by Helen Jacey
Clarence let go of my hand as fast. He laughed. ‘I don’t blame you, asking about Lauder. I’ll tell you one thing. He’s all right.’
I scoffed. ‘Sure. He nearly fed me to the lions.’
Clarence shot me a patronizing look. ‘Lions? Is this the savannah, Goldilocks? Are we in Africa? No. You’re alive and well, thanks to Lauder.’
He seemed to hesitate, before fumbling in his pocket. He pulled out a card and held it out to me. I scanned it. Clarence Johnson. Principal and Educator. Johnson’s Academy for Gifted Children.
I looked back up at him. ‘So you aren’t a cop? You run a school?’
‘Uh-huh. I teach Arnold Moss’ kids.’
48
I sat in the front seat of the car, the engine still off.
The quicksand feeling. Framed, to rot away for something you didn’t do. I had feared execution, too. Paranoia had eaten away at me, with the fear that halfway through my sentence a very different decision would be made about my treasonous behavior. Or my enemies outside, the ones who had pinned gunrunning on me, would somehow implicate me in other crimes. Wasted years as a sitting duck, knowing the hunters were out there.
The whole time, dreading the noose.
I tried to banish the thought. Too late. My breathing became shallow, and I couldn’t swallow.
You’re fine. You’re safe.
Arnold Moss’s face came to me. The hunters had already seized him. He was as good as dead, banged up on death row.
He’d get the electric chair, a bunch of strangers watching. He’d go to his death knowing he was being murdered by the state. What kind of death is that? What kind of god can you pray to or curse when that happens? What kind of forgiveness is possible?
Clarence had come to me wanting to tell me something, that in his book, I should feel guilty about. He’d wanted to see if the bungling killer under Lauder’s control had some remnant of a conscience. He put me in the picture, behind Lauder’s back, laying my culpability on thick.
Did he come with the intention of guilt-tripping me into doing something about it? I doubted it. He didn’t know I had a gun. He didn’t know, until halfway through our conversation, that I could recognize Jim Fraser. He left as he arrived, content he’d made me acknowledge my responsibility.
But I knew exactly who Fraser was, and I had a gun. Killing Fraser wouldn’t help anybody, least of all me. But could I get to him and threaten him?
If Lauder was glued to Fraser, as Clarence claimed, it made any intervention even more difficult.
If I was going to do something, I’d have to do it soon – before Lauder came to collect the gun. Next time he came by with some new errand, I could pretend to be sick. Send him off to get a doctor, then slip out… And do what, exactly?
Impossible.
49
A narrow track meandered up through the hills. Crickets sang in the tall grasses that gently rippled in the late afternoon breeze. The vegetation was tatty and wild up here. No lush gardens, no teams of Mexicans manicuring lawns, as at the white wedding cake style Spanish villas dotted around the lower slopes. This was the wild terrain for a tougher type of inhabitant. The tan skeleton of a dead banana tree, self-seeded from one of the nicer patches, stood upright, its shaggy leaves pointing like a signpost.
This way, civilization. That way, artists.
I marched on, thirsty. It was remote and I only had twittering birds for company, and maybe unseen snakes in the long grasses. There could be a certain appeal in living up here. Soon the sweat dripped down my back, and the suit felt itchy. As I tripped over hard clumps and my calves got scratched by dried-out undergrowth, the appeal soon faded.
Visiting Olive Harjo, the artist lover of Darlene Heymann, now felt as awkward as hell. Should I follow Joyce’s suggestion to bluff it as an art collector? If Olive was distraught, she might not even let me in.
I decided to play it by ear.
I was about to give up when a wood cabin came into view. It was a ramshackle affair, a rug thrown over the wooden beams of the wide porch. Large cacti and succulents grew around the base, their strange blue foliage and prickly globes curling like waves around a wooden ship. Some linen was drying on a makeshift line tied onto two yucca tree trunks. A smaller hut, with an open skylight, was just about visible beyond olive trees. Whoever lived here surely had to walk the track I’d taken from the road. Perhaps at the time the cabin was built, the track was wider. But the fact it could have been let to grow over was interesting in itself. Olive and Darlene liked to live literally off the beaten track.
Further back on the porch, a striped hammock was tied between two posts, swinging gently. Someone was home. A breath of smoke danced over the fabric. I called out loudly. ‘Miss Harjo? Hello?’
The hammock continued to sway as a long, slim, brown arm appeared, holding a reefer. The nails on the dark tapered fingers were unpainted. They gestured me in.
I made my way up the steps onto the porch. The occupant of the hammock was a Native American woman, about fifty, lying in a long woven shirt. Her thick hair was held back by a woven green scarf. Her expression, as she surveyed me, was one of infinite sadness. ‘What do you want?’
‘My name’s Elvira Slate. I’m an investigator.’ No point beating about the bush. ‘My condolences for your loss. Joyce told me.’ If Olive thought I was part of the dyke demimonde, we might get somewhere faster.
She swung herself heavily out of the hammock. ‘A pretty name. Sounds like a bird. What does it mean?’
‘I don’t have a clue.’
‘You do not know the meaning of your own name?’
I do, actually. To me, it means being myself.
‘No, as a matter of fact.’
She confronted me. ‘What do you want?’
‘I’m trying to find somebody. Thought you could help.’
‘Me? No. I can’t help. I want to be left alone.’
‘Hold on, you don’t know who it is yet.’
‘Rhonda. She was the lover of Ellen Cranston.’
I gasped. ‘You know her? Do you know where she is?’
Harjo’s eyes narrowed to virtual slits. ‘No. I do not know her very well. But I know they killed her, too.’
I froze. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Darlene was murdered.’ She turned away.
I called out after her. ‘Wait! Why do you think it was murder? Who do you think killed Darlene?’
Olive Harjo stopped at the door. She surveyed me from under heavy eyelids, weighing up if I was worth the bother. ‘He killed them all. Otto Heymann.’
50
I stood awkwardly in the middle of the room while Olive made a jug of lemon juice in the kitchen area. ‘Why would Otto Heymann want to kill Darlene, his own kid?’ My voice faltered.
The cozy feel of the place eased any apprehension. Vibrant rugs covered the wooden floor. Smaller cacti flourished along shelves and surfaces in colorful Mexican pottery. It felt neat and clean. Cut wildflowers sat in jam pots. The kitchen area was at the far end – a rustic wooden table and an old stove with a pile of logs next to it. Unlit candles stood on ledges and surfaces. Maybe the electricity wasn’t rigged up.
I felt something staring at me and looked around. Nothing. Something made me look up. A large green parrot sidled along a central beam, almost directly overhead, its beady eye on me. I moved to one side but the bird hopped along the beam, following me.
Olive answered as if she was musing to herself. ‘Strange, for a father to hate a child, no? But it is the purest, coldest hate. He cut her off. Him, the richest man in town. Why? Because she was an embarrassment to him. Yes, she had problems, when she was young. She never fit in her family. So she rebelled. But then she grew up, found her passion. Photography, her films.’
This didn’t seem like a motive for murder. ‘How did you learn Darlene was dead?’
‘When she did not come home to celebrate, I know.’ Olive motioned for me to sit down and wandered over to the far side of the room. Sh
e filled a jug from the faucet.
‘Celebrate?’
‘Her big chance. Directing her first movie. She had gone that day to sign an agreement. She had a meeting but she never came back. I read the paper but I already know.’
Movie? Directing? Another thing left out of the obituaries.
Olive brought the jug of lemon juice on a tray. She poured out a glass and handed it to me before sitting cross-legged in a wide leather chair.
‘He had her killed to stop a movie going ahead?’
Olive tutted. ‘Of course. He was scared of her success. She was going to the lawyer’s office, but she never gets there. She dies in that place. It is proof they caught her on the way.’
‘She wasn’t alone.’
‘I know. Frankie, he was driving her. He stays with us sometimes. Poor Frankie. So young.’ So Frank was acting as driver to an appointment with a lawyer.
‘You know who the lawyer is?’ I asked.
‘Frederick Lyntner. She was meeting him at his office. Maybe the screenwriter, Martell, too. I do not remember her second name.’
I made a mental note. Martell.
‘Did Darlene know Martell?’
‘Not well.’
Troy might have the lowdown on Martell. He certainly knew enough male screenwriters. I turned back to Olive. ‘But if she left here to go Downtown, Heymann – or his men – would have literally had to have stopped her in her tracks? How would he physically get her to The Flamayon?’
‘Why you ask these stupid questions? You never hear of gun to the head? Drugging somebody? The woman, this Ellen Cranston, could be already drugged! I tell you, these men, they can do what they want!’
It felt like a crazy conspiracy theory. Still, it was the only lead I had.
‘What was the movie about?’
‘The true story of Tatiana Spark’s life.’
I looked blank.
Olive was patient. ‘She is an actress, from the silent period, signed to the Heymann Studio. A long time ago. She always liked Darlene, from childhood. She wanted to make a film about her life, to tell the real truth. And she wanted Darlene to direct it. A wonderful chance! Darlene even swallowed her pride and asked her father for money, to even give them a producer to help. No, he said. You are wasting your time. I forbid you to do this. Another failure, you shame the family again? She had no place to do this, no way to embarrass him. His words. She came home so upset. He cut her off, and he still thinks he can tell her what to do?’
I sat back, trying to absorb as many of Olive’s words as possible.
Olive sipped her juice. ‘Men like Otto Heymann, they own everything and everybody in this city. So he gets his people to kill her. Now, Darlene is free from them all. She escaped him. And she is still with me. I am Muscogee. I live by my own rules.’
‘So this Tatiana Spark was close to Darlene?’
Olive nodded, holding her drink to her mouth, her eyes wide.
‘How well do you know Tatiana Spark?’
‘I never meet her. She is Darlene’s friend, that’s all. But I admire her. After she stopped acting, she travelled the world, before the war. Egypt, Greece, all the ancient worlds. Now, the gossips did not know this. They say she is a recluse, a lonely woman. They make up lies, all lies.’
So this was the drive behind the film. A last chance for Spark to tell the real truth.
‘Do you know what the true story is?’
‘No. It was a big secret. Darlene is not allowed to know, not before she sign the agreement.’
I nodded. ‘Did Heymann know about you and Darlene?’
‘Maybe. I don’t care.’
According to Olive’s own theory, she could be in danger, particularly if she made a habit of accusing Heymann to anyone who would listen.
‘Was Darlene still in touch with her mother?’
Olive looked away. ‘Yes. But it was forbidden. Nancy Heymann is a weak woman. She does not fight for her daughter. You know, the son is stupid but he will take over the business. Darlene would be so much better than him.’
A large canvas of a naked woman hung on an easel. The likeness was incredible; obviously Darlene, with her wayward eyes. Her naked body was very voluptuous. Now she was reclining, in a classical toga pinned by an ornate gold brooch. One pearly breast lolled out. The backdrop was some kind of ancient setting. A porcupine was strolling past a pile of marble columns in the background. The oils smelt fresh. The colors were rather garish and lurid, but there was skill in the work. Art appreciation was not my strong point.
Olive said, ‘You like it?’
‘Very nice. Why the porcupine?’
‘Darlene’s guide. I paint this the night she died. I will never sell it.’ Olive got up and wandered over to the painting. She traced her finger along Darlene’s cheek.
‘How did you two meet?’ I asked.
‘Through another artist, Blandine Hundley. You know her? Beautiful work.’
I said I didn’t. ‘Had Darlene made many films?’
Her eyes flashed with irritation. ‘She could do it as well as any man. Hollywood is full of boys who get all the chances. Darlene had real talent. Photography, art, beautiful work. And she knew Ida Lupino. She was going to ask her to guide her.’
Ida Lupino? The Ida Lupino? My ivory blonde fairy godmother who also grew up in Camberwell before she moved to Hollywood?
‘She knows Tatiana Spark, too?’ Ida, Martell, Darlene. There seemed quite a gang of women ready to get on board with this film.
Olive studied me. ‘Nobody can help you get justice. Forget Rhonda.’
She had it very neatly worked out. She’d been gabby with me, a stranger, about the supposed secret. Was she hiding something herself?
I had to look at all angles, turn over all stones. Maybe Olive herself could have carried out the murder, jealous about Darlene’s new direction. She could have arranged a lesbian orgy and played on her lover’s weaknesses. Maybe she’d taken Rhonda and buried her up here in the canyon. Or perhaps it had all been accidental. Maybe Darlene and Olive like wild parties now and then and it had all gone wrong. Pointing the finger at bad Daddy was a cover-up.
A hell of a lot of maybes. I would play along for now. ‘The way I see it, three people are already dead, and one more could be in danger. If what you’re saying is true, it’s all to stop a film being made. Heymann should pay.’
Olive smiled, with something like pity in her eyes. ‘Darlene would like you. So, for her sake as well as yours, stop. Stop this craziness.’
51
Sunset Boulevard welcomed me back like a noisy family. It was good to be far from the isolation in the canyon and Olive’s angry sadness. I felt my shoulders relax.
Olive had messed with my instincts, which were now hopelessly muddled. But on balance, surely she was no killer. Just full of sorrow, her tongue loose, as Beatty had predicted.
But if Olive’s murderous daddy theories were true, I’d hit the ultimate dead end. Otto Heymann was a big shot, with power over the law. Snooping around drawing attention to myself was out. I would be up to my neck in more hot water in no time. If Otto Heymann had killed Darlene and Shimmer to get her out of his life once and for all, there was a good chance Rhonda was dead, and had been for a while.
But one thing rang true. Heymann’s sabotage of Darlene’s ambitions. Not through murder, but by cutting her off, refusing to help, shitting on her ambitions. Typical. A woman tries to break a barrier and the big boys’ club closes her down.
An even tougher break if your own father runs the club.
Something about the family portrait spooked me. Darlene’s total disengagement. She was a misfit, pure and simple. Born into the wrong family, one in which wives looked pretty and dumb and produced brats, and artistic and lesbian daughters were labeled oddballs, while incompetent sons were fed with the silver spoon. No wonder she rebelled, first with drugs, and then by doing her own thing. She’d have been better off having parents with less money and power. It sounded a
s if Tatiana Spark had tried to help her, give her a leg up. It took another woman to do that.
Still, the simple fact that somebody else other than me thought the trio had been bumped off was a strange reinforcement of my own deeper convictions.
But I was no closer to finding Rhonda. My only lead had been supplied by a woman deranged by grief.
Give up!
I stopped at the Farmers Market and wandered around. A chubby man and his wife were shutting up their fruit stall, still loaded with large golden apples and dazzling oranges. Oranges were now my weakness, after years of bleeding gums from barren prison years. I approached the stall and asked the wife for some.
‘How many?’ The farmer’s wife held up an empty paper bag.
‘Five.’ I paid for the oranges and wandered off to find a vacant table.
I sat down and peeled an orange. Nobody gave a damn; even Olive was closing the door. I was the only person who seemed to care. It would be so easy to walk away now.
Don’t give up.
Until I found Rhonda, dead or alive, and until I knew for sure the deaths at The Flamayon were accidental, I couldn’t rest.
And maybe, just maybe, in my own private way, I could make somebody pay.
