The Secret Life of Anna Blanc (7 page)

In the dappled light under the canopy of an avocado tree, Anna stripped off a gown of Irish lace and stood for a moment letting the warm wind caress her. She would prefer to stay naked on a day that promised to be
hot enough to kill livestock. She stood ten rows deep into the orchard, and all around her were waving branches, smudge pots, and fallen fruit.

She handed her dress to the Widow Crisp, who stood naked and thin, her own rough frock in a pile at her feet. Anna picked it up. It smelled of acrid sweat and medicine; it smelled like the Widow Crisp. It was damp under the arms. As Anna slipped into it, the rough fabric scratching her skin, she thought there could be no better disguise in the world; the frock was so far from anything Anna would ever wear. It was more than a breach in taste. It was a capital crime.

Her fingers deftly fastened the buttons that ran up to her chin. It mostly fit, but it strained across her bust and would need to be altered. She thought it couldn't matter for one day. No decent person would be looking at Anna's bust and certainly no officer of the law. “If you burst my buttons, you'll pay for it,” the Widow Crisp said.

Anna ignored the comment and padded on bare feet through the orchard, crunching in leaves that sailed up into the wind, avoiding sticks, failing to avoid a moldy avocado that squished between her toes. Her own lilac-colored shoes waited safely in the car. She put them on. Their elegant silver buckles glowed at the bottom of her monstrous frock, but the skirts would mostly cover them. She set the crank and hopped behind the wheel.

The Widow Crisp emerged from the orchard like a pig in pearls, wearing Anna's Irish lace, smelling of Ambre Antique perfume. The gown caught in the wind and waved goodbye to Anna like a flag. She peeled off, leaving her chaperone cursing at the side of the road, her pretty dress sagging at the Widow's bust line.

If there had been a mirror, if Anna could have seen herself, she would have lost her nerve. As there was no mirror, and her mind was muddled by the wind, she parked her yellow convertible several blocks from the station and stepped out in the heinous, sandpaper frock. Her hair was still done up with a perky feather clip, which topped her ensemble like a peacock on a dunghill. She passed the fruit seller in the sombrero, and the limping dog, and came to the long line of ladies that snaked around the sidewalk.

The Central police station was grander and busier than the one in which Anna had been incarcerated—built of heavy, gray granite blocks, with multiple stories to accommodate a receiving hospital above, quarters for the surgeon, larger stables, and a bigger flag. Parked out front, there were several police wagons hitched to white horses, a dozen bicycles, and one shiny gas-powered police car with a gold star. Anna brushed past the women, climbed the stone steps, and peeked through the glass of the double doors. The station bustled with victims and suspects reflecting the flavor of the city—Mexicans, French, Russians, Jews, Chinese, Englishmen. With a deep breath, the wild wind caressing her face, Anna summoned all her nerve and pushed open the door.

The matron Anna had seen earlier was arguing with the captain, violently shaking her head. He looked seasoned and wore his authority comfortably, but she projected a fierce moral authority that left them closely matched.

“It was wrong!” the matron said.

The captain rumbled back in a Scottish brogue. “We have a reputation to uphold, Matron Clemens. It's as simple as that!”

“Have it your way, Captain Wells, but don't expect me to do the hiring!” She folded her arms, immovable as God.

Anna stepped closer. “Excuse me. I'm here to apply for the assistant matron position.”

The matron turned on her and growled. “Wait in line like everybody else!” She gave the captain a glare that would have incinerated a lesser man and stomped off to her desk.

The captain threw up his arms. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” He stepped around Anna and swung out the front door. It slammed behind him. Not knowing what else to do, Anna followed.

On the front steps, both Anna and the captain surveyed the line with desperation. It hadn't occurred to Anna that this army of women might be here to apply for one assistant matron position. She would now be last in a queue that ended somewhere around the block. Unsure whether to join the line or ask the Widow Crisp for her jewelry back, she began to slump down the stairs just as a uniformed officer
came sauntering up, giving each lady the head to toe. She backed up against the rail to let him pass. He was slick, though unshaven. His eyes lingered appreciatively on Anna's bust. Anna felt both attracted and repulsed, but her heartbeat quickened when she read his badge. “Detective Wolf.”

The captain lit up when he saw the detective. “Morning Wolf. What have you?”

“Nothing,” Wolf said.

“I'm not surprised.” The captain scratched his head. “It's hard to bait a rape fiend with a woman that ugly.”

Despite a year of finishing school, Anna's mouth hung open, and her chin almost grazed her nubby dress.

Wolf said, “Especially if she passes out drunk in the middle of your operation. I had to go relieve myself. When I came back, she was on the ground. I couldn't get her up. In the end, I dragged her to the side of the road and covered her with leaves so no one would find her and uh…” Wolf noticed that Anna was listening. He lowered his voice. “Get a big surprise.”

Anna gasped, shocked that an officer would treat a woman thus, and began to question whether she knew anything at all about the world. The captain stifled a smile. “Where's our bird now?”

Wolf shrugged and sauntered toward the door. “Probably still at the side of the road.”

The captain raised a finger. “Hold on a minute. I need a favor. I'd like you to do the hiring for the assistant matron's position. Matron Clemens is…out of sorts.”

Wolf turned on his heels and raised an eyebrow. “Again? I thought that was a monthly thing.” He flashed a blinding smile. “I'll do it with pleasure.”

“You're beef to the heels, you are,” the captain said. Slapping Wolf on the back, he slipped into the station.

Wolf took to his task with enthusiasm. He scanned the line for candidates who presented well and who might act grateful later. The first twenty-five women, those with the foresight to come early, those
who might actually make efficient, sensible matrons, appeared to Wolf to be sober minded—no fun at all. He glanced down the line, passing up several women in their forties, and two pretty girls with tightly wound buns who looked tightly wound.

Then, his eyes settled on Anna, backed up against the rail, her bosoms all but bursting from a frock that shouted, “Grateful!”

In a bare interrogation room, Wolf considered Anna across a table. She faced him with an overeager smile.

“What's your name?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, clipboard at the ready. She looked perplexed, as if this were a hard question. He raised his eyebrows and waited. “Holmes,” she said after a moment. “Anna Holmes.”

It occurred to Wolf that a stupid matron would be worse than an ugly matron, and he may as well pack it in now. But she was the sweetest little candidate he had ever seen. He enunciated clearly, as if she were foreign or mentally deficient. “It is
Mrs
. Holmes, isn't it? We don't hire unmarried women, and you're not wearing a wedding ring.”

“That's right. I mean my ring is…being fixed.” Anna felt the place where a ring would be.

He gave her a wide, encouraging smile at this prompt response. She sat up straighter, her gorgeous chest rising.

“And your husband doesn't mind if you do this kind of work?” He addressed this question to her heaving chest, as if the gaps between buttons were lips that could speak.

“No. He's overseas with the…with the…He's overseas.” Under the table, Anna gripped her purse so hard that the tiny beads made imprints on her fingers.

He nodded, drawing two round bosoms in his notebook. “How many grades have you completed in school?”

“Twelve.” She twisted the chain on her purse, straining the links until they pinched her finger. “Plus finishing school.”

“Good. Do you have any experience working with troubled women and children?” He raised his eyebrows hopefully.

“Yes. Through my work with the Orphans' Asylum.”

He leaned forward. “So you're comfortable working in, ah, the saltier parts of town?”

“Yes, I like salt.” Anna laughed.

He chuckled with her. “And you can type?”

“Yes,” she said. “But, I'd really like to do detective work, like you.”

He shook his head in wonder. He liked this silly girl. “There are no women detectives, Mrs. Holmes, pulp novels aside. How many words per minute?”

She hesitated. “Three hundred.”

Wolf suppressed a grin and imagined her naked. “Do you speak any Spanish?” he asked.

Her mouth curved in a tentative smile. “Yes. A little. My Latin and French are better.”

“Please, say something in Spanish, Mrs. Holmes.”

“Los-An-ge-les.”

Wolf licked his lips. She was perfectly ridiculous, strange, and mouth-watering. He had to do the hard thing, the responsible thing, no matter how good she was to look at, how amusing she would be around the station, or how grateful she might prove to be in the stables behind the station while her husband, if she even had one, was overseas. He sighed and stood, straightening his uniform. “Well, I think we're done here.”

Anna's face fell ten stories as if she realized the significance of his words. Wolf fell with her. She seemed desperate. She'd be grateful. She was scrumptious beneath that ugly dress, and he could tell that she wanted it so badly. He racked his brain for any reason to hire this girl, a reason he could justify to Matron Clemens.

“Thank you, Detective Wolf,” she said, her voice unsteady. She kicked the table by accident as she stood. She dropped her purse onto the floor and bent to pick it up, the scratchy fabric of her dress straining against her little behind.

Wolf sincerely regretted disappointing her. He was disappointed. She might be a bad liar, but she had nerve, and she was a luscious little peach. “Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Holmes,” he said. She caught her trembling, rosebud lip between her teeth and extended her hand. He shook it. It was as soft as petals. She let him hold it a moment too long, and took a deep, sad, quivering breath. A button popped off the front of her frock, revealing an oval of creamy white, and before he could stop his mouth it said, “You're hired.”

Sweat beaded on Wolf's brow as he led Anna among the desks to meet the man in charge. His lips stretched in a tense smile, his skin a little paler than before he had hired Anna. “Captain Wells, may I present Mrs. Anna Holmes, our lovely new assistant matron. She types, speaks Spanish, but most importantly, she's nervy. I say that's a vital quality for a matron who will be venturing into unsavory territory.”

Unlike Wolf, the captain looked Anna straight in the eye. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Holmes.”

“Likewise,” Anna said with the hint of a curtsy.

“You'll report to Matron Clemens.” The captain gestured toward the woman he'd been fighting with earlier.

Matron Clemens narrowed her eyes at him. Anna bobbed her head and sent her new boss an unreciprocated smile.

The captain exhaled. “Don't mind her. She'll come around. In the meantime, if you have a question or the men offend you, you can talk to me or to Detective Wolf.”

The captain smiled broadly over Anna's shoulder. “Look Wolf, here comes our lost bird. Aye, she is a little bent.”

A man in his early twenties, dressed as a female, hung on the station door. He had a cleft chin, a dimpled smile, and a green complexion. Leaves stuck to his bonnet and a twig hung from his drawers, which were visible above his blonde, hairy legs as an inch of his skirt was tucked into his lowers. His blue eyes squinted against the light.
Under his breath he sang. “Shine on, shine on, harvest moon, up in the sky. I ain't had no lovin' since January, April, June, or July…”

Cheers and whistles rose from the station. Someone shouted. “Nice pegs, Singer!” He curtsied and rallied himself for the journey across the floor.

Wolf's conversation with Captain Wells on the stairs began to make sense to Anna. This drunken creature belonged buried in leaves at the side of the road.

Captain Wells held up a bottle and shook it. “You can do it, lad. I've got a little hangover cure here. You'll be right as rain.”

Officer Singer headed toward the bottle like a hungry toddler just learning to walk. Anna stared. As he wobbled past, his big booted feet stepped on his hem and he fell, grabbing desperately at the air for support. His arms found Anna's tiny waist, and he held on tight. He grinned up at her. “Nice feather.” Just inhaling his breath made Anna feel drunk. She pushed him away with all her might, sending him flat against a nearby wall. Their audience laughed.

Reaching up in horror, she felt the perky feather clip and flushed a deep rose red. She was ashamed to have accessorized so incongruently. She hurried to unclip it and stuffed it in her pocket. By the time she returned home, the feather would undoubtedly be as bent as the young police officer.

While Anna was distracted with her hair clip, Officer Singer's mouth opened and he started to gag in the style of a dog that had eaten too much grass. Before she could dodge it, he sprayed the station with whiskey and whatever he had eaten for dinner the previous night, which apparently included spinach and corn. Green, corny chunks of sick stuck on the hem of Anna's ugly frock and on one of her lilac shoes, clogging the filigree on the elegant silver buckle. Officer Singer wiped his mouth on his ruffled sleeve and, feeling the full force of his hangover, slid down the wall. “Oh, God.”