After another half hour, I began to feel really silly and not a little afraid. After all, what I was doing could hardly be more illegal. And why was I doing it anyway? Maybe close proximity to a private detective for a couple of years had made me overconfident. And like a lot of employees, I suppose I’d been guilty of watching my boss and thinking I could do what he did, only better. I sat back down on the recamier with a quiet sigh and thought about what to do.
That’s when I again noticed the bookshelves that had tempted me when I first entered the room. I moved across to them and ran the tips of my fingers across the beautiful spines, occasionally pulling a volume out more or less at random and sampling the prose. I wished I could select a few to take with me, but I wasn’t about to add theft to my growing list of crimes.
I noticed that Dempsey had a copy of The Seven Pillars of Wisdom on the shelf. The binding was perfect, the spine uncreased; in fact, it didn’t look like it had ever been read. I knew that the book I’d been reading, Revolt in the Desert, was an abridged version of this longer work. And, yes, I was on a mission. I had things to do and probably not a lot of time left to do them. But I wondered when I’d get the opportunity to see another copy of T. E. Lawrence’s original work. Maybe not for a long time. Maybe never. And I’d been enjoying Revolt so much. It was impossible not to wonder about what I was missing.
That moment stands out. It was delicious. A stolen moment in a forbidden situation, and that tiny slice of time was intended just for me, to satisfy my curiosity about a book I’d been wishing I could lay my hands on. Now here it was.
I lifted the book off the shelf carefully, almost reverently, and before I could even open it, a piece of paper fluttered out. It landed on the thick rug, a pale white streak against an Aubusson sky.
I bent to pick it up. It was a receipt from the Los Angeles Steamship Company. What had been purchased was itemized. The week before, Dempsey had paid cash for two tickets for first-class passage on a south sea islands cruise aboard the steamship City of Los Angeles. One was in the name of John Harrison. The other was for Mrs. John Harrison. And both were dated for a ship that was due to depart tomorrow.
I tried to tell myself that the find was meaningless. That there were any number of reasons Dempsey would have tucked a recent receipt into a book that looked as though it had never been read. But I couldn’t think of one. It seemed likely to me that the receipt had been secreted there. And if that was the case, the next question was why.
I replaced the receipt and resumed my search with renewed vigor, checking book after book, but I didn’t find anything else. At a little after six, when the sounds of the outer office had faded to practically nothing, I decided to call it a night.
When I peeked out, Miss Foxworth wasn’t at her desk. I made the best of the situation and beat it out of there while I could, my heart rate approaching something like normal about the time I got back out onto the street. I hadn’t known what I’d hoped to find, but I had the feeling I’d gotten more than I’d bargained for. Maybe much more.
CHAPTER FORTY
IF SOME GENIUS INTERIOR DESIGNER had been commissioned to create an office that was the polar opposite of the one that housed Harrison Dempsey’s extensive operation, it would have looked like the place where Mustard did his business.
Over a garage on Alameda, you accessed Mustard’s office by way of a narrow stairway that clung spiderlike to the outside of the building. Inside, the office was surprisingly tidy, with three wooden desks, each with its own phone. One wall was lined entirely with filing cabinets, giving the whole place the look of some low-rent accountancy firm. And though the office appeared clean—the floors swept, the windows not grimy, the ashtrays emptied when necessary—the smell of automotive excrement from the establishment below permeated the small space.
I’d never been here in full dark before, and the atmosphere wasn’t helped by the absence of daylight.
“Hey, kid,” Mustard said, putting down the phone as I entered. There was a racing form on the desk in front of him. It looked well thumbed. There was a notice for a fight to be held at Wrigley Field on Saturday night. Other than that the desk was bare. “This is sure a surprise. I don’t see you down here very often. What’s up?”
I took one of the empty chairs opposite his desk and wondered where to start. “You never told me how you know Brucie,” I said without preamble.
He looked at me carefully before he replied. “I never did, did I?”
I shook my head.
“Why should I now?” he asked.
“I dunno. Maybe you’re just interested in telling me.”
“Am I, kid? Well, maybe I am. Since you seem to have an interest, and I’ve got nothin’ to hide. Me and Ned, we went way back,” Mustard said. I could hear him choosing his words. “We’d kind of fallen out of the habit of seeing each other since he married Brucie, but I’d met her all right. I was even there when they got married.” His eyes looked past me, and I could imagine what he saw. “She was beautiful, even then. She kind of… she kind of took my breath away.”
“Is that why you saw less of Ned?”
Mustard shrugged his broad shoulders. It was a motion that put me in mind of a caged bear. Like there was more to Mustard than what could be contained in an office or even in his well-cut suit. “In a way, but not really. Once he got married and then got in tight with Chummy, I guess our lives didn’t really have room for each other anymore, you know? A job like the one Ned had? That’s not like working in a gas station, Kitty. Not even like working in an office. You don’t go home and just forget about it for a few hours. You live it an’ breathe it and never really leave it behind. It’s your life.”
“But Brucie didn’t mind the life?”
“Not that I could see. I’d see them out sometimes at different nightclubs. We’d smile and wave, maybe have a drink. I might even get Brucie to give me a dance, you know. Not real friendly, the three of us, but friendly enough.”
“Like not unfriendly?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Mustard said. “Not unfriendly. But not a lot more.”
Mustard didn’t say anything for a while, but I knew he wasn’t done.
“Something happened,” I prompted.
“Well… no. That is, yes. Well, nothing really happened, Kitty. Just one day I saw them and I knew something had changed.” He closed his eyes for a moment and I was frightened. He looked so sad. What if Mustard started crying, right here, right now? What would I do if Mustard burst into tears?
I needn’t have concerned myself because, of course, he did not. But I saw the sadness on him just the same. That sadness was deep and velvety and familiar. Most of all, familiar. I recognized it when I looked. “And I…” His voice broke slightly, but he controlled it, dropped down to a whisper, and went on. “I was glad, Kitty. I was glad. Because I thought that meant maybe they’d break up, and if they did, maybe I’d have a chance with her.”
I understood. “So when he died …”
“Right. When he died, I felt so bad, you can’t imagine. It felt like my fault almost, you know?”
“But it wasn’t,” I said.
“You’re not asking?”
I shook my head. “No. I’m not. I know it wasn’t your fault. But who did kill him, Mustard? The story Brucie told … the park, the lake …”
“You don’t think it was true?”
“It just didn’t feel right somehow. Guys like that, they kill a guy like Ned Jergens, a guy used to handling himself, of knowing what’s what…”
“But they don’t get the missus? Yeah, I guess when you put it that way, it feels a bit fishy, all right. But Brucie … she’s a sweet kid, Kitty. And it’s like she just can’t catch a break.”
“Sometimes we make our own breaks.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mustard demanded hotly.
“You ever hear anything about Brucie and Harrison Dempsey?” I said, not answering his question. Or maybe my question answered his too well. I
avoided his eyes, looked instead out the window over his shoulder. I could see an oil derrick in the distance, lit from beneath. The easy rhythm of its rocking was hypnotic. Only right now I wasn’t in the mood.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m not saying anything, Mustard. I just think maybe there’s more here than we think.”
“You’re saying that Brucie was stepping out on Ned? That she was seeing Harrison Dempsey behind her husband’s back?”
I thought about it. Was that what I was saying? I could see why the implication would be upsetting for Mustard. It would upset everything he’d believed about Brucie. More importantly, everything he’d believed about Brucie and himself. I pressed on. I just didn’t have any other options.
“I found a bill at Harrison Dempsey’s office.”
“What were you doing there?”
“It was for a dress exactly like the one Brucie wore to the Zebra Room the other night.”
“Exactly? C’mon. There must be a million dresses like that in the city. Two million.” He said it with confidence, but I could tell he did not believe it to be true. Just in case, I set him straight.
“No, Mustard. Not a million. Probably not even a hundred. It was gold lame, for cryin’ out loud. And she told me it was a Mainbocher, but not a real one. That’s what the bill I found said too: ‘in the style of Mainbocher.’ And the bill was sent to Dempsey, but it said it was made to order for a Mrs. Jergens.”
“So he bought her a dress. So? That doesn’t mean anything.”
I didn’t contradict him. I didn’t have to. We both knew there was no reason for Harrison Dempsey to buy Brucie a dress.
“I think maybe it does mean something, Mustard. I’m just not sure what. Think about it. Lucid Wilson and Chummy McGee don’t exactly pal around, do they?”
Mustard shook his head. I could see he’d thought of this already. “If anything, they hate each other,” Mustard said miserably. “They’re not at war, but you could say that their operations are close to that at any time.”
“And Harrison Dempsey was into Lucid for a lot of money.
A dangerous amount. And he’s buying dresses for the wife of Lucid’s biggest rival?”
“Ned wasn’t Lucid’s biggest rival.”
“No,” I agreed, “but it almost amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it? Ned was as close to Chummy as anyone, from what you’ve said.” I paused for a minute, thinking. Then, “We need to talk to Brucie.”
Mustard ran his hands through his ginger hair. “I need to talk to Brucie,” he said finally. “You can just stay put. I’ll drop you off at home on my way.”
As Mustard drove, I protested, wanting to go along. But the look on his face deterred me in the end, even more than the fact that he’d pulled up in front of the house on Bunker Hill. His face was thunderous, even tortured. And I know one thing: a man looks like that, he needs to go his way alone.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
SOMETIMES I still miss my father, though I’m not sure exactly why. He abandoned me. He left me without resources, without recourse. He left me holding a lot of a mess that he’d created. It’s like the gift of life he gave me was given under false pretenses. With one careless act he changed the picture of my life. Everything he’d taught me, every gift he’d given me, all of it turned into a lie.
I think about that sometimes. How could I not? I think about all the things he told me, about what was true and what was not.
I don’t miss my mother. I can’t. I miss not having had one, but I have no recollections of the woman who gave me life. Since I was old enough to understand what it meant, the word “mother” stood for a sort of lack of something. She was the void, the cold spot in my recollection. There only in absentia, always.
But my father … that was different. He could be demanding; he could be brooding; sometimes he could be absent even when he was there. But he was there, even when I was at school in San Francisco. He was the cornerstone of my life, the one I could depend upon.
And then he was not.
I thought about these things as I sat in my room that night. It had been late by the time Mustard dropped me off. I’d wanted to sit alone in my room, not be a part of the gentle hustle and bustle of a house full of boarders. Some nights it was soothing to be among them. Tonight it hadn’t felt that way.
Marjorie said I looked wan, as though I was coming down with something. She insisted on bringing a plate of food up to my room. The heel of a loaf of her good bread, some cheese, an apple carefully peeled and sliced. Simple food, but it was so good, an oasis in the storm that had been my day.
It was uncommonly cold for October. Not bitter cold, not freezing cold. Just a very real chill that no amount of warm clothing could chase away. Not in my room. Marjorie had felt the chill and insisted on starting the fire in the hearth in my room as she had in the days before, when my comfort had been one of the two most important considerations in the house.
She sensed my need that night, I think. Sensed that my spirit was low, perhaps near breaking, and that I needed looking after. And sure, maybe it wasn’t just food I needed. Nor even physical warmth. Still both things went a long way toward restoring me to the cheerier place from which I usually greet the world.
Viewed from the safety of my own warm room, and with a plate of food and a cup of warm tea inside me, the events of the last few days seemed more manageable, if no more understandable. I could cope with these things, move beyond them.
I missed Dex. There were things afoot that his experience would help with. He’d know, for instance, what to make of the bill for Brucie’s dress. And the steamship tickets that had been secreted in Dempsey’s office. He’d know what to do with the questions I was asking, know whether to think Dempsey was dead or alive.
More than anything else, I found I missed his quiet assurance, even if that assurance was often tainted by his demons and his drink. And, yes, I was a modern woman. I didn’t need the presence of a man to confirm my decisions or my place. But I felt I could be modern, could be independent, and yet I could still value another voice, one more experienced than my own. I valued not feeling lonely, and I didn’t want to feel alone.
Acknowledging these things, combined with the food and warmth, relaxed me. That night I gave myself up to my fate in a way. Allowed myself to realize that I couldn’t always be in control of every situation, every aspect of my life. Some things are inherently not to be controlled.
After a while I stopped thinking big thoughts. I had a bath with bubbles, a mug of hot tea balanced on the edge of the tub.
When I went to bed, my hair was still damp from the bath. The room was warm; my tummy was full. And when I slept it was a dreamless sleep. Uncomplicated.
And it was good.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
IN THE MORNING, I approached the office door with some trepidation. The last two times I’d come down this hallway, things had been amiss. First the broken lock—Calvin—and then the window—parties still unknown. On this morning, however, all was as it should be. I found myself almost ridiculously relieved, though it was a relief I didn’t allow to flood in fully until I’d entered the office and had a look around. We were on the fifth floor. A breakin that didn’t come in the front door was unlikely. Still, the way things had been going, no thought seemed too outlandish.
I was disappointed not to find Dex in the office. I knew he probably wouldn’t get back from San Francisco until later in the day, if even that early. Nevertheless, I had wished for his presence. The things that needed to be done on this day felt too big for me to deal with on my own.
I started out easy with the telephone.
Mustard answered on the first ring with a harried sounding “Hullo?”
“Mustard, it’s me. What did she say?”
“She wasn’t there, Kitty. Her and Calvin had cleared out.”
“She leave anything, Mustard? A note? Anything?”
“Nothing, Kitty. Just… nothing. I’ll let you know i
f I hear from her.” But he didn’t sound hopeful, and he rang off before I could say anything more.
It was not as easy to get Dr. Josiah Elway on the line. It took a series of misconnections and reconnections to place the long-distance call. Finally I got him. “Elway here,” he said crisply. I felt relief at hearing his voice after spending half the morning trying to get him. And the line was clear and good, another reason for relief.
“Dr. Elway, I don’t know if you remember me. This is Katherine Pangborn. I was in your office a few nights ago with my boss, Dexter Theroux.”
“Right, of course. I remember you. Dex called you Kitty. And you lost your lunch in the crypt.”
I grimaced at the reminder. “Yes, yes, that was me.”
“Well, but… you’ve missed Dex, you know.”
“Have I?”
“Yes. I saw him yesterday. With his lovely client, what was her name?”
“Lila Dempsey?”
“Yes, yes, that’s right. They were horribly disappointed, of course. Or perhaps relieved, I’m not sure. You understand.”
“No, Dr. Elway, I’m sorry. I don’t.”
“Oh. I thought Dex would call and tell you.”
“Perhaps he did,” I said. “I’ve been out of the office more than I’ve been in.”
“Well, the body the two of you saw the other night? The one that made you lose your lunch? She hit the floor like a sack of spuds when she saw it.”
“I can understand that, Dr. Elway. The body was in pretty bad shape.” I could almost feel the nausea rise again when I thought about Dempsey’s corpse. It would have been worse when Lila saw it. I didn’t imagine it would have improved any since Dex and I were there.
“That’s not the only thing that shocked her,” Elway replied.
You could have knocked me over with a feather after what he told me next.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
I HAD PICKED UP A NEWSPAPER on the way to the office. I now spread it out on my desk looking for the departures list. It didn’t take me long to find, or to discover that the City of Los Angeles was due to leave the harbor from berth 158 at three o’clock that afternoon.
Death Was the Other Woman Page 19
