The Last Embrace Page 27

  It was midafternoon and the news was official. Louise Dobbs was dead, strangled like Kitty Hayden and Florence Kwitney before her. The photographer she’d met the day she disappeared had been released from custody after witnesses corroborated his story of dropping Louise off at a trolley stop after the shoot. There were no other immediate leads.

  “I thought you’d want to know,” Alex’s musical voice said when Lily picked up the phone. “Rhett Taylor just walked into the Crow’s Nest.”

  Lily said she would be there in ten minutes.

  “Come around the back. The password’s ‘violet.’ And remember the knock. Two big raps, then three small ones.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Rhett Taylor was at the bar. There was no mistaking the tousled blond hair, the smoldering sky-blue eyes, the slouch that translated into such sexy rebellion on the screen. Lily sat down one stool over. Rhett Taylor glanced at her, then went back to his drink, his eyes registering no interest.

  She smiled and cleared her throat.

  “I understand you were here the night of October seventh,” Lily said.

  “I think you must have me confused with someone else.”

  “An actress named Kitty Hayden was murdered that night. The Scarlet Sandal? I’m sure you’ve seen her picture in the paper.”

  Rhett Taylor yawned elaborately. “I was on location that week.”

  He hiked up one cheek, got out his wallet, and placed a $5 bill on the bar. Then he slid off, leaving a barely touched beer.

  “See you later.” He grabbed his hat and slouched out the front door.

  Lily followed and saw him cross the street, wearing his hat and shades.

  “Mr. Taylor sir,” she said, catching up, “I’m not some loony fan who wants your autograph. I was a friend of Kitty’s and I’m trying to find out if anyone at the Crow’s Nest saw anything the night she disappeared.”

  “Sorry, can’t help you.” He walked faster.

  She thought about the sudden exit when he could easily have gotten the bartender to throw her out.

  “Rhett Taylor,” she called loudly.

  Several pedestrians turned around. “Look, Mama,” said a girl. “That’s Rhett Taylor.”

  The actor froze. Quickly, he walked back to Lily.

  “Sure, sweetheart, I’ll give you my autograph,” he said loudly.

  Putting his arm around her, he pulled her into a restaurant, down a hallway, and out the back door, checking to make sure they hadn’t been followed.

  “Don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again,” he said, breathing heavily. “The last thing I want’s a goddamn scene.”

  “Then talk to me.”

  Rhett Taylor ran a hand through his hair.

  “If you won’t talk to me, I’ll shout your name again. People will come running.”

  “And I’ll call the police and tell them you’re a nut job.”

  “Then I’ll tell them where you were just now,” she said, knowing full well she wouldn’t have the stomach for it.

  Rhett Taylor gave her an easy smile. “What is that place, anyway? Never been there before.”

  “You didn’t know it was a homosexual bar?”

  He drew back in shock. “You’re kidding me.”

  “What did you see the night of October seventh?”

  “Let’s get this straight,” he said. “I didn’t see anything and I’ve never been there before.”

  “I think you’re a great actor, Mr. Taylor,” Lily persisted. “And I’m not trying to cause you any trouble. But please help me. For the sake of the dead girl.”

  “Don’t you understand? Police and press nosing around in my private life could really make things difficult for me.”

  He fixed her with those sad, soulful eyes, the famous anti-charisma that confessed every sin in the book but only made the sinner more desirable.

  “So would knowing you didn’t do everything in your power to catch a murderer.”

  “You think I don’t have nightmares every time I close my eyes and see that girl…”

  “What did you see?” Lily asked softly.

  “Those newspaper photos. Like the rest of Los Angeles.”

  “That’s not what you were going to say.”

  “Are you one of those Freudian doctors my friends go to? Look, that poor girl is dead. But we’re still alive, and I, for one, intend to make the most of it.”

  He adjusted his shades and walked away.

  As Lily walked the two blocks home, she couldn’t quite believe she’d just had a conversation with Rhett Taylor. Every woman she knew would envy her, but it was all a glorious façade: Rhett Taylor was as remote and unattainable to her as any movie star filling the screen in a darkened theater in Kansas. For him, enchantment lay elsewhere.

  But she was certain that he was holding something back. More than ever, she felt on the verge of a breakthrough, if she could only put all the fragments together.

  Ignoring the reporters in front of the house, she quickly walked inside and ran upstairs. After locking the bedroom door, Lily pulled down Kitty’s Bible and reread Keck’s letter, wondering what new clues it might reveal now that he was dead.

  Studying it, she noticed something she’d passed over before. The initials at the bottom read BK/ph.

  Lily knew what that meant: BK stood for Keck’s initials. And he had dictated this letter to someone with the initials ph. Or else ph had transcribed it from a machine. Ph was probably Keck’s secretary. Which meant she might know about the case.

  Lily ran down to the hallway nook where the phone sat. Mrs. Potter was in the parlor, dusting her collection of ceramic shepherdesses. The landlady cast an inquisitive eye on Lily. She’d hear every word, which wouldn’t do at all.

  “Off to the drugstore,” Lily said, flying out the door. “That time of month.”

  At the cashier, she got a dollar’s worth of nickels and settled into the phone booth that was fast becoming her private office. She called the DA’s office and asked for Keck’s secretary. A wavery female voice answered and Lily heard snuffling in the background.

  “Is this Bernard Keck’s secretary?”

  “She’s being interviewed by the police,” the woman said.

  “What’s her name again? I know it starts with a P…”

  “P?” the woman said. “I don’t think so. It’s Agnes Ferny. She’s been with him forever and she’s mighty broken up about this.”

  “I thought his secretary’s initials were PH.”

  “Someone’s misinformed you.”

  Lily tried to picture the setup. It would be a big office. Not enough stenographers to go around, so there’d be a secretarial pool.

  “Has Agnes been ill this month? Flu, maybe?”

  “We had a virus sweep through the office last week. I was flat on my back for three days, couldn’t keep anything down. Are you with the insurance company?”

  “Not exactly. So, the secretarial pool. Do any of those gals have the initials PH? Penny, Polly, Patty,” Lily spoke fast. Any second now the woman would grow suspicious.

  “We’ve got a Pearl,” the woman said reluctantly. She covered the receiver, but Lily heard her whisper. “Madge, someone on the phone wants to know Pearl’s last name.”

  “It’s Hegland,” came a far-off voice. “Why? Who are you talking to?”

  The woman came back on the line. “Excuse me, but who’s speaking?”

  “It’s a personal matter. Could you put Pearl on the line, please?”

  “Why, I declare. No, I cannot.”

  Lily bit the inside of her mouth, drawing blood. “It’s urgent.”

  The woman hesitated. “Pearl isn’t here. May I take a message?”

  “Where did she go?” Lily knew she was pushing her luck.

  “Home, I presume. She left in a hurry yesterday, saying she didn’t feel well. Now good day, miss,” the woman said, hanging up.

  Lily chewed her cheek and pondered a message carved into the wood that said: Johnny l
oves Rosie 4Ever.

  Then she got the phone book and looked for a listing for Pearl Hegland. Not finding one, she tried different spellings: Helgand, Haglund, Helgund. There was a Pearl Heglund in the Fairfax District, but no one answered. She wrote down the address, then she took a trolley down Hollywood Boulevard and changed at Fairfax Avenue. She surveyed her fellow passengers. People talked to one another, read the paper, filled out crossword puzzles, held transistor radios to their ear. Where did he come from, this murderer? How did he hide his true nature? Or was he asleep now, emerging at night to prowl while the city slept?

  Soon Lily was ringing the buzzer of a duplex with drawn venetian blinds. The sky was dark blue, puffy clouds like cotton balls overhead. There was no answer. Lily thought about going to the DA’s office to inquire, but she’d already aroused their suspicions. She tried next door, ringing a long time before a woman in a muumuu answered.

  “Pearl ain’t home,” the woman said when Lily inquired.

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. She came flying in like a bat out of hell, then back out with an overnight bag.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did she say how long she’d be gone?”

  “Never does. She’s a young thing. Bit of a flibbertigibbit.”

  “She have a car?”

  “Not any more’n I do.”

  In her mind’s eye, Lily saw Pearl racing out the door. Was she leaving town? But then wouldn’t she have taken a suitcase? Why was she so afraid?

  The sky darkened and the day grew cool as a cloud scudded across the lowering sun.

  “You have a message for her?”

  Lily jotted down Mrs. Potter’s number. “Please have her call me. It’s about a mutual friend of ours…Doreen.”

  The woman nodded, then closed the door. Lily walked to the sidewalk, thinking. Pearl was in a hurry. She carried a bag, probably wouldn’t walk too far. What would she have done?

  The sun came out from behind the clouds. Lily raised her face to soak up the warmth and saw a retirement home a half block away called Firestone Arms. It looked regal, with Tudor architecture and a fountain out front and a red brick driveway where cars pulled up and disgorged spry old ladies. A taxi was parked out front.

  Would Pearl have sprung for a taxi? She would have stuck out in the crowd of old gals. The driver might remember…

  The cabbie was writing something on a clipboard.

  “Excuse me,” Lily said.

  “Where to, miss?”

  “I’d like to know if you gave a young woman a ride yesterday afternoon, about this time. She was carrying a small overnight bag and…”

  Lily realized she had no idea what Pearl Heglund looked like.

  “Not me.” The man settled back into his seat and opened a newspaper. “Might have been my colleague as took her around, miss.”

  “How could we find out?”

  “I’ll raise him on the radio. There’s a couple of us stationed here pretty regular to ferry the ladies to their club lunches.”

  The cabbie detached a two-way radio from the dash and gave his location and the number of his cab. It crackled, then a female dispatcher came on.

  “Yeah, hi, Sandy. Can you ask Higgins if he picked up a fare in front of the Firestone Arms yesterday afternoon? Young gal with an overnight bag.”

  “And if so, where he took her?” Lily interjected.

  Soon the dispatcher was back. “Affirmative. Says he took a gal to, ah, Echo Park.”

  “Where in Echo Park?” Lily asked.

  There was another lag and more static. Soon the answer came back: Barlow Respiratory Hospital.

  Maybe Pearl Heglund really was sick.

  “They treat TB there,” the driver said. “Want me to take you?”

  “Yes,” Lily said, and slid into the cab.

  They drove east along Sunset, making for the hills northwest of downtown, where shacks and small terraced houses dotted the open land.

  “It’s like the countryside,” Lily said.

  The cabbie waved an arm. “That’s why they built it here. Fresh air cures the lungs. Been around since the 1920s. Very popular with out-of-towners. That’ll be three-twenty,” he added when they pulled up. “Want me to wait?”

  “That’s okay. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  “Don’t let ’em cough on you.”

  Barlow Respiratory Hospital was a cluster of three dozen buildings on twenty-five rolling green acres. It looked like the Three Little Pigs and their extended families had set up housekeeping. There were Craftsman cottages, Spanish bungalows, and barnlike buildings that looked slapped together overnight. Lily saw elderly people in wheelchairs with blankets over their knees, sickly young men playing dominoes, and matrons knitting. The largest building, two-story and built of red brick, was Birge Hall.

  “Hello,” she said to the woman in the white uniform at the reception desk. “Did a patient named Heglund check in yesterday around this time?”

  The woman looked through a large book. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Hmm,” Lily tapped a forefinger to her cheek. “Her full name was Pearl Heglund. Youngish. Taxi dropped her off yesterday afternoon.”

  The woman shook her head.

  “So you don’t have anyone here by that name?” Lily repeated. Rephrase the question and you may get a new answer.

  “Not any patients, no.”

  Lily paused. “How about an employee? A visitor?”

  “Visitors I wouldn’t know. But we have a groundskeeper named Norm Heglund.”

  “Could I talk to him?”

  “I’ll see if I can locate him.”

  Lily sat down. Twenty minutes later, a bearded man in his seventies clomped up. He wore overalls and an old straw hat and his face was weathered, the tip of his nose peeling.

  “Got a message someone wanted to see me.”

  “This young lady, Miss…?” The receptionist looked at her.

  “Lily Kessler. I’m looking for Pearl Heglund. Could she be your daughter or granddaughter?” Lily smiled.

  The man did not smile back. His eyes narrowed and he tugged at his hat. “I haven’t seen her.”

  “A taxi driver told me he dropped her off yesterday.”

  “I was out mending a fence in the back forty. Maybe she left when she couldn’t find me.”

  “Is she your daughter?”

  He hesitated. “I do have a daughter named Pearl.”

  “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  He scratched his head. “Couple weeks ago. She’s a working girl. Not likely to give me grandkids anytime soon.”

  “Has she mentioned a case at work involving a Doreen Croggan?”

  “I don’t believe I’ve heard that name before.”

  “Has she seemed afraid recently?”

  “Why would she? She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  “Of course not. So you haven’t seen her?”

  “Already told you that.”

  “When you do, could you please ask her to call me?” Lily scribbled her number.

  “I’ll give it to her.” The man stuffed it in his pockets. “You with the police too?”

  “The police have been here?” Lily asked quickly.

  “No. You just sound so official, that’s all. Why you looking for my Pearl?”

  His gruffness seemed put on now, his questions a beat too late. Wouldn’t he have asked immediately? Or did he already know?

  “We have a friend in common.”

  The man nodded. “I’ll tell her,” he said. “Next time I see her. I’d do anything for her. You understand, miss? She’s my blood. I’ve got a shotgun and I know how to use it. No one’s going to hurt my daughter.”

  Lily could almost hear the shotgun loading as he spoke. Something told her that despite her father’s denial, Pearl Heglund was right here. There were plenty of places to hide on this rolling property, and who’d know better than the gr
oundskeeper? She resolved to wait until he left, then have a look around.

  Lily strolled the property, looking for places where a girl might hide. She began hiking up a hill and was startled to see a man in a suit step out from a copse of trees at the ridge. She flinched. Was he looking for Pearl Heglund too?

  He said, “Those people down there don’t have proper sanitation or paved roads, but they’re happy. They live close to nature. Sometimes I wonder, who are we to take it away in the name of progress?”

  Curious, Lily hiked to the top and joined him. A dusty shanty-town clung to the hillside, peaceful and remote as Shangri-la. Lily saw fruit trees and grape arbors, discarded tires, woodpiles, and old trucks on cinder blocks. Chickens scratching on the ground, goats hoofing it up a rocky hillside pasture. A woman with a brown braid down her back, filling a kettle at an outdoor tap. A man in a black cassock carrying a white cross, his robes whipping in the breeze, trailed by smaller black-clad figures, the entire swaying line disappearing into a whitewashed chapel.

  Beyond lay the flats of Atwater and Glendale, then the swell of Glassell and Cypress Park. And to the north, the San Gabriel Mountains rising majestic and bare in the autumn sun.

  “It’s like some pueblo in Mexico,” Lily said, as the wind carried up a snatch of guitar music.

  “Chavez Ravine,” the man said. “We’re going to tear down those shanties and build them new homes that will be a model for public housing across America. Richard Neutra’s already done the designs.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “Frank Wilkinson,” the man said, extending his hand. “With the city Housing Authority.”

  “Lily Kessler,” she said, shaking his hand. “Good luck to you, sir. I’ll remember your name.”

  Lily hiked down to a windbreak of eucalyptus trees. Her shoes sank into the mulch and she smelled the invigorating, medicinal tang of eucalyptus. The wind soughed through the slender leaves and she heard singing. She drew closer. Beyond the trees, a girl was hanging overalls and chenille shirts on a clothesline.

  “Are you Miss Heglund?” Lily asked.

  The singing stopped. The girl whirled around, poised to flee. “How do you know my name?”

  Lily smiled. “Your dad told me.”