Death Was the Other Woman (12 page)

Dex called for the check and we got back in the car. As we drove, I didn't see the vine-dotted hills of Salinas or the majestic coast off Big Sur. I saw a mud-filled trench, smelled cordite, and heard men dying. And I saw Mustard and Dex back-to-back, bayonets extended, confused and afraid, but knowing the only true thing in the world.

WHEN WE GOT TO SAN FRANCISCO
, it was raining. Which is no big surprise in itself; it rains there a lot, or so it seems when you're from Los Angeles where rain is more the exception than the rule. And while the rain in my home city may be less frequent, when it
does
happen, it's much more dramatic.

The rain in San Francisco is part of the landscape; it falls upon the steep and pretty streets casually. When it rains in San Francisco, it's easy to feel it will always rain, has always rained. It feels like it's meant to be.

This difference in the rain sums up the difference in the two cities. Los Angeles rain is wild, rugged, and determined. It is infrequent, but when it comes, it beats upon the city like a living thing, as though it intends to stay alive. San Francisco rain is confident. It understands that it has a proper place in the world, in the natural order of the city. It is a part of the fabric of the place, of the life. It lacks the wild edge of Los Angeles rain. It lacks a certain desperation.

So we arrived in San Francisco in early evening, at what appeared to be the height of a cleansing downpour. I gave Dex an address in the 2000 block of Broadway in Pacific Heights. We found it without any trouble, though Dex whistled when he pulled up to the curb. “That's quite the pile,” he said as he dropped me off. He was being dramatic, but if anything, it was an understatement. Cleverly Manor was quite the pile indeed. It commanded all of that part of Broadway, and it had a view of the downtown core and the bay from every window at the front of the house.

“That's quite the heap too,” he said, pointing at a low-slung two-seater sports car parked at the curb. It was the color of rich cream. “An Auburn Speedster, if I don't miss my guess. I don't think much of the color though . . . makes it look like a woman's car.”

“It probably is a woman's car, Dex. It's probably Morgana's.”

“Nice,” he said. He stayed in the Packard with the engine idling, while I walked up the steps and knocked on the door. When the maid who opened the door told me Miss Morgana was at home, I turned around and waved, slightly touched that Dex had insisted on making sure I was all right before he zoomed off into the city.

Morgana Cleverly was delighted to see me, though somewhat surprised. We had been friends since childhood, with much in common including fathers deeply involved in the business of finance. From the looks of things at Morgana's house, however, her father had invested more wisely than had mine. I knew that, in any case, San Francisco investors had overall fared better than those in Los Angeles. For one thing, none of the San Francisco-based banks had gone under, which was more than you could say about those in my home city.

Morgana herself looked polished, well groomed, and expensively turned out. At twenty-three, she looked slightly older than she had when I'd seen her last, but the two extra years suited her. The things that had been kittenish in the girl I'd known had matured, and she stood before me now a sleek and happy cat.

“I would have called,” I told her, when she found me, valise in hand, where the maid had left me in the vast foyer. “But so much has changed, Morgana. I... I couldn't bring myself to discover what might not be the same here as well.”

Morgana's startled expression changed into one more familiar, and she moved to give me a hug. “Come here, you goose,”

she said, embracing me. “Of course nothing has changed,” she said, “and everything has. We're grown-ups now, aren't we?”

I nodded. But I felt as though I'd been a grown-up for a long time.

“I was afraid you'd be away at school.”

“Vassar?” she said. “I decided to put that whole thing off for a time. I've been having so much fun here, I couldn't bear to pull myself away. But what would you have done if I wasn't here?” She poked one elegant finger at my valise. “It looks as though you've come to stay.”

I smiled at her, embarrassed, but only slightly. “Only one night. Perhaps two. I had the chance to come to the city, and I decided to take it. I hoped to find you at home,” I told her, “and I had the feeling I would. Call it intuition. But there were others I could have visited if you weren't here. You were my first choice though.”

“I'm so glad, darling. But come, let's not stand here. We'll have tea brought ‘round. We've got so much to catch up on.”

And we really did. Though we'd once been best friends, circumstances had forced . . . not a rift but a very definite separation. I'd not wanted her to see me as a possible charity case. For her part, she now told me she hadn't known what to say to me when she'd heard what had become of my father. Her family had been fortunate, mine had been destroyed, and she'd felt guilty and unsure. After a while, she said, time had passed, and our lives had become what they were.

A servant had opened the door, but Morgana herself led me down elegant dove-colored hallways to her own beautifully appointed sitting room. You could see at a glance that nothing here had changed in a significant way. The soft-slippered servants remained at their posts. A swimming pool the color of the Mediterranean in summer still dominated the garden, and even on a rainy autumn day, I knew the staff would be keeping it heated and ready, should it please us to use our afternoon in this way.

As inviting as that sounded, on this day we did not swim. Instead we sat in Morgana's private suite, the air cool enough that we could see mist rise off the pool where the warm water met with the cool air. Beyond the pool dropped the city and, beyond that, the bay. This might not have been the most choice spot in San Francisco, but I had a hard time imagining what would be better. I said so aloud, so Morgana set me straight.

“Daddy is building a house at Belvedere. He says that the noise of the city is growing irksome to him.”

“Belvedere,” I repeated. “Where's that?”

Morgana pointed out into the bay toward an island I'd never noticed before. “You'll think I'm fabricating, Katherine, but it's out there, for heaven's sake. He's acquired thirty acres and the best architect in the city—someone stuffy and British, though I can't think of his name—and they're concocting the most monstrous estate that can be conceived.”

“But why, Morgana? Cleverly Manor is perfect.” And it was. There was room there for ten families. Perhaps twenty, if they were Irish. And the house was beautiful and modern, having only been completed in the mid-1920s.

“Oh, he has all these wonderful
reasons,
Katherine. And when he tells them to me, they all make perfect sense. But to be perfectly honest, I think he's doing it to keep an eye on me. An
island.
Think of it. I'd be trapped! I'm sure that's what he's thinking.”

“You're being silly,” I said.

“I'm not! Wait until you see. Belvedere is like the
moon,
Katherine. No restaurants, no stores. Just all these stately
homes.
Tea on Sundays, dinners on Saturdays. Reading, embroidery, piano.”

I laughed, and after a heartbeat or two, she laughed along.

“You're being silly, Morgana. You know you are. If, as you say, he's only just acquired the land and hired an architect, it will be years before he's finished the house. Years and years and
years.
Probably way beyond the time you'll still be living at home. You'll be off and married and have your hands full with your own small Morganas by the time he's done with it. Darling, he's not planning to trap you; he can't be. He's planning for when you're
gone.
”

I felt the most loving twinge of envy then; I can't think how else to explain it. Everything in Morgana's world seemed to have gone on unaltered. Oh, time had continued to pass; she was older and had the concerns of a young woman instead of a girl. But her home was intact, her parents stood over her shoulder and watched out for her, and the dove grey walls continued to shelter her, just as they had when we were children.

My life was very different, as were my concerns. I would not have wished less for Morgana, and I certainly wouldn't have wished her ill or evil, but I wouldn't have been human had I not wondered why her life should have continued as planned, while mine . . . well, mine seemed to careen on unexpected course after course. I had uncertainty and she had safety. I wondered what that felt like.

Over tea, she told me about a half year spent in Europe with two of our mutual friends, along with a couple of aunts to chaperone. I found that I'd gotten used to tableware that was more rough and ready. It was strange to use elegant china again. I sat in a slipper chair near the window, where I could see the last of the rain and a newly rising fog while carefully balancing my cup in my hands. The porcelain was almost translucent and as delicate as the wing of a baby bird.

Morgana had started the telling cautiously. I was aware of her intelligent eyes on mine when she began talking about her trip to Europe. I suppose she was afraid that I might be hurt by tales of her time abroad, since in my reduced circumstances trips to Europe were completely out of the question. I was glad when she relaxed after a while. After all, my misfortune had nothing to do with her. I was glad to see that not everyone was in the same boat. It would have been a very full vessel.

“Europe is somehow less jolly now, Katherine,” she said, as she finished her story. “Maybe it's the Depression touching things there as well? I don't know. But there's a shadow now; I can't describe it. I didn't enjoy this trip as much as our last.”

That had been the summer of our eighteenth year. Morgana's parents had called it our proper and modern coming-out. My father had just grunted and signed the necessary checks.

“But listen to me,” Morgana said, after a while. “I've been going on about everything here. Tell me what you've been doing with yourself. Tell me about your life.”

Hesitatingly at first, I did as she asked. I told her about Dex and Mustard and my job. Almost from the beginning of the telling, I could see Morgana was fascinated. I knew that, from where she sat, I was describing an inconceivable life, more foreign to her than any she'd seen in Italy or France.

And not just foreign. As I spoke, I saw a growing admiration light her face. I didn't understand at first. And then I did. The things Morgana had were wonderful, but she'd not done anything to cause them to be. My life was uncertain. There were elements of it I could never hope to control. But it was mine. I didn't usually think of it this way, but I realized then that, for better or worse, I had a hand in shaping my life, creating my future.

I thought about the boarding house my home had become. I thought about the office. About not always having enough money to take Angels Flight home when, in another time, I would have had a car and driver or perhaps, as Morgana did, my own little car. I thought about Dex and Mustard, and oddly enough, I thought about Brucie.

So much had changed. In a way I was surprised when I realized I wasn't jealous of Morgana and her life. And I realized that somewhere along the way I'd begun to make my own.

AFTER WE'D SPENT A FEW HOURS
catching up, Morgana insisted on ringing up a bunch of our old friends and organizing a night on the town. It wasn't as easy as it would have been a couple of years before, Morgana explained between calls, because several of the girls had gotten married.

“And that's all right,” Morgana said, “that's going to happen. But Cecily Watson? Well, Cecily Marksham now. She won't be coming.” Morgana pantomimed a protrusion from her own slender tummy. “She's due in December.”

“Cecily a mother?” The thought shook me slightly. “Who did she marry?”

“No one you'd know,” Morgana said. “Albert Marksham, of the Humboldt Markshams? See, I didn't think you'd have reason to know him. He's nice enough, I suppose. He seems to be, at any rate. But he's a bit dour for someone so young. Old before his time. He'd not have been my choice.”

I laughed at that. “Oh, Morgana! If you and Cecily were now making the same choices, I
would
be concerned.”

And so it went throughout the remainder of the early evening. Morgana on the phone, seeing who among our old friends she could round up in my honor and, between calls, gossiping with cheerful abandon about how all of our lives had turned out.

I'd not brought any evening wear with me. Honestly, I had no evening wear beyond what Brucie had given me, but it didn't feel necessary to point this out. Morgana, of course, had a closet groaning with things. She was slightly more filled out than I was, but that wasn't a problem. As I'd done with Brucie's dress on the night of my visit to the Zebra Room, I just wore something Morgana hadn't worn for two years. It fit me perfectly.

Morgana drove us to the Embarcadero in the cream-colored Auburn Speedster that Dex had admired so much. We walked arm in arm and enjoyed losing ourselves in the bustling throng. Street vendors plied their wares, but mostly the foot traffic looked busy, like they all had places to go, the terminus being the Ferry Building that loomed over the waterfront and the watercraft that would take them to various destinations within sight of its piercing tower.

“See,” Morgana said, as we crossed the footbridge from Market Street, “this is what Father would have me become: a tourist in my own city, bound by ferries and schedules.”

She sounded so put upon that I laughed again. “You've nothing to fear, my angel,” I told her. “I tell you, he schemes for himself, not for you.”

Afterward we clambered back into Morgana's little car and drove farther on Market Street. She stopped in front of a club and let a valet take her car. The club appeared far more sophisticated than I would have expected from her. I chided myself on this; it was time for me to upgrade my expectations of her. I was thinking of Morgana as I'd known her in our girlhood. She was a woman now.

If I didn't know that before we walked into the club, I did moments after, when every male head in the place swiveled to look at us, and by us I'm quite sure I mean her. I forced myself to look at Morgana again, without the shadings of childhood. What I saw surprised me. Once through the sleek glass and metal doors, she moved like a fish who'd been dropped back into her tank—with confidence and assurance and as though she belonged there.

For my part, I felt a bit like a fish too—one that was out of water. Given the choice, I probably would have picked some place that served tea to meet up with our old girlfriends. Or maybe fancy coffee if we were feeling daring. Clearly, Morgana had other ideas.

“There's a blind pig on Fifth Street that I go to sometimes,” she told me. “But this place is one of my favorites. And with the girls coming and it all being in honor of you, I thought something a little more upscale was called for.”

She was right. I was not so prudish that I would have totally discounted the idea of a blind pig, but I'd never been to an illegal drinking parlor of that stripe and nature, and I didn't think tonight would be a good time for me to start.

“There are roulette tables in the back room.” She indicated an unmarked door deep across the club's chromium and black vinyl interior. The club looked modern, expensive, and entirely vulgar. I was guessing that was the point.

“I like to play sometimes,” she told me, as though admitting a secret. “Not tonight though. Tonight we'll all just catch up.”

“Miss Cleverly!” the maitre d' gushed, when he caught sight of Morgana. He was so pleased to see her that his mustache quivered faintly. Something about those quivering whiskers put me in mind of a squirrel looking at an acorn. “So delighted to see you again. Your usual table?”

I raised an eyebrow. If Morgana came here often enough to have a table that was usual, she came here a lot.

“Not tonight, Zack. I've got some friends coming. Old friends from school.” She indicated me, and Zack inclined his head at me politely. “So maybe somewhere quiet where we can chat. Not
too
quiet though, Zack. You know I like to see what's going on.”

“Very well, Miss Morgana,” Zack said. “I have just the thing.”

He led us to a raised banquette, not far from the door that led to the gaming room. I had the feeling that giving us this table was as much for his benefit as it was for ours: it probably wouldn't hurt an establishment like this to fill a very visible table with young women.

“It's perfect,” Morgana said, taking her seat in a rustle of silk. “And bring me a sling, wouldja Zack?”

I was pleased that from my vast experience with nightclubs—having been to the Zebra Room a total of one time—I was able to order a grown-up drink with confidence.

“Kir Royale, please.”

Our friends began arriving in short order. Oddly, I found them all vastly changed and completely the same. This one grown more stout, that one more plain. This one was a duckling who had become a swan. All had genteel backgrounds, but our surroundings and the times we lived in had made us seem common, at least in this venue. We spoke that way. We drank that way. We laughed without covering our mouths, and we ate whatever we liked with abandon. Mrs. Beeson would have been mortified. We had a wonderful time.

Deep in the evening—and all of us filled with drink and food and fun—a harried woman entered the club, her general air of distress catching my eye right in the middle of one of Gladys Carmichael's most engaging stories.

The harried woman was so out of context for me that at first I couldn't place her. And then I did: Rita Heppelwaite. What had thrown me off was not only that she was in San Francisco, but also her mien. I had not before seen her when she didn't look voluptuous and ready for something warm and exciting. Tonight she didn't appear to be either of those things. In fact, she looked off-kilter and distraught.

I nodded at appropriate moments as Gladys continued her story—something about the first time her beau had met her grandmother. It hadn't gone well. Beyond that, I couldn't have said—I was watching Rita Heppelwaite make her way across the crowded club. It looked to me like she was searching for someone. Fruitlessly, because she just kept on searching. When finally she came to the door at the back of the club that Morgana had pointed out to me earlier, Rita took one last furtive look around, then disappeared through it.

“Excuse me,” I said, rising. I didn't realize I'd interrupted poor Gladys until I noticed everyone looking at me oddly. “I'm sorry, darling,” I said, patting her hand, remembering as I did so that none of us had ever listened very deeply to Gladys's droning stories. “I need . . . that is ... I'll be right back,” I said, and I rose and left the table without giving anyone a chance to reply.

The room was crowded and it took me some time to make my way to the door. Before I did though, I noticed Morgana behind me.

“What are you up to?” she asked.

I smiled, feeling suddenly seventeen again and on some silly adventure that would land both of us in dutch with Mrs. Beeson.

“I'm not sure,” I replied. “That is, I saw a woman come through the club and go into the gaming room. A woman I know from Los Angeles. She's one of my boss's clients—or she was—and I don't know, Morgana. It just seemed odd, and I wanted to see where she was going.”

“You're funny,” Morgana said without rancor, even while she got us moving again. “You've turned into quite the little detective yourself, haven't you? Well, you're not going without me. You'd not get into the gaming room without me anyhow. They don't let just anyone in, you know. It's a secret. Come on.” With that she pulled me behind her until we reached the door.

Once inside I could see that she was right. I'd never have gotten in by myself. A man slouched near the door, never taking his eyes from it. He was in his mid-thirties, with sparse hair and a good suit. I would have been more likely to take him for a doctor or a lawyer with bad posture than a house peeper.

When he saw Morgana, he nodded to her respectfully. “Evening, Miss Cleverly.” Judging from this, I gathered she was a good customer back here. I found myself only slightly shocked at the realization.

“Evening, Silk. This is my friend, Miss Katherine Pang-born. I was just showing her around.”

Another polite nod, this one in my direction. “Go ahead, Miss Cleverly. Just let me know if you need anything.” Silk might have looked like a doctor, but he didn't sound like one. He sounded like he was in the right job.

“Thanks,” she said, as she moved me more deeply into the room. “I'll do that.”

I was so agog at my surroundings that at first I forgot all about Rita Heppelwaite. Where the front of the club had been deeply modern, back here was a sea of green baize and smoke. The patrons were predominantly male; the women that were there were mostly scantily clad, showing plenty of cleavage and carrying drinks or hawking cigarettes. When I remembered to look for her, I realized Rita should be easy to spot. But she wasn't there.

I turned to Morgana, shaking my head. “I'm sure I saw her come in here.”

Morgana spread her hands in a universal—if dramatic— gesture. “We'll ask Silk,” she said, leading me back to the entrance.

“Miss Pangborn thought she saw someone come in here. Someone she thinks she knows.” I was glad Morgana hadn't said it was a friend. Clearly, for Rita to get in, Silk must have known her. And she wasn't any kind of friend of mine.

“Uh-huh,” Silk said.

“But we can't see her now. Is there another way out?”

“Sure,” he said, pointing to a door in the back wall neither of us had noticed before. A potted palm stood between the door and the room, not hiding it exactly, but blending it into the decor. He grinned. “Place like this has to have a back way out.”

“Where does it lead?” Morgana asked.

“Back alley. Dead end one way. Boynton Court the other. Couple of buildings with fire escapes either way offer other options. But listen, you said ‘her.' It was a dame?”

“That's right,” I said. “Quite a beautiful one. Dark red hair. Lovely figure ...”

“Sure. I know her, all right. That's Rita Mayhew. And I know that's the twist you were lookin' for, ‘cause she was in here for just a few minutes. Then I saw her take the air.” He pointed again at the door. “It didn't look like she was coming back here either. Where you know her from, miss? She's not in your league at all.”

“Los Angeles,” I said. “And what league is she in?”

“Well, she's not the roulette player you are, Miss Cleverly. But then she's missing something you got. Something she won't ever have.”

“What's that?” Morgana asked.

“Well, don't take this the wrong way,” Silk said, looking abashed. “But you can afford to lose. It gives you an edge. Her type—” he hooked a thumb at the door “—her type never can. Fact, she's in to Hopscotch for five large.”

“Five large,” I repeated. Five thousand dollars seemed an impossible amount of money to me. A lifetime's worth of trips on Angels Flight. A trip to Europe. A car. A new stove. More.

Morgana didn't bat an eye. “That's a lot of change,” she said.

“You're not just whistling ‘Dixie,'” Silk nodded. “That's why I let her in here tonight. Figured she musta come through with Hopscotch's dough. Else why would she even be in town? She knows she's gonna get zotzed if she doesn't pay up.” He described a gun with his left hand, indicated pulling a trigger.
Zotzed.
I shuddered.

“Would that really happen?” I asked. “Would she really get... zotzed?”

Another shrug from Silk. “You didn't hear it from me.”

Somehow this apathetic denial was more frightening than anything he'd said before.

Heading back to our table, I saw the back of a man's head. It looked familiar. All of my old friends were looking at him, and each face held a look of sheer horror.