The Winter of Her Discontent (26 page)

“In the last hour, that's all I've been thinking about. There's something very fishy about George Pomeroy's story. And the thing is, he knows it. I can see it in his face, but it's like he can't tell us the truth.”

“I don't trust him.” Jayne went to her dresser and smeared cold cream on her face. “And not just him. I don't trust the lot of them.”

“Izzie and Zelda?”

“And Olive. Just because she's hurt doesn't get her off the hook. Who's to say one of them didn't kill Paulette? Didn't you tell me they didn't find the body for three hours? That would've certainly given them ample opportunity.”

“Olive and Izzie, sure. But Zelda was still at the Canteen when they went home.” I struggled to open a new jar of olives. “What's the motive, though?”

Jayne lay back on her bed and carefully sipped her drink to keep the cold cream from her glass. “Jealousy? Paulette's career was going a lot better than everyone else's.”

“How does killing her change that?”

She wiped a dab of cream from the glass's edge. “Maybe Olive and Izzie were up for the same parts?”

“They're different types. Besides, Paulette's been a star for a while.” If we were trying to pin Paulette's death on a jealous actress, Ruby made a lot more sense. Or even Minnie. “Why kill her now?”

“Maybe it was a different kind of jealousy. Obviously Paulette had a way with men.”

“Most of whom died.” I got the olive jar opened and floated the fruit in each of our glasses. “Besides, Olive was married and Izzie is hardly hurting for dance partners. It seems to me that each of those girls had a ring for every finger.”

“Maybe one of them wanted someone Paulette had reeled in.”

“Who? George Pomeroy?”

Jayne drained the drink and devoured her olive. “You said yourself George and Zelda were looking awfully cozy.” Plus, George was staying in their house, wearing someone else's pajamas.

“I just can't see girls that close doing something like that, especially over a guy like George.”

Jayne threw her hands in the air. Fortunately, her glass was empty. “I give up. They're innocent. All of them.”

“I'm not saying that. I'm just saying we don't have a clear motive. At least not for the girls. George, on the other hand—”

Jayne snapped her fingers. “Could've wanted to kill her for the same reason we thought Al might want to.”

“Bingo. Maybe he found out she was stepping out on him and he couldn't stand the thought of putting up with it anymore.”

“But if we've considered that possibility, why haven't Izzie and Zelda?”

“They didn't have to,” I said. “As far as they knew, the killer was locked up two days after Paulette was found.”

W
ALTER GAVE EVERYONE
S
UNDAY OFF.
On Monday, Jayne and I did our best to treat Izzie and Zelda as though everything were fine at rehearsal. That was the best acting that was going on at the Bernhardt. The rest of the performances were forced, unprofessional, and frightfully unpolished.

“Is it me, or is it getting worse?” I asked Zelda. Rehearsal was over and we were all packing up our things and looking for ways to commiserate.

“It certainly isn't getting any better.”

“We're thinking about heading over to the Canteen. Want to join us?” Jayne and I were hoping that if we got Zelda and Izzie out we might get a chance to ask them more questions about George.

“Sure. Why don't we ask Ruby too?”

I had a million reasons why, but I kept my mouth shut.

The five of us met in the lobby and hit the pavement. We hadn't made it two feet when a voice stopped us.

“I've been looking for you, Jayne.”

My pal and I turned toward the sound and found Tony's black Packard parked curbside. Tony was standing outside of it, leaning against the rear door while smoking a stogie. His driver waited impatiently at the wheel.

Jayne's glee at this surprise visit quickly turned to worry. “Tony. What are you doing here?”

“One of my boys told me he'd seen you the other night at the Tap Room with Vinnie Garvaggio.”

Izzie picked up on the uncomfortable direction the conversation was heading and quietly told me they'd see us at the Canteen. I bid them farewell with a pained smile and remained glued to Jayne's side.

Tony dropped the cigar to the ground. It was only half-smoked, and I bit back a reprimand for his wastefulness. “You in this show, Jayne?”

Had the question been directed at me, I would've lied. Jayne had scruples, though, and believed omitting information was one thing, deliberately changing it quite another. She dropped her gaze to the ground, and her right foot made a semicircle on the pavement. It was a child's way of responding, an effort to distract the listener from what they were being told. “Yeah.”

“You're in Vinnie Garvaggio's show?” He'd heard her the first time, but he clearly wanted to make her suffer through telling the truth again.

“It's not his show,” I said. “It's Walter Friday's.”

He jabbed a pudgy finger in my direction. “You stay out of this, Rosie.” He redirected his attention toward Jayne. “What were you doing out with him?”

“It was just drinks, Tony. Rosie was there. Nothing happened. Honest.”

“That don't answer my question.”

I could see the slippery slope Jayne was about to slide down. Telling Tony the truth, as she wanted to, would involve admitting she fanned Garvaggio's romantic intentions. That wasn't something he would deal well with.

“It was my idea,” I said. “All of it. Her taking the job and going out for drinks with him.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Believe what you want, Tony. Something rotten's going on with Al, and whatever it is, it started in the Bernhardt. That means it probably involved Garvaggio. You might be able to let Al rot in jail for a murder he didn't commit, but I'm not willing to.” I expected some
sort of response to this revelation, but I didn't get one. “Jayne didn't like the idea of joining the cast any more than she liked the idea of milking Garvaggio for information, but I begged her to help me. Don't be mad at her—it's my fault.”

He turned back toward Jayne. “This true?”

“Mostly,” she said. She traced a figure eight with her shoe. “She didn't have to beg. I wanted to help Al.”

It was hard to know what was upsetting Tony more: the fact that Jayne and I had been snooping behind his back or the knowledge that certain associates of his believed Jayne was stepping out on him.

Tony rapped his knuckles against the Packard's window. “Let's dust,” he told his driver. He crushed the still-smoldering cigar with his black-and-white spectator and returned his attention to Jayne. “You call me when you get more sense.”

He got into the car and with a squeal the driver pulled away. I watched until the heap had disappeared into the night, then turned, expecting to find Jayne awash in tears. She wasn't. Instead, her pale skin had turned maroon and her tiny hands were curled into even tinier fists.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“What a hypocrite!
Call me when I get more sense!
Can you believe that?”

“Well, he did tell you to stay away from Garvaggio. It had to burn him good to hear you were out on the town with him.”

“First of all, he has no right telling me what jobs I can or cannot take. And second of all, he could've asked me what I was up to. Have I ever stepped out on him before?” There was no reason to answer. Even when estranged, Jayne was as faithful to Tony as Lassie was to Timmy. She lifted her arm above her head. “I've had it up to here with his rules and threats. When is he going to start doing what
I
say, huh?” We started walking toward the subway station. We wouldn't be joining the other girls at the Canteen. Jayne's rage was too combustible for a public place.

The sun was setting, and the tops of the buildings on Fifty-Sev
enth Street were slowly starting to disappear into the night. Outside the Canteen the crush of young men would be buzzing with excitement. “I'm going to write him,” said Jayne.

“Tony doesn't strike me as the type to be wooed by a letter.”

“Not him. Billy.”

A group of young women shilling for the Red Cross passed by, asking us to contribute to their fund-raising campaign. I waved them off with a polite smile. “You've lost me.”

“The sailor from the other night. His name's Billy DeMille.”

“Like the director?”

Jayne nodded. “I need to start expending my efforts on someone who appreciates them.”

I couldn't argue with that.

We made it to the subway and boarded our train. Above our heads a sign chided us for chewing too much gum. The soldiers needed it, it said, and like everything else, we were keeping them from getting it.

“Why did Tony want you to stay away from Garvaggio?” I asked.

Jayne shrugged and turned toward the window, fogging up the glass with her breath. “Because he was dangerous, I guess.”

Half the men Tony associated with—Al included—had rap sheets, and Jayne had never been forbidden to be around them. Dangerous had to be more specific in this case.

“How involved is Tony with the black market?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what kind of stuff is he selling?”

Jayne turned back to me. “Everything, I guess. You know he doesn't tell me anything.”

“So he could be selling meat?”

“I guess.” Her face went slack. “Not horses, though—he wouldn't do that.”

“I'm not saying he would. That's Vinnie's game, not Tony's. I'm just wondering why those two hate each other, assuming the stream runs both ways. It would make sense if they were competing against each other.” If Garvaggio and Tony were rivals, Tony naturally wouldn't
want Jayne involved in any rackets that might be benefiting his nemesis. How would it look if word got out that Tony B.'s girl was in the show that was funding the competition?

“I see your point,” said Jayne. We got to Christopher Street and headed homeward. As we rounded the corner to the Shaw House, a tall slim figure climbed the stairs and paused before the mailboxes in the foyer.

“What's she doing here?”

Jayne squinted into the distance at the object of my scorn. “Ruby? Maybe she decided she didn't want to go to the Canteen after all.” We approached the building cautiously. Rather than climbing the steps and announcing our presence, I pulled Jayne to the other side of the banister and urged her to keep her head low. From where we stood we had a perfect view into the foyer where Ruby remained frozen, reading something she'd removed from her box. She finished it and turned the page over, looking for more. She frowned at the paper and crumpled it into a ball.

“What's that all about?” whispered Jayne.

“Maybe her soldier came to his senses. Come on.” I grabbed her arm and pulled her back around to the stairs. I took the steps two at a time and greeted Ruby just as she was about to leave the foyer and enter the lobby. “Hello there, stranger. Got mail?”

The frown was still firmly planted on her face. “I always have mail.”

“From your pilot?”

She fumbled with a stack of letters that rested in the crook of her arm. “Of course. He writes me every day.”

“I hope it isn't bad news.”

“I haven't read it yet, but I'm sure it's not. Thank you for your concern.”

She spun on her heel and continued her stomp into the lobby and up the stairs.

“Can't you two call a truce?” asked Jayne.

“I'm not the one who started it.”

“Still…” My roommate looked exhausted. Her rage had taken the run out and was being replaced by the sad realization that Tony and she might actually be through for good. She was seconds from tears.

“You're right.” I gave her a tight, fixed smile. “I can try harder. Let's you and me go upstairs and figure out what to write to Billy DeMille.”

 

An hour later Jayne had a good cry, I had a good drunk, and Billy DeMille had a carefully composed letter ready for posting. Despite the booze, I also had a much clearer head. If Tony wanted Jayne to stay away from Garvaggio and if Al reacted so violently to Garvaggio's name and to the possibility that Jayne believed his guilt, it would follow that Al would be mortified if he found out Jayne and Garvaggio had gone out together. That could be just the news that sent him out of his sulk and into some serious talking.

The trouble was, I couldn't be the one to tell him. He knew I'd been baiting him before, and he'd told me he wouldn't see me if I showed up at Rikers again. It was time to admit to myself that my subtle touch was as deft as a sledgehammer. Jayne, on the other hand, would be a much more welcome sight to him. And if she played things right and made him believe she was leaving Tony for Vinnie, he might be worried enough to squeal about whatever was really going on.

“Jayne?”

“Hmmmm?” Her tears had stopped and she was halfway to falling into an angry, sad sleep. She set her makeup-smeared eyes on me and blew her nose on the last clean handkerchief she could find.

“I think I know how we can find out what's going on with Al, but I'm going to need a favor from you.”

“A bigger one than joining a lousy show, going out with a man my boyfriend hates, and losing said boyfriend when he finds out?”

We'd reached the part of the evening where all of her problems
were now my fault. Clearly I should've waited to broach the subject until morning. “Sort of.” I told her my plan, fully expecting her to collapse into laughter before giving me an out of breath “No!” And laugh she did, until new tears sprouted from her eyes and her face became redder than a freshly spanked bottom. “Am I correct in assuming that's a no?” I asked.

“No.”

“So it is.”

“No.” She fought for breath. “I mean it's not a no.”

“Then what's so funny?”

She lay on her back and giggled at the ceiling. “I'm just picturing Tony's face when Al tells him I'm leaving him for Garvaggio. It would serve him right.”

“You think he'd tell him?”

“I'm counting on it.”

“Take it easy,” I said. “You don't want to be Helen of Troy here.”

She rolled back onto her side. “Who?”

“The face that launched a thousand ships? The woman who caused the Trojan War?”

“Oh, I know that. I'm going to make it perfectly clear that while my intentions with Garvaggio were initially noble, Tony's stupidity pushed me into his arms. That way, he has only himself to blame.”

It wasn't a perfect plan, but far be it from me to criticize a woman scorned.