The Secret Life of Anna Blanc (23 page)

“Lots of the girls use them,” Madam Lulu said.

Anna leaned closer and took a good solid whiff. “She's fresh. That is, she doesn't smell rotten. In fact, she smells rather sweet.” Anna's eyes darted up. “Why would she smell sweet?”

Anna heard Snow and the Coroner on the street. She had, at most,
a minute to investigate before the men returned with the stretcher. If they caught her, they'd tell Matron Clemens, or, worse yet, Wolf. Then, she'd lose her job.

Beneath the noose still draped around the girl's neck, there was a dark line the color of a plum, its edges bleeding out into red. Anna supposed such a mark might be expected in a hanging. But could Anna prove that she hadn't hung herself? She tried to lift the woman's arm. It resisted, as stiff as a board. “Dead at least three hours. That's when rigor mortis sets in. I read that in a book. She's warm, but so is the air.” Anna's voice boiled. “It's so hot. I could better estimate time of death if it wasn't so sweltering hot.”

Madam Lulu rolled her eyes. “Who cares?”

In the distance, Snow laughed.

Anna tensed. She quickly examined the girl's hands. The fingers were soft and white, the nails polished, slightly tinted—something girls in Anna's set were not allowed to do. Curiously, she wore a wedding ring. Anna tried to raise the sleeves of the peignoir to examine the arms, but quickly realized that the only way to do so was to unbutton the garment and pull them down. She didn't have time.

She paused for a minute and listened. A scraping sound. The stretcher coming out of the wagon. Anna moved to the girl's legs and quickly lifted her nightdress. She detached the stockings from blue garters exposing two slender gams, and pushed up the girl's silky eyelet drawers. The shins were light pink, but the color of them faded into white the higher Anna looked up the thighs. Her heart beat faster. She rolled the legs to one side. Both the calves and the back of the thighs were uniformly dark, livid, a distinct contrast to the front of the legs. Anna squeaked with epiphany, her heart pounding. “Dual lividity! It's textbook. She's been dead at least ten hours and she didn't die from hanging. Somebody hung her after she was dead. I could prove it in a court of law.” Anna looked up, her eyes wide. “Madam Lulu, she
was
murdered! I have no doubt.”

The madam gasped in mock surprise. “You're a genius!”

Anna moved on to the feet and vigorously tugged at the girl's
slipper. It was tight and resisted. She used a stick to pry it off. Anna recoiled. The foot had been forced, the toes broken. Anna dropped the slipper and a sixpence fell out.

A cold thought flooded Anna's mind, and for a moment, she couldn't move. What if the very small, ill-fitting shoe had belonged to Peaches? And the shoe that had dangled from Peaches' lifeless foot, it belonged to Anna.

Anna's palms began to sweat, her fingers trembling. “Madam Lulu?” she croaked, but Lulu was gone, sprinting for the trees, hell to split, raising her skirts so her plump legs could move faster. Anna heard the coroner's voice and snapped her head around.

“The world's a better place without a whore like her tempting good men,” he said.

Snow grunted. “Yeah. Fancy whores tease you, show you their legs, when they know you can't afford them. And when you're all riled up, they laugh at you.”

Anna was temporarily stunned by Snow's coarseness and immorality. Madam Lulu called in a loud whisper, “Hustle your frilly britches out of there before you get caught.” She disappeared beneath the canopy.

Anna put the coin in the shoe with fumbling fingers and did her best to shove it back on the foot. She pulled down the gown, leaving the garters unhitched, and fled just as Snow and the coroner emerged carrying the stretcher. Snow squinted at her departing figure and growled.

Anna sped the length of the orchard and cut across a field into the street, fleeing the things she had seen and heard. People stared, and she didn't care. Her lungs burned. She ran until she couldn't, and stumbled to a stop, collapsing against a saloon window, taking quick, gulping breaths. She had to compose herself. The fact that Peaches had worn Anna's shoe must be a coincidence. Anna was, after all, not dead, and she needed to remember it. She inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, and steeled herself. She must think and be calm. Matron Clemens expected her back soon. She was already late to collect the ten-year-old girl. It would be much more difficult to investigate the brothel murders if she lost her job. Anna raced up the street to the address Mr. Melvin had given her for the Poodle Dog, as if the killer himself were pursuing her.

The Poodle Dog was the same ornate stone mansion that she had seen her first day in the brothels. A maid in a ruffled apron hung wet laundry at the side of the building. Anna hurried to the door and knocked. No answer. She knocked again. Nothing. She lingered on the doorstep, unsure of what to do. She tried the doorknob, and the door swung open. Anna poked her head in.

The receiving room was tasteful and smelled of lilac. There was a Persian rug, a fountain that made burbling sounds, a Turkish couch with a canopy, and a feathery palm plant in an urn. Anna could see into the parlor, where a real Egyptian statue stood guard over a staircase that led up to the second floor. To the bedrooms, thought Anna, and wondered what exactly went on there. The place seemed far too elegant for a brothel. It rivaled the finest hotel. She stuck her head inside and called, “Hello?”

Down the stairs came a woman in her forties, her hair in curlers, a burning cigarette in one hand and some knitting in the other. She was striking by any standard, and dripped with an intimidating arrogance. She sauntered forward to block Anna's entrance, and barked in a thick French accent, “What do you want?” She smelled of cigarettes and roses.

Anna cleared her throat and put on her best Matron Clemens imitation. “Good afternoon. I'm a police ma…”

“Then go to hell.” The striking woman slammed the door in Anna's face.

Anna was not used to such treatment, not even from a French whore. It set her teeth on edge and she pounded on the door. She pounded and pounded, and planned to continue pounding until the insolent woman let her in, or the brothel opened for business.

Anna shouted into the wood. “You have a ten-year-old living here. I have a court order to take her to Whittier. I'll call the police.”

The woman opened the door a crack and scoffed. “Whittier? The girl is better off here.”

Anna couldn't agree. No matter how awful the reform school was, at least the girls weren't being murdered. She clutched her clipboard firmly. “I would have thought with all the recent deaths…”

The woman began to shut the door on Anna, but at that moment a Pekinese squeezed out with its fluffy ears flopping. The woman lunged for the dog, leaving the door to swing open. “Look what you've done! Noireau! Come back.” She threw a glance over her shoulder and called to someone in the house, “Lucinda! Keep the matron out!” The madam dropped her cigarette and flew off after the dog, her curlers bouncing.

Anna decided to go in after the little girl herself, Lucinda or no. As she stepped over the threshold, a woman appeared at the top of the stairs and stopped. At first Anna didn't recognize her. She was groomed to perfection, her pale complexion glowing, her hair piled high in a stylish mass of waves and curls. She wore a glorious red chiffon dressing gown that flowed down and around her body like water, and a pair of red, heeled shoes. Thus adorned, one would think that Eve was
the renowned beauty and Anna was the commoner in her mannish matron's uniform and plain bun. Mrs. Eve McBride, former police matron, mother of two, prostitute.

The women locked eyes. Eve's eyes had no light. They looked dewy and faintly pink. Eve took a long drag on her cigarette and blew out a smoke ring. She smiled. It was a cold, defiant smile. Anna's mouth quivered between a smile and a frown. She tried to speak but found no words.

Eve's speech was slurred. “What are you looking at?”

“Eve.”

“It's Lucinda now.” Eve began to descend the stairs. “And look at you. You're an assistant matron.”

“You…” Anna squeezed her eyes shut. “Look beautiful.”

Eve made a scoffing sound. “Sure I do. I've got a maid to style my hair, and Madam Monique buys my clothes. Would you like to see my new mink stole?”

“I…”

“I'm living high now. Live music, dancing, wine. It sure beats working at a factory.” Eve laughed. “What a fool. Fifteen hours a day, four dollars a week, and the boss still wanted to sleep with me. That's not enough coin to board my twins.”

“No…”

Eve's eyes glistened. “So don't you look at me that way, Anna Blanc.”

“No.”

“And don't you dare tell.” She took a drag on her cigarette, her fingers shaking. She looked down at the Persian rug and composed her face. When she glanced up again, Anna saw fragility and sorrow. Eve gritted her teeth. “Don't you tell Joe Singer.”

Before Anna could reply, Monique slipped in with the dog, yanked Anna by the arm and shoved her outside. She slammed the door. Anna heard the bolt slide across the lock. She stood on the doorstep, fingering her skirt, and breathing. Her legs felt weightless and weak, her belly full of lead. She had done this to Eve. She had.

Anna drifted down the steps and into the street. She wanted to run
straight to Officer Singer and have him tell her that it wasn't possible, that Eve didn't work at the Poodle Dog but was safe in Denver, caring for the twins and sending him postcards. Anna wanted to cry and have him console her and forgive her because he was the only one who knew what she had done, the only one who could absolve her.

But that would be a selfish act. Eve had forbidden it. If Anna ever fell to such depths, she certainly wouldn't tell Officer Singer. That's what prostitute names were for—anonymity. Keeping Eve's secret was the least she could do. Also, Joe might shoot Anna with his gun if he ever found out that his friend?—lover?—was now whoring because of Anna.

Anna knocked at Madam Lulu's Christmas-green door, her eyes glassy with uncried tears. Lulu answered before Anna could rap twice. She cocked her head and squinted at the flustered socialite. “What?”

Anna pressed her lips together and swallowed. “I have to talk to you.”

Lulu stood aside and Anna entered the brothel. The décor was as lush and vulgar as the woman herself. The room went on and on. Red carpets covered the floor, crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. A life-sized oil painting of a woman in a partial state of undress smiled brazenly from the wall. There was a floor for dancing and two concert grand Steinway pianos. They reminded her of Officer Singer. The room winked at her.

Balconies overlooking the grand salon encircled the two upper floors. Doors on the balconies led to bedrooms. Stairs led to balconies. It smelled of cigars.

Madam Lulu motioned for Anna to sit. Anna missed the chair and sat on a side table, half in a milk glass candy dish. It cracked. She jumped up. “You were right. Peaches' and Ruby's deaths were both murders. The other deaths are suspicious. I asked Chief Singer to look into it. He said he would, but he lied.” She settled herself properly into a chair.

“Naw!” Madam Lulu looked at the two halves of the candy dish. The marshmallows were flat. She offered one to Anna.

Anna shook her head at the candy. “But I don't know why! Do you know why? Officer Snow and the coroner saw the evidence. They must know it's murder. Are they covering it up? Or are they lazy and they just don't care?”

“That or they're plain stupid.”

“Maybe they killed her themselves!” Anna swiped a wrist across her brow. “But Madam Lulu, they're officers of the law! Sworn to protect us. And they aren't protecting those girls.”

“Do you want a drink?” Madam Lulu stood and lumbered over to the bar. She poured two glasses of whiskey and waddled back, handing one to Anna.

Anna drained it in one tip and gasped. “I went to the Poodle Dog to pick up a ten-year-old girl and take her to Whittier. The dead girl was from the Poodle Dog, right?”

“That's right.”

“The woman there wouldn't let me in.”

“Who, Monique? There's a reason her house is called the Poodle Dog.” Madam Lulu took Anna's glass. “That'll be fifty cents. You want another?”

Anna frowned and shook her head. She gave Madam Lulu her trolley fare. “I'll give you more later.” Her voice was thick. She poked a finger through the center of a marshmallow. “While I was at the Poodle Dog, I saw a friend. I guess she works there now.”

Lulu scratched her head. “What's a female friend of yours doing working at the Poodle Dog?”

Anna tried to compose her face. “Maybe I was unaware of her lewd nature, and she gave way to her baser impulses. Or, maybe…” Anna snorted, and her voice went high. “It's because I got her fired from her job and she's a widow with children and no family.”

Tears came dripping down Anna's cheeks, and she sniffled. Madam Lulu rolled her eyes. “Get a hold of yourself! You'll get boogers on my tablecloth.”

Anna snorted again, took out a handkerchief, and wiped her face. She lifted her chin and tossed her head. “I'm sorry.”

“So why are you here?” Madam Lulu asked.

Anna took a deep breath. “Do brothel girls put coins in their shoes for any reason? Superstition or tradition?”

“No.”

Anna nodded and closed her eyes. She blinked them open. “Do you have any other clues? Any evidence at all? I have a book. It says to notice everything, that the smallest things could be important.”

“I don't know nothin' you don't know about already,” Madam Lulu said.

Anna stood up and stared absently at the painting of the half-naked woman. “Then tell me about the brothels. How many of them are there?”

Madam Lulu took a cigar out of a box, picked up a cleaver and
smack
, cut the cap on the marble tabletop. She stuck the cigar in her mouth unlit. “You're asking about the whole demimonde in LA? I don't know, a hundred.”

“My stars.” Anna took out a notebook, leaned forward, and began to scribble.

Madam Lulu chewed on her cigar. “But those ain't all parlor houses like my place. That's counting the dollar girls in the cribs down Alameda Street. The French girls, Japanese girls, the Chinese girls, the Belgian, whatever you like. Some of them places have but one or two girls.”

Anna made her pencil scribble faster. “How many girls are working as prostitutes?”

“You should ask Helmut Melvin. If they get vagged, he takes their money.”

Anna looked up from her notebook. “Vagged?”

“Arrested for vagrancy. There's no law against prostitution, long as we stay in our little corner. So, on occasion, they vag the girls, fine 'em fifty dollars and let 'em go. It's how the mayor pays for his fancy boat.”

Anna thought of the mayor's droopy mustache dotted with pink whipped cream and her stomach turned. “How many parlor houses are there?”

“At any given time? Maybe eight. Four years ago, they closed
us down, but most of us opened up again.” Madam Lulu waved her cigar hand in the air dismissively. “We get raided from time to time, depending on which way the wind is blowing, but we pop back up.” Madam Lulu reached in a table drawer and pulled out a little red booklet. She handed it to Anna. “Here. Have a sporting guide. It's out of date, but it will give you an idea.”

“A sporting guide?”

“Sounds better than a whoring guide.”

Anna read the cover. “La Fiesta De Los Angeles Souvenir Sporting Guide?” It appeared to be created for tourists celebrating the city's fiesta. She flipped through the pages. It described the different brothels, and praised their charms with vague euphemisms. Had Anna read it out of context, she wouldn't have known what they were talking about. In fact, she still wasn't clear.”