The wedding date had been set for the following June. Edgar wanted to marry sooner, but Anna had begged to put off the date, ostensibly so she could order her gown from Paris. In truth, she wanted more time to solve the murders and perhaps even capture the Boyle Heights Rape Fiend. This forestalling was nonsensical. It frustrated her main goal in life—to marry and get out of the house posthaste. Any number of things could happen between August and June to spoil her plans—most notably that Edgar would find out she was working at the station. But she couldn't quit police work now. Not when she was so close.
Anna decided to reread Wuthering Heights to find out how Cathy so completely bewitched Heathcliff that he forgave her the rather large faux pas of marrying another man and, subsequently, dying. If Anna could foster such a love in Edgar, it would surely survive one minor deception, a few necessary kisses, and a job at the police station. Anna thought again about luring Edgar into a dark and lonely place and securing a love that transcended death, but she wasn't sure it would be enough. Edgar was no fool. She would have to practice.
When Clara arrived to help Anna prepare for her portrait, Anna's heart gave a little leap. She'd been neglecting Clara since she had been hired at the station, and she hadn't realized just how much she missed her. She led Clara by the hand into her bedroom and they sat on the canopy bed.
Clara smiled. “Dearest, you've been a complete stranger since the day of your engagement. What's Edgar doing with you?” She giggled like she had said something naughty.
“Nothing,” Anna said, guiltily. Clara squinted at Anna, her mouth still smiling, but Anna knew there was something serious beneath the giggles. She just didn't know what. She hoped Clara's feelings weren't hurt. Anna needed to come up with some better excuses for her absences, not just the Orphans’ Asylum and romantic outings that never happened. Perhaps she could feign appendicitis.
Clara pressed her lips together. “I have bad news. Auntie is dying. I have to go to Summerland tomorrow.”
Anna put a palm to her chest and gasped. What a stroke of luck. She hoped the aunt would be dying all month. Then she felt guilty thinking this and tried to be sad. She was acquainted with the lady, a medium of some renown, and had visited her with Clara at the spiritualist colony in Summerland. The aunt was unfashionably old, and she annoyed Anna by delivering unsolicited messages from Anna's own dead mother, all of which started with “never” or “don't.” Her beach house brimmed with restless spirits that made Clara squeak with fright. Anna found ghosts deliciously creepy, and under ordinary circumstances she would have gone to protect Clara and fend them off, but she had to be at the station.
Anna bit her lip and searched for a comforting word. “Um…I suppose she'll be in touch.”
Clara brightened. “I hadn't considered that.”
Anna swept over to a full-length mirror. Clara, smiling again, helped her slip into the scratchy gown and began to fasten the buttons in the back. Anna sucked in her stomach, but the buttons still strained at the waist.
Clara tugged. “Hmm.” The lilt in her voice contained a warning. “It's going to rip if I do them up.”
Anna looked at Clara with wide eyes. “Jupiter.”
Clara let go of the buttons and ran her hands through Anna's hair. She lifted a Tournure frame from the toilet table, set it carefully on Anna's head, and began twisting her hair around it. “You could wear a tighter corset, but you'd have to carry smelling salts. Can Edgar put his hands around your waist?”
Anna's hands wandered to the smallest part of her midsection. “I don't know. He's never tried. Officer Singer almost did…” Anna stopped and put her fist to her mouth. She hadn't meant to tell Clara about Officer Singer.
Clara fumbled the Tournure frame. It fell, yanking Anna's hair, and dangled, trapped in a tangled lock.
Maybe Anna's slip had been a good thing. Her posture was beginning to suffer from the weight of all her burdens—the untyped files, the murders, the shoe, the Boyle Heights Rape Fiend, Eve's fall, and especially Officer Singer, his knowledge of her dark secret, and the risk he posed to her sanity. Maybe it was time to heave the oppressive weight off her shoulders and onto Clara's.
Anna looked at Clara in the mirror. “I have something to confide.”
Clara winced. “Oh Anna, I hope it's not a big sin.”
Anna's words tiptoed from her mouth. “It's not a sin, exactly. It's more of an indiscretion. I'm working at the police station.”
Clara's lips parted, but nothing came out, so Anna kept going. “I gave the Widow Crisp my ruby necklace and an emerald ring in exchange for time on my own. I've been working several weeks now as a police matron under the name of Anna Holmes.”
Clara let loose a shrill giggle that hung awkwardly in the air. She busied her hands, mechanically pulling the frame free and liberating a wad of hair while Anna gritted her teeth. Clara rolled the wad between her fingers and pitched it into the wastebasket. She cleared her throat. “Who is Officer Singer?”
“He's the police chief's son. You must have seen him at the ball.” Anna raised her eyebrows. “He looks like the Arrow Collar Man.”
“Sweetness, I met him and he didn't look at all like the Arrow Collar Man. I wouldn't even call him handsome.”
Anna wrinkled her brow. “You can't have seen him up close.”
Clara's eyebrow darted up. “Obviously you have.”
“As a matter of fact, he's helping me catch a rape fiend. Or, I'm helping him. We do secret operations at night, posing as lovers in the park. Not alone, of course. A different officer waits in the bushes ready to spring and, when the rapist attacks, the three of us are poised to capture him. But more importantly, I'm also hunting a murderer.”
Clara spoke each word carefully, as if she couldn't believe their meaning. “He put his hands around your waist?”
“Well, one time. He was kissing me, which is more than Edgar ever does. But don't worry, I was properly outraged.” She pinched her lip between her teeth. “Although I did kiss him once because a suspect was watching us. He only kissed me back to be polite. And it doesn't count. You'll see when I explain it. It was a life or death situation. At least I thought so at the time.” Anna smiled, dreamy-eyed. “He said I'm a good detective.”
Clara remained silent so long that Anna began to fidget. She watched Clara's tight smile in the mirror. Finally Clara spoke. “Someone saw you kissing Officer Singer?”
“No. Someone saw Matron Holmes kissing Officer Singer. It's different. No one knows it was me.” Anna frowned. “I'm more concerned that Officer Singer will tell. He's angry with me about the kiss. But maybe he won't. I'm very important to the force.” She sighed. “You really should see him up close. He has luscious peepers.”
Clara's closed her eyes and shook her head. “If Edgar found out about any of this, you would lose him.”
“Not if he loves me the way Heathcliff loved Cathy.”
“I don't think you really want to marry Edgar.”
Anna's voice rose. “I do. But there's a rape fiend on the loose. And a murderer! What would you do?”
“I'd quit my job and stop kissing the police chief's son! You're spoiling your reputation!”
“It isn't my reputation I'm spoiling! It's Matron Holmes's reputation!”
Clara took a deep breath. “Sweetness, you've completely lost your bearing.” Her sunny, perennial smile had disappeared behind a cloud. “If you don't…control yourself, I don't know what I'll do.”
Anna spun around to face her. “What do you mean you don't know what you'll do?”
“You can't just go traipsing around at night, kissing police officers, no matter how good you think your reasons are. You have to stop.”
“That's easy for you to say, because you wouldn't want to do those things. But I do! And if I don't catch the killer, no one else will. Innocent harlots are going to die!”
“Rape fiends? Murderers? Harlots? You know what I think, Anna? I think your father was right to take away your allowance an
d shackle you to a chaperone. In fact, I think he should have hired more of them, because one is clearly not enough!”
Anna narrowed her eyes. “Take that back!”
“No. You're ruining yourself, dragging your precious innocence through the muck. And you'll take me down with you.” Clara leaned against the wall. She looked faint. Tears brimmed in her eyes. “You and I have been connected our whole lives. Whatever you do reflects on me. Did you think about that?” Clara fingered the ties on her bolero gown, and her voice went low. “I don't know if I can see you anymore. Not unless you stop this scandalous behavior. You need to quit playing police officer and police…lover, or I'll have to make a clean and very public break.”
Tears glistened on Clara's cheeks. Anna stared at her. “You can't mean that. If you loved me enough, it wouldn't matter. And you love me enough. I know you do.”
“Dearest, I love you. But I can't be party to your wild behavior. Edgar Wright is the best thing that ever happened to you. He's decent and kind and you are playing him for a fool!”
Anna's mouth quivered. “I'm not! And I resent your saying so.”
“Goodbye, Anna.” Clara sniffed. “Call on me when you come to your senses, unless you've destroyed yourself by then.”
With that, Clara let the Tournure frame tumble to the ground and hurried to the door. Anna could hear her sobs echo as she walked down the stairs and through the marble hall.
Half an hour later, Anna sat in her gown trimmed with artificial birds, unbuttoned in the middle so that it didn't rip. The corners of her mouth tipped down. Her hair was bunched up in a common bun—the best the parlor maid could manage. She held very still as the portrait artist arranged her. He was French, with intense eyes and wore blousy paint-speckled sleeves. He silently swirled the skirts of her gown into luminous drapes and folds, touching the birds, moving their wire and feathered wings this way or that. He picked up her feet and placed them so the tips of her satin slippers peeked from under the hem. Her posed hand dropped to her side. She was feeling very alone and didn't give a hoot whether her hands were gracefully gesturing in the air or showing the world her middle finger.
He made a disgruntled sound and moved her hand back into position. He stood apart to look at her. “I can't paint a scowling bride. Relax your face.”
Two lines cut between Anna's brows. “I can't; I'm unhappy.”
Even as her world was expanding, it was shriveling up. Life just wasn't worth living without Clara. But she loved her work at the station and she had to stop the killer or she'd spend eternity in purgatory. The crease on her forehead deepened. She resembled her father.
The painter slapped his hands back and forth in a washing gesture. “Fine. Take back your money. I won't paint a scowling bride. It's an affront to love.”
Anna knew he didn't mean it. He'd had a tantrum when he'd painted her portrait for her debut. His lip jutted out and he pouted with his eyes. They were large, blue, and long lashed, under tame dark eyebrows. They sparked a revelation and she blinked. She lowered herself down onto a velvet pouf. “If I described a man to you, could you paint him?”
He raised his groomed eyebrows. “Does Mademoiselle have a lover? That would explain your tragic face.”
He seemed sympathetic to the idea, so she nodded. “I don't want to forget him. He's my…love…” She looked down at the artificial birds. “Budgie. Oh, my heart!” She melted into to a cascade of artificial tears.
Anna had hit her mark. He moved to her side and placed a large paint-stained hand on her heaving shoulder. “Oh Mademoiselle, to paint you smiling would be an affront to love.”
She looked up with a long face and hound dog eyes. “Will you paint him, then? I'd be happy.”
The artist's face pouted in sympathy, but he had not consented. She wept harder, but his face remained tense and tentative. Then she remembered what the Widow Crisp had taught her about how bread was buttered. “We could do my portrait another day, when my eyes aren't puffy, and you could get two commissions.”
It was a bold-faced lie. She had no money to pay him. But by the time he found that out, it would be too late. His face relaxed and he caressed her cheek. “Of course I will paint him, if you will smile.”
When Anna arrived at the station on Monday, she had a portrait of the Boyle Heights Rape Fiend tucked under her arm, wrapped in brown paper, the paint still wet. She thought it a fair likeness. His large blue eyes and thick black lashes alone were strong identifiers. Add to that his dandyish clothes and white-blond hair. Her heart thumped with excitement. She knew she was onto something. Now it remained to convince the rest of the force, who by and large thought she was an idiot.
Joe was standing at the counter with Mr. Melvin when Anna entered. The men spun quarters on the countertop in some sort of game. Mr. Melvin was concentrating, and Joe was laughing. As she brushed past them, she felt Joe's eyes heavy on her back. When she turned to face him, he was engrossed in the game, not looking at all. She had only wished he'd been looking.
She set the painting down and picked at the knot holding the twine. Her fingernail bent backwards. “Cock!” Shaking one hand, she removed the brown paper and crumpled it into a ball.
The men began to swim over like sharks when there was blood in the water—Wolf, Snow, and a handful of patrolmen. They were far more interested in Anna now that she had been labeled a tart. Normally, this would be undesirable for a girl. At the moment, it was working in her favor.
Hummingbirds fluttered in her stomach. She stood and smoothed her skirts. Wolf smiled. “What do you know? Matron Holmes is decorating.”
Anna lifted her chin ever so slightly. “It's a portrait of the Boyle Heights Rape Fiend, as I remember him. I had it commissioned. I described the villain and the artist painted him. It's quite a good likeness.”
A smirk spread among the men. She leaned the portrait up against the wall and stood back so they could see it. Wolf put his hand on Anna's shoulder. “Well, that will make a lovely gift. I'm sure he'll appreciate it.” The men tittered.
Joe drifted up to see the painting. He ignored Anna but considered the portrait with interest. Wolf stepped beside him and crossed his arms. Anna's heart bounced to her throat. She watched Joe stroke his dimpled chin. He was smart. Surely he could see the brilliance of this. Or maybe he would support her for her own sake. She didn't know why she thought he might. He never had before. She felt a pang in her heart and tossed her head, remembering how he had insulted her in the stables, how he was holding her secrets over her head, putting the squeeze on her.
Snow scratched his flaky scalp. “Is that what he looks like, Joe?”
“I don't know. I only saw the back of him as I was falling on my…” Joe glanced at Anna and censored his language, “…posterior.”
The men laughed again.
Anna tried to catch Joe's eye, but he looked away. She stood as straight as a soldier. “Based on his knowledge of women's fashion, I believe he's a milliner, cobbler, or dress maker. You can use this painting to canvass the shops. Show it both to customers and shop keepers. One of them will have seen him. He's handsome and very well dressed. Someone a woman would notice.”
“Someone you might like to interview in the stables?” Wolf asked.
The men sniggered and a patrolman made a loud, “Hah!”
She held her head high and hoped no one noticed that her hand trembled. “You can laugh, but you're not making any progress on the case. I'll canvass the shops myself. I feel I must to do something!”
“Well, Matron Holmes,” Wolf said. “You're busy with the coroner's lecture tonight, but you could go on the sting with me tomorrow night.” He winked at her.
Anna pressed her lips together. “Fine. I'd like a chaperone.” The men howled, all except Mr. Melvin and Joe, who was blinking at Wolf, his mouth slightly open.
Joe strode over to Captain Wells. “Let me do it. Wolf shouldn't do it.”
“But Officer Singer, you don't seem able to hang onto your gun,�
� Captain Wells said.
At that moment, Matron Clemens strode through the door. Her eyes swept the officers, who were clustered around Anna like flies on a carcass. She scattered them with one frigid glance.
When Anna arrived home, she told Mrs. Morales she didn't feel well. She went straight to her room, locked the door, and changed back into her matron's clothes. A uniform would lend her credibility. She snatched up a hat and veil and climbed out the window. If Joe Singer was not speaking to her, he surely wouldn't escort her to the coroner's lecture tonight. Without his company, it would be a long and treacherous journey. She didn't have time for dinner or anything else.
Anna began walking at five-thirty, taking Grande Avenue south. Some of the neighborhoods were poor, some inhabited by people who didn't speak English. There, the houses looked owner-built, small and precarious, surrounded by corn and tomato plants. Goats chewed on weeds in dirt yards, and there were chickens, rabbit hutches, scum ponds, and garbage smells. Nice girls were not supposed to wander about unaccompanied at night, and men shamelessly stared at her as she walked along. At least these neighborhoods didn't have rape fiends. Still, she wished Officer Singer was holding her arm and that he wasn't mad at her.
Anna shared the road with a group of grubby children trudging home from the Corum Paper Box factory. They were skinny and seemed too tired to be naughty. Anna had read in the paper that the factory work was dangerous, and that the children employed there worked six days a week for only two dollars. Even a plain mother could earn twice that working one evening in the cribs. While Anna didn't know what sinful acts Eve was doing with vile men, she knew why she was doing it.
The Secret Life of Anna Blanc Page 21
