Several miles away, Florence Kwitney waited for the Wilshire bus after a night with her girlfriends. She looked forward to these monthly outings. She and the gals treated themselves to a restaurant, had a few drinks, and reminisced about the war. They’d met on the assembly line at Hughes Aircraft in Playa del Rey, but aviation and shipbuilding had foundered after V-Day and they’d lost their jobs like thousands of others and scattered to the four winds. Before Florence knew it, the evening had gone. And now it was near midnight and the bus wasn’t coming. Florence was a little tipsy. No. She should be honest with herself. She was drunk. She’d been drinking too much lately. She meant to stop, but the days just slid into one another, and each sunset her resolve slipped away with the light and she unscrewed the cap on the bottle of rye. She’d had a few nips before leaving home, then drinks with dinner. Florence decided she’d better duck inside the coffee shop by the bus stop and have some coffee. She wanted to keep her wits about her. She’d keep a look out the window, and if the bus came, she’d drop her coin on the counter and run for it.
The coffee shop was full of large groups and Florence felt a stab of resentment at the happy couples. She and Tom would have been married by now, except that Tom hadn’t made it back from the South Pacific. After that, her life had never quite caught fire the way she’d expected. Florence sat at the counter. It was dark outside, fog creeping in, and she strained to see the big lights that would signal the bus’s approach. The waitress brought the bill with the coffee, which was weak and tasteless, like the grounds had been run through twice. Halfway through it, she saw lights, tossed down a coin, and ran out, only to find a truck heading toward her instead of the bus. Her shoulders sagged. Florence looked inside and saw a busboy sweep her cup into a bin. So much for a refill.
“Waiting for someone, miss?” a pleasant voice said.
Florence turned and saw a man. He reminded her so much of Tom she almost cried out. And then she must have done so, because the man gave a queer smile.
“How did you guess my name is Tom?”
“You remind me of someone,” Florence said, embarrassed.
“Were you going in?” he said, inclining his head toward the coffee shop.
“Why, yes. No.” A beam of yellow light washed over them and she realized the man didn’t look like Tom after all. “I—I don’t know,” she stuttered. A bus was coming. She ran to the bench, but it drove past and she saw a NOT IN SERVICE sign in the front windshield.
“Are you all right, miss?” the man asked. “May I be of assistance?”
She gripped her purse. She had to get home. Everything was spinning around her. She missed Tom so much, even four years on, that it was like a physical ache inside of her. She wanted to sink to her knees, bang her head against the cool tiles of her bathroom floor. She knew she couldn’t go back inside the bright lights now. Everyone would see her tear-stained face.
“I’m fine,” she struggled to say. “I’m just waiting for the bus home.” She plopped down on the bench, tucking in her skirts.
“And I remind you of someone?” he probed.
“My fiancé. He died at Subic Bay.”
The man hiked up his trousers and sat down. She thought she heard the jingle of keys. He offered her a cigarette and, when she declined, lit one for himself. She noticed that he had an interesting signet ring on his left middle finger, but no gold band. A girl noticed things like that.
“I’m an actor,” he said with nonchalance, as tattered wisps of fog crept east along the Boulevard and enveloped them. She saw the red cherry of his cigarette rise and fall. “People often say I look like their uncle, their cousin, their neighbor, a guy they knew in the service. I guess I have one of those rubbery actor faces.” He gave a little laugh. “Looks like we’re waiting for the same bus. Why don’t you tell me all about him, and it’ll be here before we know it.”
At twelve-thirty a.m., Lily stood at Santa Monica Boulevard and Radcliffe, dressed in a black shirt, black pants, and the woven canvas shoes worn by Italian peasants. She’d found the Radcliffe Arms without much trouble. It was a fancy name for a shabby building. Three stories of faded red brick, no doorman, only an overflowing brass spittoon.
She guessed that Apartment E was on the ground floor, in the back. Doing a reconnaissance, she saw that one of the rear units was dark. A thin woman carrying a baby moved past the window of the other unit. Lily entered the lobby and found the mailboxes. Located Freddy’s name next to APT E. Cautiously she tiptoed down the hallway to make sure that she had the right apartment. Yup, it was the dark one in back. She’d gotten his number from Jeanne and called from the corner liquor store, ready to hang up if he answered. But the phone rang and rang. And the Rambler Jeanne said he drove was nowhere in sight. Lily tried the doorknob, careful to make no sound. It was locked.
Lily slipped out of the Radcliffe Arms and walked down the driveway to the rear apartment, glad that the baby’s cries drowned out a dog barking next door. She tried Freddy’s windows, but they were locked too.
Back on the sidewalk, Lily sprayed on Je Reviens and freshened her makeup. Then she reentered the lobby and knocked on the manager’s door.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she told the heavyset man who answered, wearing an undershirt and smelling of beer. “Mr. Taunton was expecting me at ten to go over a script, and I got held up. He must have stepped out. Do you think you might let me in to wait? A girl doesn’t like to walk around by herself in the dark, men could get the wrong idea.”
Lily gave the man her most innocent, persuasive smile and held out a bottle of gin she’d picked up. “For your troubles, sir,” she added.
The man looked at her, his hand closed around the bottle.
“Who is it, Mel?” came a harsh female voice.
“Just another actress for Taunton, but he ain’t here.” Mel scratched his belly and leered. “Jeez, I must be in the wrong business.”
“Tell the little tart to go away,” came the woman’s voice.
“She brought us something for our troubles, Mother,” Mel said.
There was a shuffling and a florid-faced woman peered out from behind the man’s meaty shoulder.
She saw the gin and shrugged. “Go ahead and let her in. This dump don’t pay us enough to be the morality police.”
The manager pulled a large ring of keys out of his pocket and lumbered down the hall, the woman standing watch, hands on her hips, for which Lily was grateful. He unlocked Apartment E, calling out, “Mr. Taunton, are you there?” Lily thought she could always make some excuse if Freddy appeared, but the apartment was still, dark, and silent.
The manager flicked on the light and made his way back to his own apartment. Lily slipped inside, locked the door, and sighed in relief. Freddy Taunton lived in a one-bedroom apartment and took his meals in a brown-paneled kitchenette, the sink piled high with dirty dishes. The place smelled of pipe smoke and old grease. Somewhere nearby, a fly buzzed.
First things first: Lily hastened to the living room window, threw up the sash window, and opened the screen. Always leave yourself an escape hatch. Even as her heart pounded, she felt her brain click into sharper focus, sensed dormant skills stirring.
Even if he came back unexpectedly, Taunton would have to unlock the door. Right, Lily thought, grabbing a chair from the kitchenette and propping it under the knob.
Lily moved through the apartment quickly. In the bedroom closet, she found a length of rope and, wrapped in a sheepskin, an ugly bowie knife. Lily held the knife to the light, looking for bloodstains, but it was clean as a marine latrine awaiting inspection. Kitty had been strangled, not stabbed. Still, why did a guy need a knife like that? A knife made to eviscerate a deer in the wilderness.
Lily worked her way methodically through the apartment, finding little of interest. She stopped at the kitchen table where the Remington portable sat, a half-typed page in the carriage. Lily leaned over the typewriter and read:
He stands, the knife clutched and suspended in midair. On the co
ld ground, the girl squirms and begs. Her dress is torn. “No, please, no. I’ll do whatever you say.”
(It is winter in California, the trees are bare of leaves. Only the light of the moon illuminates her terrified face. Her attacker wears a mask. His voice is muffled.)
So darling Freddy fantasized about hurting women. Shuddering, Lily glanced around. The wastebasket was filled with balled sheets of paper. Lily uncrumpled a page. It said virtually the same thing. She tried several more and gave a harsh laugh. Freddy Taunton was blocked. He didn’t know what happened next. Or maybe he did, but couldn’t bring himself to write the murder itself.
Lily straightened. The rope and knife had been stashed in the bedroom closet. Lily decided to make one more sweep through there. At the door, she squatted, then lay completely flat, one cheek on the carpet. It stank of sweaty socks. Seeing a slight rise in the material, she ran her hand along it. Sure enough. Grasping the farthest corner between her nails, Lily tugged. A triangle of carpet peeled back in her hand. She tugged some more. It was loose, not nailed down. Underneath lay an envelope. She removed it and slid out some photos. And stared.
There was Kitty, tied to a chair and gagged just as Jeanne had described. Except Kitty’s clothes were in disarray, her brassiere exposed, her dress pushed up. And she was bleeding. There were six photos, each slightly different, of Kitty writhing, her mouth contorted in a scream, as she stared at a large knife on the floor beside her.
Feeling nauseous, Lily ran to the living room lamp, desperate to know if they were real. Blood ran down Kitty’s clothes and legs, but she didn’t see any wounds. It looked like someone had splattered Kitty with red paint. Lily examined the girl’s pupils, brows, the muscles around her mouth. Her lips were parted in an O. But her eyes were fixed, watchful. As if she weren’t really scared. As if she were acting.
Calm down, Lily told herself. Kitty had been found in a suit, not a dress, and she hadn’t been drenched in blood. This wasn’t documentation of Kitty’s murder. But why would she subject herself to this? Lily decided to bring the photos to that smug Detective Pico, let him figure it out. But Taunton couldn’t learn that she’d been here, or he might bolt before they could arrest him.
Lily’s skin itched. Every instinct she had screamed at her to get the hell out right now. She really, really didn’t want to go back into that bedroom. But she knew she should take only one photo and leave the others, so Taunton would see the envelope safe and sound if he checked.
She was crouched in the closet, sliding the envelope back under the carpet, when she heard the noise she’d been dreading—a key entering a metal lock. Jumping up, clutching her one photo, she ran out of the bedroom, making for the window. The lock had given way and Taunton was rattling the door, trying to dislodge the chair. Lily heard swearing, then a thump as he threw his shoulder against the door. The chair moved.
Lily sprinted. Please just let me get out the window before he gets inside, she thought.
The chair screeched, then splintered as the back came off. The door flew open. A large figure stumbled inside, the stink of beer and gin wafting in with him.
In her fear, Lily’s hands grew moist and the photo slipped from her hand. She hesitated, torn between picking it up and making for her escape hatch. It was enough.
“What do you think you’re doing?” a voice said. Not Taunton. The manager.
Lily reached the window. With a great roar, the manager was across the room. “You lying little whore, I’m going to give you what you deserve, then you’ll know what a real man—”
His fingers grabbed her blouse as she dove, arms extended, legs kicking, through the window. Lily heard material tear, felt her heel slam into something as she flew through the air. Then the bellow, as if of an elephant. She landed on a bush, then fell to the ground with a thump that knocked the wind out of her. Lily scrambled to her feet, taking ragged painful breaths as she sprinted up the driveway and down Radcliffe, running until she hit the safety of Santa Monica Boulevard.
It wasn’t until she was panting in an alley a half mile away that she considered what she’d done: illegally entered into a man’s apartment and attempted to steal his property. The manager would say he’d grown suspicious after Taunton failed to arrive, gone to check, and caught her stealing. He’d deny he’d threatened her, but she’d seen the lechery on his face, knew he’d only been waiting for his chance.
Still, the photos suggested something sinister. She’d broken the law, but she’d also discovered something that might link Freddy Taunton to Kitty’s murder.
Lily breathed slowly, willing her panic to subside. Then she found a pay phone and called Detective Pico. He wasn’t there, but she explained about the photos of the murdered girl, gave the operator the address, and urged her to hurry. When asked for her name, she hung up.
Lily caught the last streetcar home, ignoring the appalled looks from the other passengers—luckily there weren’t many this late—and then ran all the way back to the rooming house. Tiptoeing upstairs, she knocked on Jeanne’s door, calling her name softly, anxious to find out what the girl knew about the more extreme photos.
But Jeanne’s room stayed silent as a tomb. Biting her lip, Lily thought about waking Red, then decided to wait until morning, by which time the police would have confiscated the photos and, she hoped taken Taunton into custody as he returned from his fishing trip.
Lily woke up at three-thirty a.m., slick with sweat. She threw back the covers, her limbs rigid from a nightmare. The glow from a faraway streetlight cast the room into unfamiliar shadows. The bed was lumpy, the furniture all wrong. It took a moment to remember she was in Kitty’s room. In the boardinghouse. In Hollywood, California. In her dream Lily had been trapped inside Freddy’s apartment by the manager who held the bowie knife, sharpening it against a whetstone.
In the room’s dimness, she saw the doorknob turn and heard the metal snick, snick of her dream. She’d locked the door last night before climbing into bed, unnerved by her close call. But she’d left the key in the lock.
Now she heard the wood strain as someone on the other end put weight against the door, pushing to see if it would give. The metal key rattled in its hole. The noises stopped. Lily shrank back, trying to make herself invisible. She was sure whoever stood in the hallway could hear the blood pounding in her temples. She had to keep perfectly still. The doorknob eased back into its original position, its cut-glass facets catching the dim light.
After an eternity, she heard quiet steps moving away. Lily strained her ears to make out where they went. Perhaps it was one of the girls, plagued with a headache and wanting to borrow an aspirin. Soon she’d hear a knock at another door, a muffled conversation down the hall. But her visitor hadn’t knocked. Was one of her fellow boarders a thief? But then why wouldn’t she just wait until Lily left the house? Lily slid out of bed. Silently, she tiptoed to the vanity and poured some water from a pitcher, her teeth chattering against the glass when she drank. Then she went to the window and stood at one side, careful not to show herself. She pulled the lacy curtains open a crack. The sidewalk was empty. She stood there for a long time, but nothing moved. She wondered if it was possible to conjure up evil by thinking about it too much. Shivering and stiff, Lily moved through the milky gray light and got back into bed.
CHAPTER 11
October 13, 1949
Walking downstairs for breakfast, Lily heard the exasperated voice of Detective Magruder in the parlor, interrogating Jeanne. The girl was weeping.
“I’m not lying,” she said. “I was sound asleep at twelve-thirty a.m. I haven’t left the house since you were here yesterday. I swear it.”
Lily froze in the hallway.
“The female who called our hotline said it was an emergency. She gave the operator the name and address of Freddy Taunton, the same man you called Detective Pico about last night. She mentioned the existence of pornographic photos involving the deceased. I’d like to know what’s going on.”
“I�
��ve got no idea,” Jeanne wailed.
Lily stepped into the parlor.
“Good morning, Detective Magruder. Has there been a break?”
Magruder gave her an annoyed look. His eyes were bloodshot and his clothes rumpled, like he hadn’t slept all night. The cologne he’d applied didn’t quite dispel the reek of a brewery.
“You girls and your mass hysteria have us running around like chickens with our heads cut off,” Magruder said.
“Did you find pornographic photos of Kitty Hayden at Freddy Taunton’s apartment?” Lily asked.
“No, we did not,” Magruder roared.
Lily blinked. “You didn’t?”
“We found nothing except a foiled burglary. The manager let some girl into Taunton’s apartment last night after she fed him a sob story. When he got suspicious and checked on her, he caught her going out the back window.”
“What was she trying to steal?” Lily asked shakily.
“Maybe your friend here can enlighten us all,” Magruder said, jabbing a thumb at Jeanne, who buried her face in her hands. “Because of her, I drove back from Palm Springs in the middle of the night and tore apart an apartment with nothing to show for it. Because of her, my partner’s spent five hours down at the harbor, tracking down every passenger manifest for the deep-sea charters. None of them have a Taunton on their lists.”
Lily looked Magruder in the eyes. “Maybe the trip was a red herring. To give Taunton time to get away. Jeanne said he used to tie her and Kitty up, gag them, then watch them try to escape. Maybe he got a little rough with Kitty and things got out of control.” Lily turned to Jeanne. “Did he ever splash red paint on you to make it look like blood?”
“He suggested it once.” Jeanne blushed furiously and stared at the floor. “I told him it made me uncomfortable, so he dropped it.”
Lily raised an eyebrow in Magruder’s direction. “Maybe there are pictures of Kitty too.”
The Last Embrace Page 9
