The Last Embrace (9 page)

L
ily gaped at her bedroom in dismay. Every drawer had been pulled out, its contents dumped. The trash can was missing. A residue of powder coated many surfaces. The contents of the closet lay strewn across the bed.

Red, who’d offered to help, was busily placing hats and shoes back into their proper boxes. Lily saw piles of clothes—formal gowns, suits, frocks gauzy and light as a summer breeze, dungarees, and checkered shirts. There were also homespun dresses of modest cut and a heavy overcoat made for Midwest winters, clothes from a former life that Kitty had shed upon arrival as casually as her name.

There was no sign of Mighty Joe Young; the officers must have taken it.

They heard a rap at the door.

“Come in,” Red said absentmindedly.

In walked Jeanne. Behind her stood a man in a brown suit, clutching a hat. He was about forty, with a receding hairline, a large toffee-colored nose, and a bobbing Adam’s apple. He craned his neck like a large, cautious bird. His pale, watery gaze slid across the room’s wreckage as if memorizing each detail.

“Who are you?” Lily blurted out.

“This is Freddy Taunton,” Red said, introducing them. “For goodness’ sakes, Freddy, don’t just stand there like a startled goose, come in.”

The man obliged, his eyes still moving like minesweepers.

“Freddy’s originally from England,” Jeanne explained. “He came here to write scripts for the studios. Kitty was his muse, so he’s quite shaken up.”

“His muse?” Lily’s eyebrows arched.

“An exquisite young woman,” Freddy said in a cockney accent. “We are all devastated.”

“Poor Freddy, how will you be able to finish your script now?” Jeanne asked mournfully.

“We must soldier on,” Freddy said. His gaze lingered at Lily’s sable-trimmed coat, now slung across a chair. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a black and gold silk scarf? I, ah, loaned it to Kitty last time I saw her. She’d complained of a draft, so I did the gallant thing.”

How could this man bring up his stupid scarf right now?
Lily wondered. Especially when Kitty had been strangled. An image came to her of a silk noose tightening around a pale neck and Lily took an immediate and violent dislike to Freddy. She’d long counted on these intuitive feelings to guide her. In Rome, she’d once handpicked German POW volunteers to infiltrate back across Nazi lines to spread rumors and scatter propaganda pamphlets. All sixteen had returned, some with coordinates of camouflaged tanks for the Allies to bomb. Now without being obvious, she began to study Freddy more closely.

“Have a look,” Red said. “We’re not sure what the detectives took.”

“Ah, yes, I saw one of them leaving,” Freddy said. “An unmarked car, was it? Did they take her journal?”

“How do you know she kept a journal?” Lily asked.

Freddy gave her a patronizing look. “Don’t all young ladies confide their most fervent hopes and dreams in journals?”

“Freddy’s got a scene in his new script,” Jeanne interjected, “where a man reads the diary of a girl he’s secretly in love with and believes she’s writing about her passion for him. When he finds out she loves someone else, he’s so devastated that—”

“Save it,” Red said. “Lily’s not interested.”

“Sure I am.” Lily gazed earnestly at Freddy Taunton. “What does he do?”

“Well, I…”

“It’s soooo tragic,” Jeanne said. “He lures his rival to a meeting to kill him, but the girl intercepts the letter and goes in his place because she suspects her lover’s cheating on her. The lovesick guy ends up killing the girl by mistake.”

“Fascinating,” Lily said, watching Freddy Taunton turn five shades of red. A vein near his temple began to pulse.

“Isn’t he a genius?” said Jeanne, her large green eyes glowing. “He’s also minor nobility.” Freddy began to object. “It’s okay, Lily won’t tell anyone. Freddy’s family has estates all over, but he doesn’t want any part of that world. He wants to succeed in Hollywood on his talent, not his title.”

Lily had met plenty of upper-crust Brits.
If he’s a titled English gent, I’m a Rockefeller,
she thought.

“When’s the last time you saw Kitty Hayden, Mr. Taunton?” she asked.

“Hrrm, it was…” Freddy scratched his chin vigorously, “last week. We had cocktails at the Formosa.”

“Do you know anyone who might have had any reason to kill her?” Lily asked.

“Why, no, young lady. I certainly didn’t.”

“Didn’t what?”

“Kill her.”

Lily was silent. Why had he jumped to the defensive so quickly? “I’m sure the police will be around soon to interview you.”

“Yes,” murmured Freddy. “Do they have any leads yet? Suspects?” He licked his lips.

“They’re looking at gangsters,” Jeanne said.

“Might be something to that,” Freddy said, nodding too emphatically. “Our Kitty liked flash and a bit of danger, found it glamorous. Told me as much.”

Red came over, crossed her arms. “What else did she tell you, Freddy?”

“Oh, that’s about it. We were just talking hypothetically.” His pale cold fish eyes swam over them. “Or at least I was.”

He fingered the brim of his hat. “I hope they catch him. A real pity. Lovely girl, just lovely. Everything to live for.”

He clucked a few more platitudes, then wandered to the window and looked both ways.

“I really must be going. A friend’s invited me to go deep-sea fishing, and we leave San Pedro at midnight.”

Lily waited until she heard the front door shut. “How well do you know that fellow?” she asked.

“Jeanne and Kitty met him last year,” Red said. “He took quite a shine to Kitty. He based several of his heroines on her. I think she was flattered.”

“I would have been flattered,” said Jeanne fervently.

“What pictures did he write?”

“He hasn’t actually
sold
any of them yet.”

“Ah.”

“He says true genius is rarely rewarded,” Jeanne continued. “But he’s absolutely devoted to his art. Once he tied me to a chair and gagged me and took notes while I tried to break free.”

“Good God, Jeanne,” said Red, “you never told me he’s a pervert!”

“You have a filthy mind, Red. It wasn’t any kink. I gave him permission. He was writing a scene about an abducted girl and wanted to make it as realistic as possible.”

“You poor sap, and you believed him?”

“Kitty did too.” Jeanne pouted. “He gave us money for ‘modeling’ when he had any. His family is very stingy with him. It was fun, like method acting. And when he read us the scenes, well, they were magnificent.”

“What a load of hogwash,” said Red. “Lily, I had no idea what they’d been up to with him. Jeanne, did you tell Detective Pico about this?”

Jeanne blinked. “I didn’t think it was relevant.”

“You didn’t think…” Red threw up her hands.

“Kitty and I both posed for those pictures, and I’m still alive, so it can’t be Freddy,” Jeanne said. “Besides, he’s an aristocrat, he wouldn’t be capable of—”

“I hate to break it to you, girls,” Lily said, “but I’ve lived in England and Freddy Taunton is no more a British aristocrat than I am.”

She explained about posh accents and added, “So if he’s lied about that, what else is he concealing?”

Had Freddy gotten carried away while doing “research” on Kitty, then panicked and dumped the body?

Lily asked where Freddy lived.

“The Radcliffe Arms, near Santa Monica and Western. Sixteen fifty-seven Radcliffe. He’s in Apartment E.”

As Red marched Jeanne downstairs to inform the police about Freddy’s “photo shoots,” Lily decided she wanted to look through his apartment. If he was really leaving on a fishing trip, that wouldn’t prove too difficult. She’d wait a few hours, then set off. But if he was lying…

Lily picked the last of Kitty’s sundresses off the floor and noticed a strained seam. Just then Red returned, saying they’d left a message for the detectives.

“Didn’t Kitty have nice clothes?” Red asked. “Here, let me help you with that.”

She tugged the dress out of Lily’s hands. “Why don’t you take a rest, I’ll finish up.”

Lily walked to the upholstered chair by the window and sat down. Across the street, the mottled trunk of a western sycamore glowed silver in the moonlight.

“Red, you’ve told me about Max, and now there’s this Freddy, but did Kitty have any serious boyfriends? Someone she might have kept secret? A gangster, maybe?”

“Kitty, serious?” Red tittered and put a hand to her mouth, not very convincingly. “Kitty was a gal who liked to keep her options open.”

“Red,” Lily persisted, “was Kitty seeing anyone regularly?”

Red inhaled sharply. “Sometimes she acted as if she was suffering through a bad love affair…”

“Do you know his name?”

Red pouted. “No. But as I told that Detective Pico, whatever was troubling her seemed to fall away a few weeks ago. Like she’d made up her mind about something. ‘I’ve had a hard time of it lately, Reddy,’ she said one morning, just the two of us in the kitchen, ‘but everything’s going to be okay.’ Then she squeezed my hand. Some of the girls here, they resented her, they thought she put on airs, but not me. I was probably her best friend, though Beverly thinks she was.”

“She never told you any details?”

Red reared back, insulted. “I didn’t ask. She was very private. So am I. And now I’ve really got to—” She opened the door and took a quick breath. Fumiko stood in the hallway, her ear to the door, a guilty look on her face.

“You were eavesdropping,” Red accused.

“I didn’t mean to. I was walking to my room when I heard you. You shouldn’t repeat what Kitty confided in you,” she told Red. Regaining her poise, she turned to Lily. “Why are you stirring up trouble? It’s none of your business.”

Lily was taken aback. “I’m just trying to—”

“Why don’t you just go back where you came from?” Fumiko said angrily. “Stop asking questions or the same thing might happen to you.”

Fumiko stalked off, her gauzy red robe flapping behind her, and Lily saw her in a new light. Of all the aspiring actresses here, she might be the most ambitious, and the most thwarted. Lily wondered if there was bad blood between Kitty and Fumiko. Her description to Mrs. Croggan of the rooming house as one big happy theatrical family with Mrs. Potter presiding over everything like a plump motherly hen was unraveling into Hollywood fantasy.

Red drifted to the vanity table, picked up an emery board, and began buffing her nails. The scratchy sound made Lily’s skin crawl.

“Did she just threaten me?” Lily asked.

Red gave her a guarded look. “She’s upset, that’s all.”

“Did Fumiko and Kitty have a falling out? Over a boyfriend, or an acting job?”

“She did lose a minor role to Kitty a few months back, but I told her she wouldn’t have been cast anyway. They were looking for a white girl.”

“Maybe that just made her resent Kitty all the more?”

Lily’s mind began to consider new possibilities. Fumiko wasn’t physically capable of strangling her roommate, but what if she’d had an accomplice? Jealousy was a perfectly viable motive for murder.

“Oh, pshaw,” said Red, reading her mind. “Fumiko’s just being dramatic. She wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

“Then why did she warn me off?”

“She was probably just humiliated that we caught her listening.”

“Then why didn’t she get mad at you?”

“Because, darling”—Red preened—“I am her friend.”

Lily sighed. Red could be so aggravating. “So back to Kitty. What did you tell Detective Pico about that gangster who supposedly flirted with her? Could she have been dating one of Mickey Cohen’s men?”

A frightened look crossed the girl’s face. The nail file ripped across her nail and she gave a cry of pain. “Ooh, I just can’t bear it. Poor Kitty,” Red said, and ran out the door.

Lily bent down and picked up Kitty’s emery board. She laid it on a lace doily atop the vanity table. A drop of crimson blood seeped into the white linen, leaving a ragged stain.

S
everal miles away, Florence Kwitney waited for the Wilshire bus after a night with her girlfriends. She looked forward to these monthly outings. She and the gals treated themselves to a restaurant, had a few drinks, and reminisced about the war. They’d met on the assembly line at Hughes Aircraft in Playa del Rey, but aviation and shipbuilding had foundered after V-Day and they’d lost their jobs like thousands of others and scattered to the four winds. Before Florence knew it, the evening had gone. And now it was near midnight and the bus wasn’t coming. Florence was a little tipsy. No. She should be honest with herself. She was drunk. She’d been drinking too much lately. She meant to stop, but the days just slid into one another, and each sunset her resolve slipped away with the light and she unscrewed the cap on the bottle of rye. She’d had a few nips before leaving home, then drinks with dinner. Florence decided she’d better duck inside the coffee shop by the bus stop and have some coffee. She wanted to keep her wits about her. She’d keep a look out the window, and if the bus came, she’d drop her coin on the counter and run for it.

The coffee shop was full of large groups and Florence felt a stab of resentment at the happy couples. She and Tom would have been married by now, except that Tom hadn’t made it back from the South Pacific. After that, her life had never quite caught fire the way she’d expected. Florence sat at the counter. It was dark outside, fog creeping in, and she strained to see the big lights that would signal the bus’s approach. The waitress brought the bill with the coffee, which was weak and tasteless, like the grounds had been run through twice. Halfway through it, she saw lights, tossed down a coin, and ran out, only to find a truck heading toward her instead of the bus. Her shoulders sagged. Florence looked inside and saw a busboy sweep her cup into a bin. So much for a refill.

“Waiting for someone, miss?” a pleasant voice said.

Florence turned and saw a man. He reminded her so much of Tom she almost cried out. And then she must have done so, because the man gave a queer smile.

“How did you guess my name is Tom?”

“You remind me of someone,” Florence said, embarrassed.

“Were you going in?” he said, inclining his head toward the coffee shop.

“Why, yes. No.” A beam of yellow light washed over them and she realized the man didn’t look like Tom after all. “I—I don’t know,” she stuttered. A bus was coming. She ran to the bench, but it drove past and she saw a
NOT IN SERVICE
sign in the front windshield.

“Are you all right, miss?” the man asked. “May I be of assistance?”

She gripped her purse. She had to get home. Everything was spinning around her. She missed Tom so much, even four years on, that it was like a physical ache inside of her. She wanted to sink to her knees, bang her head against the cool tiles of her bathroom floor. She knew she couldn’t go back inside the bright lights now. Everyone would see her tear-stained face.

“I’m fine,” she struggled to say. “I’m just waiting for the bus home.” She plopped down on the bench, tucking in her skirts.

“And I remind you of someone?” he probed.

“My fiancé. He died at Subic Bay.”

The man hiked up his trousers and sat down. She thought she heard the jingle of keys. He offered her a cigarette and, when she declined, lit one for himself. She noticed that he had an interesting signet ring on his left middle finger, but no gold band. A girl noticed things like that.

“I’m an actor,” he said with nonchalance, as tattered wisps of fog crept east along the Boulevard and enveloped them. She saw the red cherry of his cigarette rise and fall. “People often say I look like their uncle, their cousin, their neighbor, a guy they knew in the service. I guess I have one of those rubbery actor faces.” He gave a little laugh. “Looks like we’re waiting for the same bus. Why don’t you tell me all about him, and it’ll be here before we know it.”

At twelve-thirty a.m., Lily stood at Santa Monica Boulevard and Radcliffe, dressed in a black shirt, black pants, and the woven canvas shoes worn by Italian peasants. She’d found the Radcliffe Arms without much trouble. It was a fancy name for a shabby building. Three stories of faded red brick, no doorman, only an overflowing brass spittoon.

She guessed that Apartment E was on the ground floor, in the back. Doing a reconnaissance, she saw that one of the rear units was dark. A thin woman carrying a baby moved past the window of the other unit. Lily entered the lobby and found the mailboxes. Located Freddy’s name next to
APT E.
Cautiously she tiptoed down the hallway to make sure that she had the right apartment. Yup, it was the dark one in back. She’d gotten his number from Jeanne and called from the corner liquor store, ready to hang up if he answered. But the phone rang and rang. And the Rambler Jeanne said he drove was nowhere in sight. Lily tried the doorknob, careful to make no sound. It was locked.

Lily slipped out of the Radcliffe Arms and walked down the driveway to the rear apartment, glad that the baby’s cries drowned out a dog barking next door. She tried Freddy’s windows, but they were locked too.

Back on the sidewalk, Lily sprayed on Je Reviens and freshened her makeup. Then she reentered the lobby and knocked on the manager’s door.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she told the heavyset man who answered, wearing an undershirt and smelling of beer. “Mr. Taunton was expecting me at ten to go over a script, and I got held up. He must have stepped out. Do you think you might let me in to wait? A girl doesn’t like to walk around by herself in the dark, men could get the wrong idea.”

Lily gave the man her most innocent, persuasive smile and held out a bottle of gin she’d picked up. “For your troubles, sir,” she added.

The man looked at her, his hand closed around the bottle.

“Who is it, Mel?” came a harsh female voice.

“Just another actress for Taunton, but he ain’t here.” Mel scratched his belly and leered. “Jeez, I must be in the wrong business.”

“Tell the little tart to go away,” came the woman’s voice.

“She brought us something for our troubles, Mother,” Mel said.

There was a shuffling and a florid-faced woman peered out from behind the man’s meaty shoulder.

She saw the gin and shrugged. “Go ahead and let her in. This dump don’t pay us enough to be the morality police.”

The manager pulled a large ring of keys out of his pocket and lumbered down the hall, the woman standing watch, hands on her hips, for which Lily was grateful. He unlocked Apartment E, calling out, “Mr. Taunton, are you there?” Lily thought she could always make some excuse if Freddy appeared, but the apartment was still, dark, and silent.

The manager flicked on the light and made his way back to his own apartment. Lily slipped inside, locked the door, and sighed in relief. Freddy Taunton lived in a one-bedroom apartment and took his meals in a brown-paneled kitchenette, the sink piled high with dirty dishes. The place smelled of pipe smoke and old grease. Somewhere nearby, a fly buzzed.

First things first: Lily hastened to the living room window, threw up the sash window, and opened the screen.
Always leave yourself an escape hatch.
Even as her heart pounded, she felt her brain click into sharper focus, sensed dormant skills stirring.

Even if he came back unexpectedly, Taunton would have to unlock the door. Right, Lily thought, grabbing a chair from the kitchenette and propping it under the knob.

Lily moved through the apartment quickly. In the bedroom closet, she found a length of rope and, wrapped in a sheepskin, an ugly bowie knife. Lily held the knife to the light, looking for bloodstains, but it was clean as a marine latrine awaiting inspection. Kitty had been strangled, not stabbed. Still, why did a guy need a knife like that? A knife made to eviscerate a deer in the wilderness.

Lily worked her way methodically through the apartment, finding little of interest. She stopped at the kitchen table where the Remington portable sat, a half-typed page in the carriage. Lily leaned over the typewriter and read:

So darling Freddy fantasized about hurting women. Shuddering, Lily glanced around. The wastebasket was filled with balled sheets of paper. Lily uncrumpled a page. It said virtually the same thing. She tried several more and gave a harsh laugh. Freddy Taunton was blocked. He didn’t know what happened next. Or maybe he did, but couldn’t bring himself to write the murder itself.

Lily straightened. The rope and knife had been stashed in the bedroom closet. Lily decided to make one more sweep through there. At the door, she squatted, then lay completely flat, one cheek on the carpet. It stank of sweaty socks. Seeing a slight rise in the material, she ran her hand along it. Sure enough. Grasping the farthest corner between her nails, Lily tugged. A triangle of carpet peeled back in her hand. She tugged some more. It was loose, not nailed down. Underneath lay an envelope. She removed it and slid out some photos. And stared.

There was Kitty, tied to a chair and gagged just as Jeanne had described. Except Kitty’s clothes were in disarray, her brassiere exposed, her dress pushed up. And she was bleeding. There were six photos, each slightly different, of Kitty writhing, her mouth contorted in a scream, as she stared at a large knife on the floor beside her.

Feeling nauseous, Lily ran to the living room lamp, desperate to know if they were real. Blood ran down Kitty’s clothes and legs, but she didn’t see any wounds. It looked like someone had splattered Kitty with red paint. Lily examined the girl’s pupils, brows, the muscles around her mouth. Her lips were parted in an O. But her eyes were fixed, watchful. As if she weren’t really scared.
As if she were acting.

Calm down,
Lily told herself. Kitty had been found in a suit, not a dress, and she hadn’t been drenched in blood. This wasn’t documentation of Kitty’s murder. But why would she subject herself to this? Lily decided to bring the photos to that smug Detective Pico, let him figure it out. But Taunton couldn’t learn that she’d been here, or he might bolt before they could arrest him.

Lily’s skin itched. Every instinct she had screamed at her to get the hell out right now. She really, really didn’t want to go back into that bedroom. But she knew she should take only one photo and leave the others, so Taunton would see the envelope safe and sound if he checked.

She was crouched in the closet, sliding the envelope back under the carpet, when she heard the noise she’d been dreading—a key entering a metal lock. Jumping up, clutching her one photo, she ran out of the bedroom, making for the window. The lock had given way and Taunton was rattling the door, trying to dislodge the chair. Lily heard swearing, then a thump as he threw his shoulder against the door. The chair moved.

Lily sprinted.
Please just let me get out the window before he gets inside,
she thought.

The chair screeched, then splintered as the back came off. The door flew open. A large figure stumbled inside, the stink of beer and gin wafting in with him.

In her fear, Lily’s hands grew moist and the photo slipped from her hand. She hesitated, torn between picking it up and making for her escape hatch. It was enough.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a voice said. Not Taunton. The manager.

Lily reached the window. With a great roar, the manager was across the room. “You lying little whore, I’m going to give you what you deserve, then you’ll know what a real man—”

His fingers grabbed her blouse as she dove, arms extended, legs kicking, through the window. Lily heard material tear, felt her heel slam into something as she flew through the air. Then the bellow, as if of an elephant. She landed on a bush, then fell to the ground with a thump that knocked the wind out of her. Lily scrambled to her feet, taking ragged painful breaths as she sprinted up the driveway and down Radcliffe, running until she hit the safety of Santa Monica Boulevard.

It wasn’t until she was panting in an alley a half mile away that she considered what she’d done: illegally entered into a man’s apartment and attempted to steal his property. The manager would say he’d grown suspicious after Taunton failed to arrive, gone to check, and caught her stealing. He’d deny he’d threatened her, but she’d seen the lechery on his face, knew he’d only been waiting for his chance.

Still, the photos suggested something sinister. She’d broken the law, but she’d also discovered something that might link Freddy Taunton to Kitty’s murder.

Lily breathed slowly, willing her panic to subside. Then she found a pay phone and called Detective Pico. He wasn’t there, but she explained about the photos of the murdered girl, gave the operator the address, and urged her to hurry. When asked for her name, she hung up.

Lily caught the last streetcar home, ignoring the appalled looks from the other passengers—luckily there weren’t many this late—and then ran all the way back to the rooming house. Tiptoeing upstairs, she knocked on Jeanne’s door, calling her name softly, anxious to find out what the girl knew about the more extreme photos.