by Mary McCoy
“He said it might be better if I came alone,” I said. “And that you hated his guts.”
She snorted. “I’m surprised he’d send you up here by yourself. Or maybe I’m not all that surprised. What is it they say about bullies? That they’re really just cowards themselves?”
“You think Jerry’s a bully?”
“A bully and a creep. Always following us around in that beat-up Plymouth. Every time I see it, I think he’s probably got a body in the trunk.”
That seemed a little melodramatic to me. “He knows you’re in danger. Maybe he’s watching because he doesn’t want you to get hurt.”
“Well, isn’t that nice of him,” Millie said with a sneer. “I’ve caught him more than once, hunched down in the front seat with his hat pulled down, watching us like some kind of pervert. And that was before I was in danger.”
Up until today, I realized, everything I knew about Jerry had pretty much come from Jerry. What if he’d been lying to me all along? What if he wasn’t my sister’s friend and employer, but her stalker? That would explain why he knew so much about her. And why he seemed to know so many girls who were young enough to be his daughters. I felt nauseated by the thought.
“Were he and Annie friends?” I asked.
Millie sat down on the bed. She extended a finger and started to push the row of pill bottles across the mattress. They clinked together as she rolled them almost to the edge of the bed, then back toward her again.
“Jerry doesn’t have friends. He has a cabinet full of broken dolls like your sister. And he acts like he wants to fix them, but the truth of it is, Alice, I think he likes them broken.”
I felt a hitch in my breath, and reached for the sealed envelope, the one inscribed Open If I Am Dead or Missing. The paper was a luxurious cream-colored cardstock, the curious inscription in ink so glossy it still looked wet. I ran my fingers over the soft paper and wondered who had written it. I wondered what Jerry was looking for, why he wanted to get into this apartment so badly. He was supposed to be here right now, not me. If he were the one rummaging through Irma’s vanity and bedside table, what would he take?
“I’ve decided I’m done with Los Angeles,” Millie said, lifting up the mattress and peeking under the box spring. “I’m buying a ticket to Las Vegas and getting out of this place. No more flirting with directors twice your age for a part that has two lines. No more slugging it out against a hundred girls who all think they’re the next Lana Turner. I’m sick of fighting for scraps.”
Irma’s sleigh bed was a heavy oaken thing that looked like it had come out of the last century, and Millie was trying to move it. Between each word of her rant, she gritted her teeth and gave the frame a shove until spots of red appeared on her cheeks beneath the veil. I went around to the other side of the bed to help her push.
“It doesn’t matter how young and pretty you are, because everybody’s young and pretty. It doesn’t matter how much talent you have, because the job doesn’t require any. And what’s it all for? Nothing. I’ve been working my ass off in this business since I was sixteen, and I don’t have a thing to show for it. It’s a job only an idiot could want.”
When we’d moved the bed about two feet, Millie got down on her hands and knees and ran her fingers over the floorboards. Finally, she found the one she was looking for and popped it loose. Her hands disappeared beneath the floor, then came up a moment later holding a lock box. She produced a key from around her neck, opened the box, and leafed through its contents, careful to hold the lid so I couldn’t see what was inside.
“And besides, it’s just getting too dangerous around here.” She produced a thick wad of cash from the lock box and grinned. “Never mind Las Vegas. I’m going to Paris.”
She slammed the box shut and put it back under Irma’s bed.
“Help me move this,” she said, and together, we tugged at the bed frame until the headboard was flush with the wall.
The only piece of furniture in the bedroom that remained untouched was the wardrobe. Millie flung it open and began to sort through the items that hung there. She was selective—a few dresses, a good wool coat, a pretty silk scarf. She tossed these things onto the bed and left the rest.
“Millie,” I said. She half looked over her shoulder without stopping what she was doing. “Do you know anything about a girl Annie was protecting? She might have been there the night Irma was murdered.”
Millie shook her head. “I never heard of any girl.”
She didn’t even bother trying to sound like she wasn’t lying. It annoyed me, especially since I’d just helped her drag a hundred-year-old bed across the floor.
“But you know Rex, don’t you?” I asked. When she didn’t answer, I added, “I know you do. I saw the picture.”
Millie spun around, and in two steps had crossed the room and pinned me against the wall with a sharp elbow. A cruel smile played across her lips, and when she spoke, it was scarcely louder than a whisper.
“Have you ever kissed a boy, Alice?”
When I didn’t answer, stunned as I was, she dug her elbow into my collarbone.
“I said, have you ever kissed a boy?”
This time I nodded.
Flecks of spit hit my cheek as she spoke. “Did you kiss him or did he kiss you?”
There had been several boys, several kisses, but when Millie asked me, it seemed as though there had only been one, that the kisses and the boys all melted together, and I could no longer tell them apart.
“He kissed me,” I said.
“Did you like it?”
At a movie theater, behind the changing room at the country club pool, in basements at parties, but always in the dark, always in a corner, always secret.
“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t really mind.”
“But that’s not the same as liking it, now, is it?” There was that smile again, like a slice of bitter melon.
“No,” I said.
“And did he try anything else after that?”
Sometimes they did. And then it was always a matter of weighing out which you wanted less—to make a scene or to let him touch you. At least, that was always the way it was with the boys I’d known.
I nodded.
“And what did you do then, Alice?”
“I pushed him away.”
Or at least, sometimes I did.
“Maybe you and I aren’t so different,” Millie hissed into my ear. “You’ll let a boy you don’t like kiss you. Maybe you don’t want to, but you’ll say you didn’t really mind. Maybe that’s what I do, too. So don’t stand there asking questions like you think you’re better than me.”
She pinched my cheek between her fingers, hard enough to leave a mark.
And then she let go, as though nothing had happened, smiled brightly, and went back to emptying out Irma’s wardrobe. I clutched my smarting cheek.
When she was through, she closed the wardrobe doors and gathered up the bundle of clothes and the canvas bag that held the money, the photograph, and the letters.
She strode out of the room without even looking at me. Quickly, I gathered up my own pile of stolen goods, stuffing the letters into my purse before following her. She was taking another pass through the apartment, poking through kitchen cabinets and underneath cushions.
Satisfied at last, she went to the door, took a final look back, and said, “That about does it, I think.”
“Millie,” I said.
She stood in the doorway, her back to me. Slowly, she turned around, a wry, icy look on her face. “Is there something else you wanted?”
“You haven’t told me anything.”
She arched an eyebrow. “I think I’ve told you enough to make you think twice about showing those letters in your purse to Jerry Shaffer.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her name is Gabrielle,” Millie said. “That’s who your sister was protecting, who she was willing to go to the police for. That’s who saw Conrad Donahue murder a woman in
cold blood. That’s who everyone’s looking for now. So, how much do you think Annie trusted Jerry Shaffer if she wouldn’t even tell him her name?”
Millie reached into her purse and pulled out a matchbook. Inside, she scrawled a number and pressed it into my hand.
“I want to help you, Alice. Really, I do. Call me at this number tonight at ten. We can talk more freely then. Right now, I’d prefer to put a bit more distance between myself and your friend Jerry before I tell you anything else in confidence. What you do with the information after that is up to you. I just don’t want any part of it.”
“What am I supposed to do?” I asked.
“That’s up to you, gumdrop. But if I was you, I’d be careful.”
She stepped into the dark hallway and turned the key to her own apartment door.
I went back inside Irma’s and cleaned up as best as I could. I put the letters from home back in the vanity, folded the clothes in the drawers Millie had rummaged through, and returned them to the bureau. I went to the nightstand and took the picture of Irma and Annie. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest thing in the world to take, but I understood Millie’s impulse to clean any sign of herself out of that place. Besides, I wanted it.
I took all the pill bottles and syringes and put them into a bag by themselves, planning to throw all of it into the first trash can I found. I told myself that what I was doing was a kindness to Irma’s memory, even if it was too late to save her. But the truth was, I wasn’t ready to leave the apartment.
To hear Jerry tell it, he cared about Annie and her friends. He wanted to protect them and help them in any way he could. But then I thought about the things that Millie had said. Cyrus, too—I was almost sure he’d been lying back at the restaurant. Annie’s friends didn’t trust Jerry, and it was beginning to look like maybe Annie didn’t, either.
Jerry told me that Annie was supposed to meet him the night she was attacked, that she was supposed to bring Gabrielle with her so the three of them could all go to the police together. With what I knew now, though, that story didn’t add up. Annie wouldn’t have let Jerry near Gabrielle if she didn’t trust him completely.
Maybe that was why Annie hadn’t shown up for her meeting with Jerry—she’d never intended to. Or maybe there never had been any meeting in the first place.
Either way, it didn’t explain what my sister had been doing in MacArthur Park the night she was attacked, and it didn’t make me feel any better about facing Jerry Shaffer.
When the apartment was clean and I couldn’t stall any longer, I made my way down the stairwell and into the sunny courtyard, where I found Jerry slouched against the trunk of the jacaranda tree. My head spun with uncertainty, and suddenly I wanted nothing so much as to put a few dozen blocks between myself and the private detective.
“I’m going home,” I said, thrusting the bag of narcotics into his arms.
“Wait,” he said, shuffling to his feet. “What happened up there, Alice? What’s wrong? Did Millie give you a rough time?”
I shook my head, but when I opened my mouth to explain, no words came out, and a sick feeling passed through me. Why does everyone you try to help end up getting hurt?
I turned my back to him and started walking down the sidewalk.
“Alice, I’m sorry,” he said, following after me. “Let me give you a ride home. Let’s get you out of here, get you a bite to eat, and you can tell me all about it.”
I shook my head again, and this time, I managed to squeak out a few syllables.
“I’d rather walk,” I said.
When I saw my mother through the kitchen window, I almost turned around and went back to Millie’s place. She was sitting at the table, a martini glass folded into her hands, her face a perfect, inscrutable mask. I sighed and opened the back door.
“Alice, honey.” My mother looked up from her drink, startled. She floated over to the door without a sound, without so much as scuffing the feet of the chair on the kitchen tile. Even half-lit, my mother was always a graceful woman. She smoothed my hair back from my forehead and tucked it behind my ears, a gesture so warm, so familiar, I longed to believe in it.
“I was starting to worry,” she said. “Where have you been all day? Where were you yesterday?”
“With Cassie,” I said.
She eyed me suspiciously. “Is everything all right?”
“I’m tired, I guess.”
“Well, you look terrible. Go upstairs and draw yourself a bath. I’ll bring you something to eat.”
While I could have lived without the dig at my looks, it still sounded like the best idea I had ever heard. I dragged myself up the stairs to my room, where I stripped off my now-rumpled skirt and blouse and hung the strap of my purse over the bedpost. It was tempting to skip the bath and the food and climb straight into bed, where I could burrow underneath the sheets, cover my head with a pillow, and sleep through the night. But it had been more than a day since I’d last been home, longer since I’d bathed, and truth be told, I was starting to get a little ripe.
Sliding into the warm, soapy water was almost as good as bed, though. I closed my eyes for what seemed like seconds but must have been longer, because when I jerked awake, my mother was standing in the doorway with a plate.
She set it down on the rim of the tub—bacon, lettuce, and tomato on toast.
“You shouldn’t fall asleep in the tub, Alice,” she scolded. “It’s dangerous.”
But I was too busy devouring the sandwich and licking mayonnaise off my fingers to pay much attention. If you’ve never eaten a bacon sandwich in a hot bath before, believe me, you’re missing out.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life,” I said.
“Well, you’re welcome, then.”
She laid some fresh towels out on the hamper for me and left, shutting the door behind her.
“Thank you, Mother,” I called out after her.
After I finished my sandwich, I set the plate down on the tile next to the tub and ducked under the warm water. As I held my breath, closed my eyes, and let the waves of underwater noises pulse in my eardrums, I thought it might be nice to stay here forever. Jerry could find Gabrielle and hunt down Irma’s killer by himself. Annie could wake up when she was good and ready. The letters in my purse could gather dust or read themselves for all I cared.
Suddenly I sat straight up in the tub, rubbing the water from my eyes and reaching for a towel. I shouldn’t have let the letters out of my sight, not even for a second, not even in my own room.
I dried off and threw on my bathrobe, and without even combing my hair, I ran down the hall to my bedroom. The purse was gone.
When I came crashing down the stairs, leaving a trail of bathwater footprints behind me, Mother had once again taken her spot at the kitchen table, a fresh martini in one hand, one of Irma’s letters in the other. I snatched the page from her fingers.
“What are you doing, going through my things?” I shouted, my hair flinging droplets of water onto the table and the letters as I spoke.
My mother picked up the thick cream envelope and read the inscription aloud. “‘Open If I Am Dead or Missing.’”
“Mother—” I started to speak, but she held up her hand.
“What are you fooling around with, Alice? Where did you get these? And don’t you dare lie to me.”
Her neck strained forward as she spoke, her eyes so wide they bulged. The broken capillaries in her cheeks flushed red, and her voice sounded hysterical, halfway between a scream and a sob.
“They aren’t hers, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Then why is her handwriting all over them? Why is her picture here?” She dropped the letter to the tabletop and picked up the framed photograph I’d taken from Irma’s apartment.
I knew I’d been an idiot to take it. Any other picture might have been all right, might have been explained away somehow, but not the one with the dead girl and my sister in it.
“Do you know where she is
?” my mother asked.
I tightened the belt on my bathrobe and folded my arms across my chest, trying to ignore the slippery, cold puddle of bathwater gathering at my feet. I felt defensive, on edge. I’d let down my guard for a lousy bacon sandwich, and my mother had pounced on the opportunity to steal my purse and dig through my things.
Still, I wished what I’d said to her next had been less cruel.
“You haven’t cared where she was for the past four years. Why would you care now?”
She shot back a reply like it had been sitting on the tip of her tongue, waiting for a chance to get out.
“I care every day. It tears my heart out every goddamn day, Alice.”
Her jaw tightened and her chin began to tremble. With her thumb, she traced the outline of Annie’s face, smudging the glass. All the while, I heard her murmuring in a choked, small voice, “My pretty girl, my pretty, pretty little girl.”
“Mom, please.”
It just slipped out.
I never called her that. In fact, I don’t think I ever had. “Mother” was formally, clinically, legally accurate, and I’d always felt it served our purposes well enough.
“Mom, please,” I whispered again. “I’m sorry.”
“Your father hasn’t been home since the detective was here. I’ve been alone since then, Alice.” She put the picture down and put her head in her hands. “Alice, I’ve been thinking such terrible thoughts.”
She let out a fresh sob. Not quite sure what to do, I sat with her, squeezing her hands and saying nothing while the tears cascaded down her cheeks and pooled on the table. Eventually, the jag slowed, and she inhaled deeply and reached for a tissue.
“Please make me some coffee, Alice,” she said, blowing her nose, then frowning at the sight of me sitting at the kitchen table in my bathrobe. “And put some clothes on. This isn’t a spa.”
She got up and disappeared down the hall into the powder room. By the time she came out, I’d changed into a clean skirt and blouse, and the coffee had finished brewing. Her skin was scrubbed clean of makeup, and though her eyes were still red-rimmed, they were clear and alert. She poured herself a cup of coffee and one for me, too, then sat down at the table.
