A Ghost at Stallion's Gate (6 page)

I hesitated for a moment; Darren mentioning Ebony Belle took me by surprise. “I thought that was one of Josephine Baker’s stage names. You mean, it was Marla Devereux who was known as the Ebony Belle?”

“Most certainly, she was famous in and around Hollywood as the Ebony Belle. Right about the time she went missing, rumor was she had signed a big contract with a major film company.”

“Really? And you know this because?” I asked.

Darren explained, “Because her mystery has always perplexed me. When I was in college I was obsessed with solving the mystery of her disappearance.” Darren shook his head slightly, as if now it was he who was lost in thought, with his mind wandering back into the glamorous era of old Hollywood. He looked at me, smiled and said, “Shannon you need not drive all the way over to UCLA, I have copies of everything they ever archived about her and then some, because of my own research. I’ll be happy to share it with you.” And then before I had a chance to answer, Darren said, “I’m taking the day off in a few minutes and was, would you believe, going to go delve into this mystery once again. How odd that I dreamt about Marla Devereux last night and now, you come in and ask about her. I’d say this is more than a coincidence. How about it, spend the afternoon with me and maybe together we’ll come up with new leads?”

At that very instant I felt the gentle nudge of a horse’s muzzle against my upper back.

“Yes,” I replied.

Chapter 10

Not surprising, Darren lived at the inn. What I did not expect is that he had turned the third story level into an owner’s apartment suite that was accessed through a private side entrance. He opened the door and ushered me in.

“Please, Shannon, make yourself comfortable in the sitting room. I’ll just be a moment. Would you care for coffee or iced tea?”

“I’d love coffee, and I take it black.”

“We are of the same taste in that department. I’ll put the coffee on to brew and I’ll be right back.”

Darren disappeared down a hall, to the kitchen I assumed. Anyway, I moseyed into his inviting living room. It was a masculine interpretation of Eastlake style meets Victorian. Rich oak furniture complemented the buff colored walls, which were vacant of decoration except for a few strategically placed photos. A large Eastlake desk was off to one corner. The desk was tidy, but not bare. A brass and green glass shade banker’s lamp stood out from a few desk accessories.

I sat near the desk in a wing back chair that was upholstered in a muted shell pattern tapestry of dark green and aqua. I set my notepad on the small table to my right.  I was opposite the window that flanked the other side of the desk. Darren came in with a coffee service tray and set it down on a table at the other end of the room.

He turned to me and said, “Black?”

I nodded in agreement and he brought a steaming mug of coffee to me.

“Thanks.” I sipped it then set the mug on the little table that held my notepad.

Darren got his mug of coffee and took a seat behind his desk. He set the coffee off to a far corner of the desk. “I’ve got the files on Marla Devereux right here.” He reached into the largest drawer of his desk and pulled out several file folders. “Why not scoot your chair up close, here to my side,” he suggested. So I did.

“I have these arranged, more or less, in chronological order. Is there a specific time frame in Marla’s life you are interested in?” Darren asked.

“I was wondering about her early years, before she arrived in Los Angeles.”

“Let’s see, I think that would be this folder.” Darren rifled through the contents. “Here it is.” He set out several pages of notes. I leaned in to see the contents, and he explained, “Mostly what I have on her early years are my research notes. I discovered that until she showed up in Los Angeles, she appears not to exist prior to her arrival in California. You know, I always thought that was weird. But I guess she invented herself upon landing in Hollywood. So many young starlets did that in the 1920s. It was their way of leaving the past behind in ho
pes of success here.” He handed me several papers of handwritten notes. “Take a look at these and let me know if I can clarify anything. I apologize, my handwriting is not the neatest script in the world.”

Darren wrote in a large chicken scratch block print combined with longhand script. It was easy reading.  While I read his notes he organized the other file folders. I couldn’t help but to notice that he slipped one of the folders back into his desk drawer. I used my notepad to jot down a few notes of my own. I handed the pages back to him.

“I have a few questions,” I said.

“Sure,” he answered. “Let’s see if I can help.”

“Well, it seems it is not clear about Marla’s ethnic background. In one place you wrote she might be Louisiana Creole. Is there anyway to know for certain?” I asked.

“The surest answer is to say no, at least not without some kind of DNA test. Today, that ethnic group is very much into the study of their heritage and has enthusiastically initiated databases that include DNA testing. But, to try and define a person no longer alive and without a known blood relative that is living, it is impossible to know for certain Marla’s ethnic background,” Darren replied.

“Darren, how did you come to this theory, about her ancestry?”

Darren was quiet for a moment and then said, “Before I answer that question, allow me to ask, Shannon, how familiar are you with the Creole background?”

“Well, you see, I came to California from Chicago, but I’d only been in Chicago about two years. Prior to that I was in New Orleans. I went to college at Tulane University. My ancestry is Southern. I was born in Vicksburg, Mississippi. But getting back to your question. One of my best friends from college is a girl named Jasmine Darville; she is from the Cane River Creole families. And of course, having lived in Nola when I was in college, I met, and dated, young men who are, pardon the expression, White Creole, from some of the oldest families in that region.”

“Nola?” he asked.

I laughed. “Yes, that’s what locals refer to New Orleans, Louisiana.  It’s an acronym derived from the initials of the city and the two letter abbreviation of the state.”

Darren paused for a moment. “Then you are aware that Creoles, such as your friend Jasmine, were also called Creoles of Color, and many amongst them were of the Free Persons of Color in Louisiana?”

“Yes, I have heard that. I remember from my college days that Jasmine was proud of her heritage and she could recite generation after generation in her family tree. I learned a lot from her when we could leave campus for a weekend, and spend time with her family. I know that the Cane River Creoles are a close community with heritage derived from a blended racial background of African, French and Spanish ancestry.”

“Were many dark skinned?”

“Not that I recall, but it’s not as if I kept color swatches handy.” His question was offensive, though I doubt he meant it to be.

“Uh, Shannon, I did not mean it
that
way. Honest, I did not.”

“Okay, how did you mean it?” I was not going to let him off the hook so easily.

“The reason I asked is because in researching Marla I came across a document that was about a man who employed her has kitchen help in a local hotel. He, a Mr. Barcklay, had said that when he first employed Marla, she gave her surname of Monette and said she was from the Red River area of Louisiana. When Mr. Barcklay asked her about her race, Marla refused to name it. And when asked for a next of kin, she said she had none in Los Angeles. She gave her landlady as a reference. The document of Mr. Barcklay’s statement was part of the police investigation from when Marla went missing. Anyway, I called around and found a society called the Cane River Creoles and they said that Monette is a very old surname amongst their community. However, I did not have the nerve to ask about complexion colors. Anyway, my thought is that there might be something in Marla’s background, in her family, that she did not want to become public knowledge, and that’s the reason she changed her surname to Devereux.”

I gave Darren’s theory a moment of consideration and then said, “If Marla said she was from the Red River area, then she would be a Cane River Creole, they’re the same ancestry, same identity. However, I disagree about her hiding something, at least not the way you have shed light on it. I’ve been to the Red River Creole community and I’m sure that Marla would not be ashamed of her heritage. It would be the other way around. She would be embarrassed about working as kitchen help. And the only reason for her to fear that kind of embarrassment would be because she had close family ties here in the Los Angeles area, at least close enough that she didn’t feel comfortable about them finding out about her employment. And as to her changing her surname, another possibility is that she did that when she decided to pursue an acting career. Perhaps, the surname of Devereux was a better stage name, so to speak.”

“Shannon, if that is true, then I, and just about everyone else, have been looking for Marla under the wrong surname.”

I was tired of this topic, but I wanted more information about Marla. “So, let’s put that issue aside for now,” I suggested. “Darren, I was wondering about her physical appearance. In newspaper clippings that I have read, Marla has been referred to as the Ebony Belle but also she was described as having auburn hair. What do you know about her appearance?”

Darren opened up the other two folders. One folder had glossy black and white photographs and the other folder had more handwritten notes. “Here, you look through this stack of photos and I’ll read aloud my notes to you.”

I laid out the photos on his desk. They appeared to have been taken about the same period in Marla’s life, maybe no more of a difference than three years apart. As I suspected, Marla was of a light to medium olive complexion. In one photo she looked like she was wearing stage makeup that made her appear darker than she naturally was. If the photos were true to light, Marla would have easily passed for being White, Hispanic or Italian, had she chose to, that is.

Darren took a sip of coffee, cleared his throat and then said “Says here, Marla appeared on local theater stages as the Ebony Belle in which she acted out skits that portrayed famous women. The portrayals included the Egyptian Queen Cleopatra, the Civil War activist Harriet Beecher Stowe and, get this, Marla ended each performance with a tribute to the then popular and much celebrated entertainer, Josephine Baker.”

“Josephine Baker? Are you sure?” I asked.

“Definitely. In fact, it was reported in the newspaper that Miss Baker was in town and had planned to see the show, but due to an illness, was unable to attend.”

“And the only reason Marla was called the Ebony Belle was because of that stage show?” I asked with anticipation that I already knew the answer.

“Yes,” Darren answered. “And by the way, Marla was not very dark complexioned, that is if you do not mind me saying so.”

Touche, Darren
. “Did she have red hair?” I asked.

“At various times her hair was described as auburn, redwood, deep ruby, dark henna and so on. Why do you want to know about her hair color?”

I sighed. “Hmm, that I’m not sure of, but I feel in my gut that her hair color is very important. And I wonder if the color of her hair was ever described as being too red.”

He looked back through his notes. I waited to see if he had more information.

“Sorry, evidently I did not think to follow up on Marla’s preference in cosmetics.”

At first I thought his reply was snarky, but then I thought, well, he is a man, chances are he never gave her hair color a second thought in investigating her appearance. I replied, “Given the initial reason for your research I would not have thought about her hair color either. By any chance, do you know if Marla was ever employed in advertisements of the era? I know that young and upcoming actresses were often urged to make their names known by doing advertisements in magazine and newspapers. You know, ads for clothes, shows, handbags and, yes, cosmetics?”

“I may have seen some, but I’m not sure. It’s interesting that you should bring this up, something, uh,
some thing
about it seems peculiar, but I just can’t put my finger on it.” Darren shook his head. “I’m sorry Shannon, I think you may be on to a clue, but how it would help with researching her disappearance is beyond me.” He tapped the fingers of his left hand on the desk, it seemed an absentminded gesture.

I looked at my watch, it was almost two. “Darren, I’ve taken up enough of your day, and I have some work to do.” I stood up and offered my hand, he politely shook it. “Thank you so very much,” I said.

Darren walked me out to his front porch. “I’ve enjoyed this day. I hope we can work on this mystery again,” he said.

“I have a hunch we will. I’ll let you know if I come up with anything else, okay?” I said.

“Please do, and I’ll do the same. Bye Shannon.”

Chapter 11

I did not go back to my cottage. I drove to a local coffee bar and found a quiet corner with a comfy chair. The waiter brought me an iced tea, which I barely touched, but needed to use as a prop for being there. I took out my notepad and jotted down a few notes:

Is Darren hiding some aspect of his interest in Marla Devereux? It seemed obvious that the files he has on her are bunched together and yet he discreetly took one file out and placed it back in his desk, out of my reach.