Murder.
The door flung open with a bang, smacking Anna in the face and sandwiching her against the wall. She swallowed a scream and held still. Carmine stuck in his red face and looked about like a child in a game of hide and seek who thought his playmates were cheating. He grunted at the stench, as if he himself didn't smell like an outhouse. Satisfied that Anna was not present, he removed himself, leaving a lingering scent of urine. Anna breathed in little shallow pants of fetid air, trying to catch her breath without making a sound or losing her peanut butter sandwich. She felt a warm trickle on her brow. Reaching up, she smeared a streak of blood across her forehead. She paid no mind to the wound. Her attention was focused on the drama playing out before her.
“Well, can you identify her?” asked the thin man.
“Are you sure it's a she?” the woman said.
“I realize the body's in bad condition. She was in the water a long time.”
Anna chewed her handkerchief. The woman leaned over the slab. She had the silhouette of a matron, busty, thick-wasted, with a large feathered hat. What appeared to be a dead fox swung from her neck like a pendulum in the space between her bosom and the lump. She slung it back over her shoulder. “It's one of Monique's girls. Rose something. See the tattoo? There's no love lost between me and Monique, but I don't like seeing innocent girls murdered in cold blood, even if it is the competition.”
“It was a suicide.”
“Suicide my ass!”
Anna brought one hand to her mouth in a silent, airless gasp. In a flash of black taffeta, feathers, and dyed red hair, the woman flung the curtain aside, coming face to face with the fugitive as the drape swung back into place. Caught and not knowing what else to do, Anna hit the floor like a dropped confection, feigning a swoon. The woman considered her only a moment, and stepped over her body and out the door, leaving a heavy trail of rose perfume.
Anna played possum in case the thin man should come out from behind the curtain. She lay with her cheek pressed to the cold cement floor, and alternated between marveling at the woman's gall and wondering how one could tell if a decomposed corpse had been murdered. She heard a door open and shut. A gust of air made the curtain swell. The thin man had left through a different door. Anna sat up and listened.
Out on the station floor, she heard the woman's bland voice. “There's a debutante passed out in the morgue.”
Anna heard shouting and a rush of feet. She dropped back onto the tile, closing her eyes. She was glad that even minor head wounds bleed rivers. Her face contorted in pain, only partly an act, as the stolen books were jabbing into her belly.
Officers swarmed into the room like agitated bees.
“My God, she's hurt.” A man with an upper-class, East Coast accent kneeled beside her and took up her limp hand. “Give her air!” He lightly touched her bloody brow, where a small purple lump was growing. “Captain, you will answer for this!”
Anna stirred, tossing her head and offering up a dramatic, “No, no.” She blinked her eyes open and looked around as if bewildered. Then she truly was bewildered. The person holding her hand was not an officer, but a dark-eyed young man with an excellent tailor. She blushed. She knew his face. He had sent champagne to her room on her ill-fated honeymoon at the Mission Inn.
The man was Edgar Wright. Anna primly pulled the hem of her skirt down to cover up a stockinged shin.
Mr. Wright put her hand to his lips. “Thank God. Thank God.”
Anna leaned on Mr. Wright's arm as she pretend-limped down the steps of the station to his Cadillac limousine. It was shiny and ocean blue. Her luck had definitely turned. She could tell that he liked her, but that embarrassing business with Louis Taylor hung in the air. Since being tainted by the scandal, she'd had few suitors for her father to chase away.
Mr. Wright helped her into the passenger seat and walked around front to crank up the car. Anna quickly fished in her bodice for the three books that were ramming her ribs like rhinoceroses. She wrapped them in her shawl just in time to flash Mr. Wright a gorgeous smile as he slipped into the driver's seat.
He smiled back. “Now that we're alone, Miss Blanc—it is Miss Blanc, isn't it?” He raised his eyebrows. “I heard you weren't married.”
“Yes! I mean…” She blushed a deep, deep crimson. “It's Miss.” Anna didn't elaborate, though he seemed to be waiting for an explanation.
When he saw that none was forthcoming, he cleared his throat. “Now that we're alone, won't you tell me what really happened today?”
Anna's eyes searched the ceiling for the right thing to say. As a rule, the truth would never do. She trod uncertainly. “It's the strangest thing.” She stared out the window into dark strawberry fields, looking for suggestions. “The last I remember…I was trying on hats with my…um…cousin.” She tapped her lips. “And then…I found myself on the floor looking up at you, Mr. Wright.” She beamed at him. “Thank you for coming to my rescue. Although, I must say, I don't know why it was you.”
He stared past the dashboard, watching the road and smiling. “It was just good luck. Mine, I mean. I called at your house. I'm trying to interest your father in a business deal. Mrs. Morales said he would be back in town today. And I wanted to see you, of course.”
Realization lit Anna's face. “Oh, it was you who called before. In January.”
Mr. Wright frowned. “Yes. I had hoped you would remember me.”
“Oh, I do. Of course I do.” She twisted a curl on the nape of her neck and smiled.
“So, I was waiting for your father when the parlor maid—Miss Lupita?—got the call from the police. The poor girl panicked. Mrs. Morales was out, so Miss Lupita asked me for advice.”
“She didn't!” Anna hated indiscreet servants. They were holes in the dike that would have to be plugged.
He grinned. “I couldn't very well just leave you in jail.”
Anna sparkled up at him. “Then, I am forever in your debt, Mr. Wright.”
“I assure you, Miss Blanc, it was my pleasure.”
Anna settled into the buttery seat and sighed, happy that it took a long time to drive from Venice Beach to Los Angeles, though Los Angeles kept reaching its fingers further toward the sea. She stole glances at Mr. Wright, at his large, smooth hands on the wheel, and thought how lovely it would be to be a different girl—to be golden again, with a shining reputation and a different father.
The world outside the window was dark but for distant pinpoints, which looked like fallen stars on the land. In the headlights, the road abruptly petered out into an open field. Edgar brought his big, blue car to a lurching stop so they didn't end up in the weeds. There had been nothing along the road for a while—no buildings, no farms, just flat, unclaimed land. Edgar gave Anna a sheepish grin. “I'm afraid we've been on a road to nowhere.”
She gave him an incredulous smile. “But why would anyone build a road to nowhere? It seems a lot of work for nothing.”
“They're all over the outskirts. Development companies lobby to have them built, roads going nowhere, waiting to be roads to somewhere. I suppose they represent hope. I'm sorry to inconvenience you, Miss Blanc.”
“I'm in no hurry to see my father, Mr. Wright. I'm inclined to take another road to nowhere.”
Edgar laughed and turned the car around. He retraced his way half a mile back to a fork in the road and rejoined the main highway. They drove past new houses and stores and schools for new people coming to California for new lives. But Anna didn't have a new life. She was like one of the roads branching out from the city, forged in the hope of purpose but left empty, going nowhere.
It was late when they drove past the little funicular railway known as Angel's Flight, which ran to the top of Bunker Hill near the drive of the Blanc estate. The streets were clean and wide, sprinkled with palm trees and grand houses with the best views of the city. Up ahead, Anna saw the rooftop under which she would soon be upbraided, and tied her shawl tight around her bundle of books. “You should drop me off
on the street. Father will be more upset at finding me alone in the company of a man than at my having been arrested, although he'll hate that too.”
“Not a chance. I just found you unconscious and bloody on the floor. I'm not abandoning you on the street in the middle of the night. Anyway, it could work in your favor.” He raised his eyebrows. “A father's more likely to show mercy if there's a witness.”
As Anna and Mr. Wright ascended the marble steps of her home, passing under tall, white columns, Miss Cooper descended, nose to heaven, suitcase in hand. She didn't return Anna's pleasantries. If Miss Cooper had ever felt the least affection for her charge, it was certainly gone now. Anna assumed the parlor maid would also appear with her own suitcase at any moment.
They found Christopher Blanc in his Louis XV parlor smoking two cigarettes at once, California's second-largest fault line running down between his eyebrows. He addressed the twelve-foot ceiling, his French accent rattling like an earthquake, starting out soft but gaining power until it shook the chandelier. “Oh lá lá. My daughter has a police record! Mon seul enfant!”
Anna smiled casually, as if she had just returned from a tea party—her habitual way of speaking to the impending eruption that was her father. “Welcome home, Father.”
His jaws ground against one another like two tectonic plates. “Mon Dieu.”
Mr. Wright spoke in a soothing voice. “Mr. Blanc, your daughter's innocent. It was all just a terrible mistake. The officer accepted full responsibility. It was just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And look, she's been hurt.” He lightly touched the skin above Anna's wound, which, when cleaned up, was a disappointment. It looked to be little more than a scratch.
Mr. Blanc's eyebrows drew together in concern, and his hands fell limp at his sides. The earthquake was over. He looked at Edgar. “What happened to her?”
Anna smiled a little too sweetly. “You might ask me, Father. I was actually there.”
Mr. Blanc grunted. “Never mind. What happened?”
She blinked and bit her lip. “I don't really know. I was shopping with Miss Cooper, this I remember.” She glanced from side to side. “Suddenly we were surrounded by marching suffragettes. Hundreds of them! A lady handed me a pamphlet…and then everything went black.”
“There was a scuffle at the march. She must have been struck. When I arrived at the station, she was unconscious,” Mr. Wright said.
Anna touched her forehead. “I was a political prisoner—an accidental one. You can't actually think I would smoke?”
Anna rooted furiously in her beaded purse for the suffrage pamphlet, which she planned to produce as evidence in her defense. As she withdrew the pamphlet with the lady Paul Revere, a Lucky Strike fell from her bag and bounced, spilling little bits of tobacco onto the Spanish tile. She winced and braced herself for the aftershock. Mr. Blanc's face went from vermillion to lily.
Mr. Wright stifled a smile. “I had better be going. Mr. Blanc, perhaps we can talk in the morning? Miss Blanc, don't hesitate to call me anytime you get arrested.”
“I will, Mr. Wright.” She smiled as if her father wasn't there.
“Oh, mon Dieu!” Mr. Blanc said.
Mr. Wright winked at Anna as he headed out the door.
At eight o’clock, it was already hot. Mr. Blanc and Anna breakfasted on the terrace, eating salted kippers and sour crème and studiously ignoring each other. The cold fish smelled like the ocean. Catalina Island floated on the horizon. The only conversation came from a parrot hanging in a cage: “Merde.”
Mr. Blanc hadn't spoken to Anna for a week—not since the LA Times had displayed her picture on the front page in the company of an undesirable, promoting a cause he didn't believe in, and making eyes at the photographer. He stormed over to the Los Angeles Times building, swearing up and down that the girl winking from the cover was not his daughter and if they didn't fire the photographer and print a retraction, they would be sued for libel. And so they did, but to no avail. That wink, preserved for posterity, tarnished her reputation, which had already been downgraded from golden to silver. Anna was now bronze at best. Her bridal value was going down, down, down. Mr. Blanc put Mrs. Morales on Anna duty and forbade her to leave the house until a new and better chaperone could be hired.
Before being fired, Tilly had had the audacity to call on Anna, and while she didn't receive him he did leave her the photograph as promised—the one depicting Anna and Eve holding the large suffrage sign and smiling. Anna loved it, and kept it with the contraband books and other treasures under her bed.
Anna admired Eve and envied her for getting to work at a police station so close to detectives. Anna had always wanted to be a detective, but she never could because she was a woman. She couldn't even marry a detective. It would be beneath her.
While Anna ruminated thus, Mr. Blanc read the business section of the Los Angeles Herald because it was not the Los Angeles Times. He growled and shook his head as if he didn't believe a word of it. Anna picked up the stolen police procedural, which hid under the cover of The Little Princess. They both put fork to mouth without taking eye from page. He ground the salty kippers between his teeth. She took delicate bites.
Suddenly, he put down the Herald and spoke. “Anna, Edgar Wright has asked permission to court you. I gave it.” Anna choked on a slippery kipper, shocked that he'd given his blessing. She would have been less surprised if he'd told her that he was the Antichrist, or that he'd taken up underwater ballet. He continued. “He's wealthy and interested in banking. I see the possibility of an alliance. How do you feel?”
The “how do you feel” part was more shocking still. “I didn't know you cared how I felt,” Anna said coolly, though her mind raced with possibilities.
Mr. Blanc grunted. “He seems to take your foolishness in stride, but don't test him. Now that you've sullied your reputation, he may be your only chance at an exceptionally rich man.”
“You're the one who drives off good matches.”
“Hah! No one as good as Edgar Wright.”
“Well, it's very unlikely I could get into trouble when I'm under house arrest!”
He ground his kipper between clenched teeth. “You're just like your mother!”
They were interrupted by Mrs. Morales, who strode through the patio doors and cleared her throat for a pronouncement. “The new chaperone has arrived. I thought you'd like to have her start as soon as possible so that I can return to my duties.”
Anna found her enthusiasm insulting. Mr. Blanc assented and Mrs. Morales soon returned with a wiry, freckled woman of about forty who wore the ugliest frock Anna had ever seen. It was the color and texture of masticated kipper and had sweat stains under the arms. The chaperone glowed like a Sunday school teacher.
“May I present the Widow Crisp? Widow Crisp, this is Mr. Blanc, and Miss Anna Blanc, your charge,” Mrs. Morales said.
Mr. Blanc stood, looked the Widow Crisp up and down, and seemed satisfied. He spoke like a general addressing his men. “I assume Mrs. Morales has briefed you.”
“She has,” said the Widow Crisp.
“Good. Anna's last chaperone wasn't vigilant. I hope you won't make the same mistake.”
The Widow Crisp leveled her gaze at Anna. “I assure you, Mr. Blanc, I won't let her out of my sight.” In those prim, thinly lashed eyes, Anna detected a threat.
Anna lay still on a settee in the parlor, wearing a green satin evening gown, her arms crossed like Sarah Bernhardt sleeping in a coffin, preparing for a tragic role. Edgar was supposed to take her to see the great actress in La Vierge d’Avila that night and had never showed. The play had ended an hour ago. If it hadn't been about a nun, and likely preachy and boring, Anna would be angry. The grandfather clock gonged midnight.
Unlike Anna, her father was enjoying Mr. Wright's constant attention. No doubt they were together now, working late at the bank. She wanted Mr. Wright to steal her away from her father, not cozy up to him like a doting son. But she could hardly
complain. His approach was succeeding. Mr. Wright was hanging on like a rodeo cowboy.
Having a suitor didn't make Anna's life any more interesting in the here and now. Mr. Wright was either at the bank or wooing investors at fancy dinners to which ladies were not invited. When they were together, they were never alone. Anna's movements were still restricted. She spent most of her time bored and away from other human beings, unless one considered the Widow Crisp a human being, which Anna did not.
Anna plucked up the Herald, which lay folded on the table, and glanced over an article on children forced to slave in dangerous factories. The newsprint rubbed off on her fingers, making them feel dirty. She had almost dropped the paper when she noticed an ad from Arrow promoting their shirt collars, something every woman in America looked forward to. The advertisement featured a strong, square-jawed man, debonair and unsmiling, in a crisp white collar, shirt, and black tuxedo. He was the reason that women read the Herald. He was the Arrow Collar Man.
Anna let her eyes peruse his illustrated body. Just below his waist, the advertisement ended and there was another—an ad for the White Cross Vibrator. A young woman, pink-cheeked and glowing, cradled a metal contraption and beamed. It looked like a gun. Anna read, “You will tingle with the force of your own awakened power, and all the keen relish and powers of youth will throb within you. Rich, red blood will be sent coursing through your veins and you will realize thoroughly the joy of living. Your self-respect, even, will increase one hundred-fold.” Anna clipped the ad.
The next ad had no pictures. “Wanted by the Los Angeles Police Department—an assistant matron of irreproachable character to handle police issues pertaining to women and children. Fifty dollars per month.” This advertisement made her heart thump even louder than the Arrow Collar Man. Surely being an assistant matron would awaken her powers, make her feel joyful, and increase her self-respect. It could be as healthful as owning a vibrator.
The Secret Life of Anna Blanc Page 4
