Death Was the Other Woman (17 page)

BRUCIE TOLD HER STORY
without passion. The words came slowly, carefully, as though she'd removed herself from the scenario. I could understand that. The husband she'd loved had died violently. The way to get through it was to make it be someone else's story as much as you could. To distance yourself from the place where your heart connected with all of it. I thought I could hear this in her voice.

She told us about a Saturday afternoon in Westlake Park, at Wilshire and Alvarado. Just her and Ned, who'd stolen a few hours to be with his wife.

They'd rented a punt in the morning and spent a relaxing hour or so on the lake. You can imagine them, weaving their shared dreams, their heads close together, co-conspirators of their future, or thrown back in laughter, so pleased with this stolen sliver of time.

He wears a boater hat; it's old-fashioned, but it makes them both laugh. That and the awkward way he handles the paddles. He's strong enough, but no country boy. He's inexpert with the mechanics of pulling a boat through the water. More laughter.

It's a cloudless day. The sun is a benign disc on the horizon. It's warm on the water but pleasantly so. Everything is perfect.

There are other boats on the small lake, but neither of them notice.
Lost in love,
as they say, and not paying attention to anyone, anything.

When the big yellow punt approaches, they pay no attention. There are other boats on the water, other lovers. It's their world but they're willing to share it. Their hearts are made large by the love held within. When the other boat bumps theirs lightly, they look up, the laughter dying on their faces. Ned reaches beneath his light jacket for his gun; he's never without it. It's too late though. He dies as his hand touches the metal.

The impact of the bullets causes the little punt to list dangerously. Brucie follows the motion, slides into the water just ahead of the burst of bullets intended to take her.

She's an accomplished swimmer and has instinctively taken a deep breath before submersion. Underwater, she wiggles her feet out of her shoes as she dives, finding Ned deep in the reeds at the bottom of the lake. There is no need to check his vital signs or even hang on to the slightest ray of hope: she can see that her husband is dead.

Their punt is above her, upside down in the water. She pushes herself toward it, emerging into the protection of its inverted hull with the last of her held breath. Though her instinct is to raggedly inhale as much oxygen as possible, greedily filling her lungs, she knows she must be quiet. She can still hear their voices; they are not far away. They think they have killed her too. And she can tell that they hope that they have. She understands why they think she should join her husband in his watery death. There is one man in particular. And she has seen his face.

WHAT I DIDN'T UNDERSTAND
—and I told them so now—was why on earth they would have gone dancing—
dancing,
of all things—in what was not only one of the most popular nightspots in the city, but was also clearly in the middle of Lucid Wilson's turf.

“She hadn't told me then,” Mustard said, a slightly defensive note in his voice. “Not that she'd seen who it was and certainly not that it was Lucid Wilson himself. I mean, what are the chances?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, Lucid doing the killing himself.” Mustard looked speculatively at Brucie, like he still expected her to fill something in. She didn't take the bait. “I mean, a guy at that level? Sounds pretty personal.”

I nodded. I could see what Mustard meant.

“And you didn't know why Lucid Wilson would have wanted to kill your husband . . . personally?” I asked.

“I wasn't even sure it
was
Lucid himself until I saw him that night at the Zebra Room,” Brucie said.

“I'm guessin' that's where he saw you too,” Mustard said.

“But how could you not know it was him?” I asked. Something wasn't sitting right with me. “You obviously would have seen him before; it sounds like you and Ned went to nightclubs enough. You would have crossed paths.”

“C'mon, Kitty,” Mustard said, “take it easy on the kid.”

“I knew he looked familiar,” Brucie said. “But I couldn't quite place him. You know, out there on the lake in daylight— and it all happened so fast—I just wasn't sure.”

“See? That makes sense,” Mustard said. I didn't like how puttylike he'd become in the few days I hadn't seen him. He seemed quite willing to believe anything, as long as it was Brucie doing the telling.

“So then you saw him at the club,” I pressed Brucie. “And
then
you knew.”

“That's right.”

“And so your first reaction is to drag Mustard and Dex up on the floor for
dancing.”
It still wasn't making sense to me.

Brucie studied her shoes. They were dark puce in color, each one decorated with a wide fabric bow. “I figured ... I figured if Lucid saw me enjoying myself and not being bothered, he'd maybe think I hadn't seen him that day.”

This actually made some sense to me and I relented slightly. I'm not sure that in her puce shoes I would have done the same, but I could see where she was coming from.

“So
now
what do we do?” I said, letting things go for the moment. “I mean, your little house here is cozy, Mustard. But she can't stay here forever.”

“No, not forever,” Mustard agreed. “But for the time being. Me, I've got to get back to my office. That's gonna be easier now, since Brucie's brother is here. He can stay with her until I... until I take care of a few things.”

I looked at Mustard and thought about what he meant. I even considered asking him, then thought better of it.

“Can you handle a gun, pup?”

“Calvin,” I said, knowing Mustard had forgotten the youth's name.

“Calvin, you know your way around a gun?”

“Sure,” Calvin said. “I even got one.”

“That's all right then,” Mustard said. “You shouldn't need it, but it's best to be prepared. I'll be back to get you guys in a day. Two at the most. There's plenty of food and stuff here.”

“I'm not stayin' here another two days!” Brucie complained.

“Oh, but you are,” Mustard said. “We'll not have you get-tin' shot up again. But two days is all it should take.”

“What you gonna do?” Brucie asked.

We all looked at Mustard, but he didn't say anything. I thought his determined face spoke volumes.

“I think I know what he's going to do,” I said finally.

“Do you now?” Mustard said.

“I do. You're going to fix it.”

THOUGH THE GRAND LAGOON
was no longer either grand or a lagoon, we made our way back there carefully. Mustard didn't say anything, but I could tell he had one sharp eye out for any kind of monkey business. I was relieved not to see any.

“Where'd you park?” Mustard asked, when we got close to the Grand Canal Restaurant.

“Park?” I said with a slight smirk. “How did you even figure I could get my hands on a car?”

“Well, Dex has the Packard, for one . . . oh, right. You said he's in Frisco.”

“Right. And even if I had wanted a car—which I wouldn't have just to come down here—how could I have called to get one? You weren't there.”

“Good point,” he said. “But I don't like the way this is going.”

“That's all right. I kinda like the idea of seeing you on a streetcar.”

It was a joke, of course, but in the end I was right. Mustard on a streetcar was a humorous sight. And he didn't go without putting up a fight. “Look, we'll find a phone. Call a taxicab. It won't be that hard.”

“Aw, don't be a baby, Mustard. Here it comes now; we don't even have to wait. And don't worry. I won't tell any of your friends you rode the Red Car.”

He harrumphed at that, as though he didn't care what his friends thought. Maybe he even believed it. But I knew better.

It was around three o'clock by the time I got back to Spring Street. I found myself looking forward to an hour or so of just sitting at my desk and relaxing. It had been an exhausting few days, and I felt as though I could use an hour or so alone just to recharge.

As the elevator approached the fifth floor, I thought about making myself a cup of tea, flavoring it with some of the honey Mustard had surprised me with a few weeks before, when he'd come back from a trip to the San Gabriel Valley; then I thought about just sitting in the office and lazing around until it was time to close up shop for the day. It was a good plan, but I didn't get to put it into action.

As I had that morning, I sensed something was wrong before I even got to the office door. Unlike the morning, however, there was nothing in this assessment that was due to my sixth sense. The frosted glass in the office door, where the words “Dexter J. Theroux, Private Investigator” were painted in black-edged gold letters, had been smashed.

Peering through the hole, I could see that glass covered the office's scuffed hardwood floor. The door was unlocked. Whoever had done this had simply smashed the glass, then reached through and opened the lock from the inside. When they were done, they hadn't bothered locking up. Thinking about this though, I found myself ridiculously glad the glass was broken and not the lock. It would have seemed a real shame to replace a lock twice in a single day. As it was, the glass had been there longer than I had.

I took care not to step on the glass as I entered. I didn't want to grind it down further; I knew who'd be cleaning this mess up. Unlike the morning when I'd entered cautiously, fearing someone was there, I wasn't concerned that anyone would be in the office. The breaking glass would have been heard in the other offices on our floor. I was guessing that whoever did it had broken the window, gone about their business, and then skedaddled.

Determining what that business might have been took me a while. We didn't have much that was valuable in the office. Even my typewriter would have fetched only a buck or so at a pawnshop. But these days it was hard to tell. With breadlines getting longer, jobs getting harder to find, and the Okies adding their presence to the city's increasingly unemployed throng, small crimes like this had been on the rise. When a man couldn't find honest work in order to buy milk for his babies, sometimes dishonest things started looking like an option. At a time like that, even the dollar you'd get for a used typewriter might start to look better than going hungry.

As I entered the office, however, I could see this wasn't the case. When I saw my typewriter sitting in its usual place on my desk, I was almost disappointed. After all, if the thief wasn't after the typewriter, then what
was
he looking for? Dex's green ashtray? The heel of a bottle of bourbon Dex might have stashed somewhere? His heavily doodled desk blotter? I'd almost feel sorry for the thief who wasted time on our operation. Item by item, there wasn't anything in the office of Dexter J. Theroux worth stealing.

It took me a few moments of inventory before I noticed. It just wasn't the first place you looked. Once I saw it though, I couldn't look away. The office safe was standing open. On inspection, the only thing missing was the set of fingerprints that had been taken from Harrison Dempsey's corpse.

THERE WASN'T MUCH I COULD DO
. I called a glazier, of course. Like the locksmith earlier in the day, he sounded hungry and was happy enough to promise to hustle right over to fix the broken pane. Getting Dex's name painted back on the door would take a little longer. The manager of our building insisted that all the doors be done by the same person. Since this same person was his brother-in-law, we'd have to wait a few days. Apparently brothers-in-law were not as hungry as everyone else in town.

I thought about calling the police, of course. But only for a minute. I could just imagine the faces of the two flatfoots that had been in the office a few days before. “You had
what
stolen? And
whose
fingerprints did you say they were?” Considering the events that had led to their coming to the office, I didn't think that was the best idea. Besides, you called the cops when you had the remotest hope of getting a thing back. But if someone had broken into our office with nothing in mind but getting Harrison Dempsey's fingerprints, there was no chance at all that the cops would be able to recover them. Less than no chance.

Which led me to another thought. As far as I could see, only three people in the world knew we had those prints: me, Dex, and his coroner pal, Josiah Elway, in Frisco. Yet the proof was in the pudding. I got up and peered into the safe again, reshuffled the few semi-important papers and the cash float of five dollars and fifty cents that we kept in there for little more reason than justifying the presence of the safe. That stuff was all there—even the fin and the change. But Dempsey's fingerprints? Those were quite gone.

I checked the rest of the office again. As far as I could see, nothing had been touched and nothing was missing. Dex's top left office drawer was locked, so I couldn't tell if anything had been taken from there, but the fact that it was still locked and the lock hadn't been broken led me to believe that whatever had been in there was still in place.

The glazier got there and replaced the glass in the door quickly and efficiently, his stubby fingers nimbly removing the broken bits, then fitting a new precut sheet of pebbled glass where it belonged.

“I like these office windows just fine,” he said with some satisfaction while he worked. “Keeps my kids in socks.”

“You replace a lot of them?”

He looked up from his work with a grin. “You have no idea.”

Which I took to indicate that those glass panels weren't the best for security.

Once I was alone again, I sat at my desk in the quiet and newly resecured office and just thought of all the things that had led me to that spot. After a while I figured that what I was thinking, Dex probably wouldn't like.

Harrison Dempsey's fingerprints had been stolen from the safe. It was just another odd piece of the case that had begun the day Rita Heppelwaite first visited the office. The case that had been over almost before it started, yet now wouldn't seem to go away.

I thought about it. First Rita showed up and hired Dex to follow her beau. Then the beau was killed almost under our very noses. That was too much coincidence. Almost as though— and here I got excited and my thoughts seemed to begin to line up—almost as though someone had
wanted
Dex to see the murderer enter the house.
Wanted
there to be a witness. What no one could have anticipated though was the designated witness falling asleep. If what I was thinking was correct, Dex falling asleep might have thrown a monkey wrench into the works.

I suddenly felt very confident that, whatever we'd seen or thought we'd seen, we didn't have the whole story. Maybe not even a fragment of it. It was even possible that we had only the piece that someone had wanted to give us, and perhaps not even a whole piece at that. It was an odd feeling, this new confidence. Marred only by the things I
didn't
know, and there were many. But I had the feeling that if I looked at it all clearly enough, and if I just added one more piece, everything would begin to make sense.

And quite suddenly, I knew where I might find that extra piece.

I was in motion almost before I knew I was going anywhere. The feeling was a little disconcerting. Grabbing my handbag and my coat, even though I didn't think I'd need it. Locking the office door behind me. Taking the elevator back down to street level. Letting my feet guide me in the opposite direction of the funicular trains that would take me home to Bunker Hill. I made myself aware of this in case I was trying to fool myself into thinking I was going home. I wasn't. At that end of Spring Street, I finally had to admit to myself that there was only one place I could be going.

I kept my eyes off the fortress-like facade of the Los Angeles Stock and Oil Exchange. Though the building hadn't been completed at the time of the crash, what it represented had meaning to me. My father had died because of what that facade represented.

It was hard
not
to look at the E. F. Hutton Building across the street from it. Even though it was a beautiful art deco tower, there was something about the building that jolted. An edifice to a time that was over before the structure could even be completed. It was also a reminder. As difficult as things were for so many people, as long as soup lines kept forming and even though thousands of good men found it difficult to put bread on their family's tables, the swells were still here. Paying for private schools and big cars and summers abroad and going on just as they always had, only now they had to step more carefully to avoid the poverty that was blooming everywhere they looked.

The Banks-Huntley Building was next to the Stock Exchange and kitty-corner from Hutton's ode to bad taste. Like so many on that part of Spring Street, the building was almost new, though it lacked the empty grandeur of either of the others.

I didn't check the building directory but waltzed into the elevator as bold as you please. I told the elevator operator I wanted the floor where Harrison Dempsey's offices were, and the kid put the elevator in motion without batting an eye. As we moved upward, it was obvious to me that—based on the address and the fact that he was known in the building— Harrison Dempsey had a pretty significant operation.

It was easy to find the office. The Dempsey Corporation took up more than half of the twelfth floor of the Banks-Huntley Building. The fixtures in the office gave nothing away to me. Based on what I saw, the Dempsey Corporation could have been an architectural firm or in real estate or oil. Maybe all of the above and more besides. But everyone there looked very busy, which suited me just fine.

The first hurdle was easy. Almost too easy by half. A severe-looking woman with a hard helmet of hair and the slightest hint of a mustache gave me the once-over and said, “You're here to temp for Slacum.”

It wasn't a question, so I gave her a smile and half a nod.

“We've been waiting for you all day,” she bit out. “Well, go and have a look around and settle in a bit for tomorrow. You'll find him down that corridor. Second to last door on the right.”

With that she went back to her typing, leaving me to flounder for a moment, not quite sure what to do next. She settled the matter herself.

“Did you not hear me?” she asked, steely voiced. “Second. To. Last. Door. On the right. Get a move on. He's waiting.”

I didn't really have much choice. I set off down the corridor. But when I saw the door she'd sent me to—clearly marked Everett Slacum—I veered off down another corridor, deeper into the office.

“You look lost.” The man's voice surprised me. I hadn't seen him approach. He looked and sounded friendly enough though.

“I guess I am, just a bit.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Harrison Dempsey's office,” I said, with as much confidence as I could muster.

“He's not in today,” the man said.

“I'm . . . I'm picking up some papers,” I improvised.

“Ah, well, Harry's office is down this hallway, all the way to the end. You can't miss it. It's the big one in the corner. You'll see his secretary, Miss Foxworth, at her desk right outside his office. I'm sure she'll be able to help you with whatever you need.”

“Thanks,” I said, heading off in the direction he'd indicated.

I slowed when I approached the end of the hallway. I didn't need to be introduced to Miss Foxworth to recognize her. Her desk, set up squarely in front of the door marked Harrison Dempsey, was larger than any of the other secretary's desks I'd passed. She didn't notice me at first. I watched from a distance, shielded by a small forest of fig trees in large, gilded pots.

Clearly, the Dempsey Corporation was a darn sight busier than Dex's little operation. The secretaries here didn't need books to read to fill in their days. There was always a phone ringing somewhere, the rings punctuated by the clatter of a half score of typewriters. People were running here and there, and I wondered what they all were doing. Developing this, architecting that; I still didn't have a clear idea.

There was a large clock over Miss Foxworth's desk. From where I stood I could see it was nearly five o'clock. Which gave me an idea.

I approached the desk cautiously. “Excuse me,” I said, and she looked up, seeing me for the first time. Her eyes narrowed while she judged me and decided where I fit.

“Temp?” she said. Her voice had a hoarse quality, like she smoked too many cigarettes. A full ashtray at her elbow confirmed the idea.

I nodded.

“For who?”

“Uh . . . Everett Slacum.”

It was her turn to nod. “Down this hallway, you'll see the door marked about midway to the far wall.”

I looked at her blankly.

“The powder room,” she said, eyeing me curiously. “I thought that's what you were looking for.”

“Oh, yes. Of course. Sorry. I mean . . . thank you,” I said, forcing myself to shut up and putting my feet in motion before I said something even dumber.

I found the ladies' room without a problem and tucked myself into one of the stalls. Like I figured, after a few minutes an ever-increasing number of women came to freshen up before heading out in little clusters to begin their way home. I tried to listen to the snippets of conversation that they let loose once they were in the relative freedom of the bathroom, but there were too many of them to follow, and in any case I didn't know the people they were talking about.

“Sara-Beth thinks she might be in the family way.”

“Really?
Should you be repeating that? I know they've been married awhile, but with him gambling and having so much trouble getting work, that
can't
be a good thing. And you know that if she is, she'll get fired for sure.”

“Of course she will. It's not like she could work once they start a family. But maybe a baby would settle him down,” said a third voice.

“Or shake him up,” said still a fourth, and then the sound of laughter receding.

I heard only one thing that had any meaning for me, and even that was kind of foggy.

“Harry's not here again today, huh?”

“Frisco, last I heard.”

“Huh! How do you like that? He hiding from the missus?”

More laughter. “Wouldn't you?”

Finally, after perhaps fifteen minutes had passed, there were no more voices, and I figured it was now or never. After all,
her
day had to end sometime too. And with her boss out of the office, I figured there'd be less than usual for her to do. When I saw her desk was empty, I thought I'd figured right. I headed for the elusive door behind her desk, “Harrison Dempsey” emblazoned on a large square of frosted glass.

But just as I reached Miss Foxworth's desk, I noticed a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray.

In the same moment I heard high-heeled footsteps heading down the nearest corridor. Heading, that is, toward me.

I made a most unladylike rush for the door, not thinking about the fact that it might be locked until my hand touched the knob. I was grateful when it opened.

I didn't look behind me. I couldn't; I hadn't the time. So when I slipped through the door of Harrison Dempsey's office, I didn't stop to admire the corner view of the burgeoning young city, or the book-lined walls, or the zebra skin rug in the center of the floor. I just leaned against the heavy oak door and willed my breathing to come evenly again, instead of the heavy
pant-pant-pant
that was now pushing through me. And I willed at the same time that Miss Foxworth had
not
seen me.

So I waited in that position, my back against the door, for a few minutes, while I caught my breath, anticipating discovery. I was breathing normally before very long, but the office door never did burst open, and after a while, I assumed a more normal stance and allowed myself a look around.

The house on Lafayette Square had been a hint. It was the house of a swell. Why would I have expected any less of his office? And yet somehow I had. I'd expected something more dreary perhaps. More in keeping with my idea of a man whose background I'd thought was somewhat shady; someone who owed great sums of money to men like Lucid Wilson.

But though I'd been born with wealth and raised with it to a certain age, and though my friends had been among the young elite of California, both south and north, nothing had prepared me for the personal inner sanctum of Harrison Dempsey.

There was no decor, really. That is, the office was not done in a certain style. It looked as though if a decision had been needed between two items, Dempsey had chosen the more expensive one. And that's when I realized what was different between the surroundings of my childhood and that of my pals and what I found here and at the house on Lafayette Square. This, I decided, was what new money looked like. My father had tried to explain this to me when I was a child, but it hadn't made sense to me then. It didn't now either, but I figured I had a hint.