscape flew by, endless miles of sand, cactus, an occasional abandoned shack, and a herd of wild burros in the distance. A gathering of vultures, feathered in black like morticians, did a death dance around a carcass below a rock formation. There was an austere beauty in the place, but all Hallinan could think about was a cool, dark bar, and a tall glass of frosty Guinness.
The turn signal flashed on the patrol car ahead of them. A broad, shallow creek flanked by a wide band of wild grass and willow trees came into view. A couple dozen head of mixed-breed cattle were grazing in the shade. They followed Stoneacre’s car into the driveway. They passed a rock garden and a corral and parked in front of the house.
Hallinan looked at Helen. “You going to be okay?”
“I think so,” she said.
“Stay put. I’ll be right back.”
Stoneacre and Hallinan got out. Ezekiel Bridger exited the barn with a hound at his heels. There were introductions and handshakes. “I figured you were on to us the last time you came out, Stoneacre,” said Bridger. “Miss Gordy and I have had several conversations regarding her daughter. We just don’t want any dramatics in front of the child.”
Hallinan motioned to Helen and Shmulie helped her out of the car.
Libra Gordy stepped onto the porch, a sturdy, handsome woman, comfortable in her surroundings, her hair gathered off her neck like a sheaf of flaming wheat. She wore a yellow t-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. The child at her side had a gingerbread tan and wore her hair in braids…a slimmer, taller version of the Daisy Adler on the poster. When she looked at Helen, there was no sign of recognition, whether real or by design.
“Why don’t you all come in,” said Libra. “I have a jug of lemonade in the ice box.” As they moved up the steps, the dog crawled into the shade under the house.
“You go on in, Shmulie,” said Helen. “I have no patience for legal mumbo-jumbo.”
Daisy laughed. “Mumbo-jumbo. That’s a funny word. Do you want to see my kittens? They’re up in the loft.”
“I don’t think the lady dressed for climbing in hay lofts,” said Libra. “Why don’t you let her catch her breath.”
“I’ll be fine,” said Helen. “I could stand in the shade while she shows me the horses.”
“I’ll bring you some lemonade. Go ahead, Bean. I bet she’d like to see how you ride bareback on Sunflower.”
In the space of an hour the initial process of legally reuniting Daisy Adler with her biological mother had begun, and the visitors returned to their vehicles. Schmulie was already talking about initiating an investigation of The Home for Delinquent and Unwed Mothers.
Daisy ran up to Helen, who was in the back seat of the Buick. She wrapped her arms around Helen’s neck. “I know that perfume,” said the child. “The bottle sat on a mirror by a window. It’s Windsong.” Helen gave her a squeeze.
“Yes, darling, it’s Windsong. You take good care of that nice pony now. You’re a lucky little girl…Bean.”
As Hallinan walked past the rock garden with Ezekiel; he looked down at the license plates propped among the rocks. One in particular caught his eye.
“Mr. Bridger, would you consider selling me that 1952 plate?”
“You can have that one. It’s nothing special.”
“Thank you, sir. Do you remember how you came by it?”
“I found it about three years ago out by Buzzard Lake.”
“People go out there to fish?”
“Nobody local. There ain’t been water in it since the time of the dinosaurs.”
“Any abandoned vehicles out that way?”
“I see one from time to time, but mostly I’m looking for rattlesnakes.”
As they drove away, Daisy waved from the porch.
CHAPTER SIXTY
SANDALWOOD STREET
The night was dark and blustery, the warm Santa Ana winds sweeping off the desert and swirling the candle flames in the pumpkins on Rusty Hallinan’s front porch. He dropped generous handfuls of candy in the trick-or-treat bags of the little ghosts and goblins that ran up the path to his house as Teddy watched curiously from the window. He could hear Amanda setting the table and smell the pot roast through the screen door as it was carried to the dining room table.
When the last of the trick-or-treaters had come and gone, Hallinan settled in the porch swing and studied the license plate he’d picked up at Willow Shade. It belonged to the truck his father had been driving when his parents vanished. He squeaked lazily back and forth, letting his mind drift with the purple smoke from his cigarette. Maybe it was time to hand in his badge and hang out his shingle. His first case would be finding out what happened to his mom and dad as they drove east through the desert toward Nevada.
The vegetable garden gave a final sigh, the roses dropped their petals in the wind, and a few leaves cartwheeled across the lawn. There was much to reflect on, and Hallinan did so with a tempered melancholy that came with age and experience, perhaps too much of both.
A few days ago he’d driven by the pink house. The For Sale sign was down, a Corve
tte parked in the garage. He’d stood at the overlook with the Hollywood sign to his left, the observatory across the hills to the east. In his hand was the evening paper containing the obituary of Helen Adler, a woman who would always occupy a poignant corner of his psyche. He’d been here on the night Daisy went missing, and played it out to its unlikely resolution on a desert ranch called Willow Shade. He lingered a while longer with his memories, then climbed in the car and drove down the hill toward Hollywood Blvd.
Hallinan looked up as a black limousine rolled to a stop behind his Buick. The passenger door opened and closed. A tall silhouette in spike heels clicked up the steps to the porch. Tyrisse Covington materialized in a snug, gold lamé dress, short auburn wig, and arsenal of jingling glitz. S/he looked like a million bucks. Okay, a million counterfeit bucks. Hallinan pulled himself up, his knee giving an ominous pop.
“Rusty, my love, I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. Lady Precious and I worked up an act. We’re opening in Vegas next week. Move over Sammy Davis, Jr.”
“That’s great, Ty. You’ll knock ’em dead.” Did they really have a Vegas booking? With Ty you could never be sure.
“Now that you’re married to that pregnant woman, I suppose we’ll have to call off our engagement, although it wounds me deeply to do so.” S/he pulled a bottle of expensive brandy from her purse. “A parting gift,” s/he said, putting it in his hand. S/he leaned forward and gave him a light kiss on the cheek.
“Promise you’ll take care of yourself,” said Hallinan. “No swimming in the deep end of the pool.” S/he gave him a lingering look. Her smile slipped for a split second before it was back in place.
“We’ll never have Paris, darling,” she said, touching his cheek, “but, we’ll always have the lady’s room at Willie’s Donut Shop.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Arlette Lees is a regular contributor to Hardboiled magazine, edited by pulp fiction veteran, Gary Lovisi. One of her hair-raising tales appears in the anthology Deadly Dames (Bold Venture Press), and a story with a real knockout punch is included in the anthology Battling Boxing Stories (Borgo Press). “Blood Bayou,” her twisted tale of passion and murder in the Louisiana swamp, appears in Whodunit? (Borgo Press). She also wrote Angel Doll (Borgo Press).
Arlette, who writes from northern California, is an award-winning poet who is widely published both here and abroad.
