by Ed Ifkovic
“Exactly.”
“Remember when his name came up in Cheryl Crawford’s apartment? We wondered why so accomplished a stage manager—already connected to a bona fide Broadway smash—welcomed a trivial summer job in Maplewood.”
“Yes, I do. And I’ve been thinking about that since last night. Just how well does Frank know Clorinda?”
“I don’t think he’s one of her camp followers, tambourines clanging in an upraised hand at one of her revivals. That doesn’t sound like the man I know.”
My mind was racing. “Hollywood? Was he out there when she went to rescue Dak from the clutches of Nadine? Was he a part of that?”
He rubbed his chin. “Maybe. Frank is all over the place. A single man, he travels a lot. I know that. He has friends in Hollywood, of course. Friends who drift from New York out to the Coast.”
“But what could he have to do with Dak’s annulment? Is it possible he knew Dak and Nadine out there? Was he involved with Nadine? All along I was thinking his hiring of Dak here was by chance.”
“Perhaps he was friends all along with Nadine. They seem very close now in town, dining together.”
“Possibly,” I speculated. “Maybe he was her advocate during the separation.”
“But why keep it a secret?” George wondered.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Well, maybe it’s only a secret to us.” I paused. “But no—Dak would have mentioned Frank being out there. Unless he had a reason to keep it a secret, but that makes no sense. Maybe Gus would have mentioned it, too. No one talked about Frank.”
George wasn’t buying it. “You know, Edna, Dak isn’t always forthcoming. He didn’t exactly rush to tell you he was married to Nadine while he was shadowing her like a love-struck puppy. You had to learn it, I seem to recall, from our young Nazi friend.”
“True, so Gus could have known Frank out in California.”
“So we can assume he didn’t.” He was lost in thought for a moment. “And someone hired Gus as an electrician. Did Frank play a part in that?”
“A Nazi? Frank?”
“Who knows?”
We stood there, the two of us, neither speaking. Finally, I blurted out, “Unless Frank knows Clorinda from somewhere else. From her own days in Hollywood.”
“But that was decades ago.”
“So what? Obviously the sins of the past have come to haunt more than one generation of Hollywood hopefuls.”
“I’ll ask him,” George said.
“Not just yet, George. I want to watch what happens.”
He nodded. “Where are we going for a ride?”
***
DeHart Park lay in a section of Maplewood I didn’t know. When I asked the desk clerk for directions, he eyed me suspiciously. Visitors rarely left the Village—the world of the train station, the theater, and the shops like Foster’s Drug Store and Leonard’s Barbershop. A close-knit community, built along Maplewood Avenue. The Hills were north of the railroad tracks, streets where the rich lived. The poor part of town—the other side of Springfield Avenue—had tough neighborhoods. DeHart Park was there, I was told. A scruffy park, unpopular.
I commandeered a Buick from one of the stagehands—he hesitated but finally acquiesced—and George and I headed for the park. George never learned to drive, adamant about the horrors of getting behind the wheel of a car, and I did so reluctantly. A careful driver, somewhat plodding, I cruised short distances, marking the miles by the number of cigarettes I nervously snubbed out in the ashtray,
“Lord, Edna,” George joked, “a throwback to your flapper days. In one hand a martini and in the other a cigarette as you lounged in a speakeasy on the arm of some sycophant.”
“George, you’re a woeful fabricator.”
I pulled the car into a parking lot under some overgrown willow trees. On the hot August afternoon there was no one there, and the thick foliage wilted under the blazing sun. I recalled Dak’s description of the murder scene, but also from the local newspaper, in particular, which specified where Evan parked his jazzy new car. Under the bank of willows just right of the walking path, across from the fountain. “Here.” I stopped the car. “Evan parked here.” I stepped out of the car, which I kept running, and moved past a bank of hedges, trailed by a reluctant George. “And here.” I pointed to a clearing where there was a picnic table and a stone barbeque pit. “Here. His body was found next to this table. On his back. Shot at close range in the chest.”
“What are we looking for, Edna?”
I looked back toward the parking lot. “This clearing is sheltered from the parking lot. We can’t see our car. Remember—he left it running, with the driver’s door left open.”
“But it’s close by. He didn’t plan on staying.”
“Precisely. A planned meeting with someone in a place secluded by trees. But a spot known to Evan—and the killer. An appointment, a quick one. One that Evan didn’t expect to end in violence.”
“Because he was cocky.”
“Most likely. Sure of himself. But what for?” I was baffled. “There had to be a reason they chose this spot. The killer also couldn’t afford to be seen by anyone. And yet Evan trusted him.”
“Or trusted enough to walk into a hideaway copse.”
“Why not turn off the car?” Something bothered me. “Dak confessed to driving into the park that afternoon and spotting Evan’s car. He even told Frank that he’d been following Evan. For whatever reason. He spotted Evan crusing by.”
“Well, what reason did he have to follow him? What if Evan had seen Dak following him? And yet Evan pulled over, opened that door.”
“Dak says he saw the door open and then drove away. He thought Evan was having some sort of…assignation. Maybe.”
“With the door open?”
“All right, that doesn’t fly. He was getting something from someone and he wanted to get away fast.” I stared at the empty picnic table, the barbeque, and the bank of sheltering trees.
“What?”
“Only one thing. Money.”
“Of course,” George agreed.
“Blackmail.”
“Frank?” George voice sounded triumphant.
“Maybe.” A heartbeat. “Maybe. A scene he wouldn’t want at the theater.”
“He wouldn’t have been meeting Gus—or Dak. He saw them all the time. The rooming house. In town. It had to be someone he couldn’t conveniently contact in town.”
“Or be seen with.”
Someone who’d just given him cash, I think. All that flashy money. But then—why meet that person again?”
“Maybe his greed.”
“Or something else? Information?”
“True,” I agreed. “And where was the second car? Did the killer walk here? Or hide a car? And no one found a gun, I gather.”
“There’s about a three-hour window that afternoon when Evan was out on the town, cruising around. Where was everyone? Frank? Gus, I suppose? Even Meaka? Nadine?”
“How are we to ever know?”
“Well,” George was nodding “we know where Dak was.”
I sighed. “Unfortunately.” I looked round. “But why would he confess to being in the spot where a murder took place?” I clicked my tongue. “Following him here. And obviously he didn’t see another car. Just Evan’s car. That’s it.”
George smiled. “He confessed because that’s Dak, no? He doesn’t believe it could implicate him.”
“An innocent.”
“Ironically, then,” George summarized, “his being at the murder site is a sign of his innocence.”
***
George and I walked into the Full Moon Café where Annika and Dak huddled at one of the tables. They were arguing, I could tell—sputtered words, abrupt silence, looking down, purple faces. A vein in Annika’s neck throbbed. Dak was sweating and kept mopping his face.<
br />
“A lover’s quarrel?” George impolitely asked, though I was glad he did.
Both looked up, though only Annika appeared annoyed. His head tilted back, Dak wore a bemused look, a little sheepish perhaps, but with bright eyes. “We’re making a scene in public. Tobias would be furious.” A pause. “It should embarrass us, I suppose.”
“He doesn’t favor public scenes?” I asked. “If you’re going to make a scene, it’s best to do so in public. Otherwise—why bother?”
Glancing toward the kitchen, I noticed that Constable Biggers was seated at a back table, not looking at us, ostensibly absorbed in a newspaper that covered his face. His legs were stretched out in front of him, two ungainly stumps. That infernal pad he always displayed lay on the table, the stub of a pencil resting on it, untouched.
Annika kept glancing at him, and finally sneered, “Our watchdog followed us in.”
Dak bit his lip and glanced toward the policeman. “He’s always around me.”
“What is he expecting you to do?” Annika was whining. “Stand up and confess to a murder you did not commit? In of all places—here?”
“He thinks I did it.”
Her voice was loud, aimed at the shielded man. “Well, let the fat man waste his time.” She yelled toward the man. “We all know Gus killed Evan.”
“How do you know that?” I asked, my voice a whisper.
“Well, who else? The process of elimination.” She threw back her shoulders defiantly.
“Then who killed Gus?”
That stopped her for a second. “I dunno. That was in New York. Things like that happen there. He’s running around with Nazi signs and praising Hitler. It stands to reason someone would shove him in front of a train, no?”
Constable Biggers lowered the paper and glared. His fingers drummed the untouched pad. Portly, with that round head with a few strands of sparse hair, with those big ears, he seemed a small-town Falstaff, eating pie and waiting for revelation.
Annika grabbed her purse and tucked it into her lap. She glanced toward the door and nudged Dak. “We need to leave now.”
“A second, Annika.” Dak motioned for George and me to sit down, which I did, with alacrity. Annika fumed.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
They looked at each other. Dak sighed. “Just squabbling. Annika believes I should quit working for the Maplewood Theater.”
Annika’s voice was arch. “He has enough to do at the Assembly of God. This fall we’re adding a satellite church in a warehouse in downtown Newark. Across the street from Bamberger’s Department Store.” She grinned. “They have Toyland at Christmas there—well, we’ll have Holyland. Tobias is funding renovations and he’s ordered a steeple built, shipped from Switzerland…”
Dak twisted his lips. “I’m supposed to be in charge.”
“We both are,” Annika said firmly.
“Annika, what does it matter that Dak works part-time at the theater?” I wondered.
Again, the glance from one to the other. “Tobias and Clorinda think he’s wasting time.”
Dak spoke up. “Work isn’t a waste of time. I’m with new people, with…”
“With lost souls.”
George snorted. “Well, thank you, my dear.”
“I don’t mean you.”
“Oh, only Edna?”
Annika fumbled. “You know what I mean.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I gladly wear the banner of being a ‘lost soul,’ Annika.”
Annika snickered. “You’re welcome, then.”
I cleared my throat. “Dak, I don’t know whether I thanked you for the landscape. I’m forgetful. It was a pleasant surprise. A wonderful gift.”
Dak looked embarrassed. “It was nothing.”
“You finished it?” Annika asked. “The one with the waterfall on the mountain?”
He nodded. “I gave it to Miss Ferber.”
“You have a real talent—as befitting a descendant of Asher Durand.”
Annika raised her eyebrows. “He told you he’s related to that artist? That cockamamie story?”
“Yes. A legitimate heir, I’d say.” I glanced at George. “Dak has a real passion—yes, that’s the word, truly—for art. It should be cultivated.”
“A hobby,” Annika insisted.
“I think people should follow their hearts.”
Annika eyed me. “And I think people should follow their souls.”
I locked eyes with her. “That can be the same thing, Annika.”
“That’s not what you’re getting at, is it?” She tapped the purse in her lap. “You’re not religious, are you, Miss Ferber?”
“I know what I believe in.”
“You’re avoiding the question,” she said hotly.
“No, I believe I answered it.”
“Perhaps you have to understand Jesus Christ.”
“And, I suppose, you are his spokesman,”
“He has spoken to me.”
Dak jumped up. “All right, all right. Enough.”
George, sitting there open-mouthed, echoed, “All right, indeed. I came in for coffee and some of Mamie’s pie and I’m in the middle of a theological skirmish. Edna’s unholy war.”
I laughed, but Annika didn’t.
Quietly, Dak provided a coda. “I think art is spiritual.”
“Amen.” From George, without irony.
Annika relaxed. “Well, I’m glad Dak finished something. All those unfinished sketches in his rooms.”
“I spent hours—in fact, till two in the morning. Obsessed.”
“Possessed.” Annika’s word.
“I don’t have time to paint.” Dak sighed. “I have to do missionary work at night. Our visits to the old and sick. Me and Annika. But…well, I made a vow to finish that drawing. I wanted it for you.”
Annika smiled. “Our nights are in service to God. But I do give him a night off now and then.”
Red-faced, but with a puzzled look, Dak mumbled, “I didn’t mean that, Annika.”
“Of course you did.”
“Dak,” I began, “how long were you in California?”
He stammered, “Under two years.” He fidgeted, uncomfortable.
I waited a second. “Did you meet Frank out there?”
He squinted. “No, of course not. Why would he be out there?”
I shrugged. “Just a thought.”
“Frank’s a trouble-maker,” Annika added.
“And you were married to Nadine for how long?” I went on.
“Months.” Said with some bitterness.
Annika was squirming, as I intended.
“It didn’t work out?”
“No, it didn’t.” His eyes got dark and sad. “It wasn’t her fault.”
“He wasn’t ready for marriage,” Annika interrupted.
“And he is now?”
“Tell her, Dak.”
But Dak got evasive. “Everyone wants me to speak ill of Nadine—and my years in Hollywood. I won’t. My failings are my failings.”
“And what are your failings?” George asked.
He took a long time to answer. “I mean…I don’t know.”
“I know one of his failings,” I ventured.
“What is that?” From Annika.
“Listening to other people.”
“Really, Miss Ferber. Sometimes you have to listen to others—ones who have answers. Obedience to God…”
“Dak.” I touched his wrist. “Someone is always going to tell you how to live your life.”
Annika stood and tapped Dak on the shoulder. “It’s been lovely.” The word caught in her throat.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Annika. Be nice.”
“I’m always nice.”
With that sh
e tugged at his sleeve, and the two left the restaurant.
“Interesting,” I commented.
“What?” George asked.
“Sometimes people say too much.”
***
Back at the inn, the reception clerk reached behind him and withdrew a letter. “Miss Ferber.” I stopped walking.
“Yes?”
“A letter for you. Someone put it in the wrong slot, I’m afraid. It’s been sitting there since yesterday.” He handed it to me. A plain white envelope, with just one word on it: “Ferber.” With a lower-case “f.” No date.
“Yesterday?” I asked.
“I guess someone left it at the counter. After my shift. So…last night sometime. The night clerk slipped it into another resident’s cubbyhole.” He looked over his shoulder. “Another guest named Felson. A simple mistake.”
“I don’t appreciate mistakes.”
George confided in the clerk, his voice laced with laughter. “Miss Ferber doesn’t make mistakes.”
“This is bizarre.” I ignored the two chuckling men.
I tore open the wrinkled, cheap envelope, the flap taped. A sheet of lined paper, as from a schoolboy’s tablet.
I froze. I handed the sheet to George. “Look.”
Block letters, in a child’s wax crayon, bright red:
GO AWAY NOW. EVIL BRINGS MORE EVIL. DANGER.
Then, in a blotchy ink scrawl, almost illegible: “Trust me. Your being watched. This is the end. No more. No more. A friend of yours.”
George wore a serious look as we both stared at the words, but he said, “Edna, the writer has your flare for melodrama.” But I could see concern in his eyes.
“Dear George, what strikes me is the use of block letters. A cry for attention. It’s more your style.”
My heart was racing. Nervously, I scanned the lobby. No one but George and me and the reception clerk who had turned away. But I felt, to my soul, that I was being watched.
Chapter Fifteen
A restless night, those horrific words in the anonymous note floating around in my head. I was up at five, an obscene hour, the street quiet save for a milkman’s delivery truck pulling up at the inn. The brakes squeaked, groaned, and I cringed, my nerves raw. Yet, perversely, that incendiary note did not convince. George had been overly solicitous last night, a little frantic, in fact, insisting I deliver it to Constable Biggers immediately, an idea I rejected. Though it alarmed, the note struck me as evidence that I was onto something. Still I didn’t fear for my life—the message, I finally concluded, was executed out of someone’s nervousness. That was all.
