Death Was the Other Woman Read online

  “Great, Kitty. Thanks.” The relief was plain in his voice, and I wondered anew. “Her name is Brucie Jergens. You’ll like her; she’s a sweet kid. Expect her there at the office within half an hour or so. I’ll tell her you’ll take care of everything.”

  Mustard hung up before I could ask him what he thought I’d be taking care of.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I WASN’T ABLE TO THINK too much about Mustard and what the fixer might be fixing, because as I hung up the phone, the pair of flatfoots in Dex’s office started making sounds like they were getting ready to leave and I knew I’d missed the best part.

  O’Reilly and Houlahan moved through the office with a disgruntled air, and neither of them spared me even a glance. I noticed that Dex didn’t escort them out.

  As soon as the outer door had closed behind them, I made my way into Dex’s office, quick as you please.

  Dex was still at his desk with a couple of fingers of whiskey in front of him. The glasses the cops had used were still where they’d left them. Both, I noted, quite drained.

  “What’d I miss?” I asked, plunking myself down in one of the vacated chairs. The seat was still warm.

  Dex shook the bottle at me, a question in his face, but I waved it away. He pulled yet another clean glass out of his desk, dropped a couple of ice cubes into it, poured an inch or so of rye over them, and pushed it in front of me. I looked at the glass questioningly, but I didn’t say anything and I didn’t drink.

  “What did you miss?” he repeated absently. “Quite a bit. Not much.”

  “Well, that covers it,” I said dryly.

  “It doesn’t really, does it? Ah, well. Here’s the thing: our Rita—”

  I interrupted. “Now she’s our Rita?”

  “Do you wanna hear this or not?”

  I did. “Sorry. Go on.”

  “OK. Our Rita didn’t waste any time when she left here. She went straight to the cops and told them I’d found Dempsey’s body at his house.”

  “She did?” I couldn’t imagine why she’d do a thing like that. Why she would even have wanted to.

  Dex nodded. “She did. But wait, it gets better. She gave them the address on Lafayette Square, and these two flatfoots get the call and head down there. What do you figure they find?”

  “No body?” I volunteered.

  Dex looked surprised or impressed, I couldn’t tell which. Maybe a bit of both. “How’d you know that?”

  “I heard some of it,” I admitted sheepishly. “It sounded like it was going that way.”

  Dex squelched whatever miffed feelings he had about his spoiled surprise and went on. “So, OK, no body. That’s easy, right? Someone could have gone to the house after we were there, dumped Dempsey into the Los Angeles River, and he’s halfway to China by now. Or maybe they throw him in the Tar Pits or bury him in the mountains or—”

  “I get the idea,” I said, interrupting him again.

  “Yeah, well… my point is, absence of a body is not that big a deal. There are ways of explaining it, right?”

  I nodded.

  “But get this: the cops told me Dempsey’s wife says he packed up and took the Harvard to San Francisco yesterday.”

  “Wait,” I said. All of this was almost too much information. “There’s a wife? How come no one mentioned a wife before?” I thought about Dex’s three o’clock appointment for the following day: Lila Dempsey. Dempsey was a moniker that hadn’t been far out of my head since I’d first heard it. Could Lila be Harrison’s missus? I was going to ask Dex—and tell him about the appointment—but his mind was heading someplace and he took me with him.

  “Hell,” Dex replied, “there’s a mistress, right? Stands to reason there’s a wife someplace. You can’t have one without the other.”

  I ignored him. “If Dempsey took a steamship to San Francisco yesterday, who was the stiff in the tub?”

  “That’s the big question, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “It is.”

  “Too bad I don’t have a big answer. But get this: the cops say they got an anonymous phone tip about the same stiff at that address this morning.”

  I tried to drop a neutral mask over my face when I realized what Dex was saying. I wasn’t sure I succeeded. Drunk or no, Dex was a detective. I couldn’t tell if Dex figured it was me who made the call. He didn’t say so, just looked at me kind of probingly. I held my mask and hoped for the best. Dex didn’t ask, so I didn’t tell. He had taught me a couple of things after all.

  “Say, I booked an appointment for you while you were busy.” It was true that I was trying to change the subject a little bit. But it was also true that Dex needed to know.

  “Well, that’s good news. Let’s hope this case doesn’t resolve itself as quickly.”

  “The person you’re seeing is one Lila Dempsey.” I watched Dex’s face while I told him, but nothing registered beyond what had probably been on mine when I heard her name: mild recognition followed by curiosity.

  “Well, that is interesting,” Dex said.

  “Do you think it’s Dempsey’s missus?” I asked.

  Dex shrugged. “Could be, I guess.”

  “Well, if it is,” I insisted, “why would she wanna see you?”

  Another shrug. “Here’s where you might find patience a useful thing, kiddo.” I checked Dex’s face; he was definitely kidding me. “We’ll just have to wait until tomorrow and see.”

  “So how’d you answer them?” I asked, changing direction completely.

  “Who?” Dex asked, properly perplexed.

  “Houlahan and O’Reilly. What did you tell them about the body?”

  “I told them Rita made it up.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded, lit a cigarette, and tossed the match into the ashtray on his desk. “I told them if I’d seen a body, I would have called them straight off. But of course I didn’t see any body. To see a body, I would have had to illegally enter that house, and they know I’d never do that.”

  “Hoo, boy,” I said. “And they bought that?”

  “Sure. What’s to buy? There was no body.”

  “But, Dex—” I started.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. There was a body. But do you want the cops thinking I’m up to some monkey business with bodies they can’t even find?”

  He left the question open and I didn’t reply. It wasn’t the kind that needed one.

  “So whaddaya think?” he asked me. While I considered my answer, I watched in fascination as he sent a whole platoon of smoke rings marching toward the ceiling.

  I was flummoxed by the whole business—with Dempsey, that is, not the smoke rings. I knew what I’d seen. I’d felt the blood on my hands, seen the vacant eyes of the corpse in the tub. Seen, even, the driver’s license Dex had pulled out of the wallet. Harrison Dempsey, it had said. There’d been no mistake.

  “Dead is dead,” I said finally. “I know what I saw. What we saw.”

  Dex nodded thoughtfully. “That’s what I’ve been thinking. And that’s why we’re going to the Zebra Room tonight.”

  “Who are?”

  “We are. You and me, kid. I want to have a look around, maybe talk to some people. I figured it might be fun for you to see the inside of a place like that. And it’ll seem less fishy, a good-looking couple like us out on the town, instead of just me waltzing in there stag, asking questions no one wants to answer.”

  My hands flew to my dress. “I don’t have anything to wear,” I said.

  Dex just grinned. “You’ll think of something. I’ll pick you up at your place at nine.”

  I started to get up, my mind already rummaging through my meager wardrobe, when another thought hit me.

  “Why, Dex?” I asked him. “The guy you were supposed to be tailing is dead. You don’t even have a case anymore.”

  “That’s true,” he agreed, without hesitation. “But Rita gave me eighty-three bucks. I offered her part of it back. She wouldn’t take it. I feel like I oughta
do more for the money. Besides, you said he’s dead. His wife says he ain’t. And the body we saw is gone. Doesn’t it make you wonder?”

  I shrugged and then I nodded. When I thought about it, it kind of did.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  DEX LEFT FOR THE DAY as soon as our impromptu meeting was over, saying he had to get over to Mustard’s to get a car for the night.

  “And don’t forget, I’ll pick you up at your place at nine.”

  It was ironic that a day that had dragged by so slowly had ended in the kind of mad rush we only ever saw at rare busy times. People coming and going, the phone ringing. Thinking of it made me smile. It was one of the things I liked about working for Dex: you never knew what to expect.

  I was making my final tidy of the office in preparation for packing things up and heading out for the evening, when I heard the outer door open again.

  “What did you forget, Dex. …” The words died on my tongue. It wasn’t Dex at all, but a girl—a young woman really—with tightly cropped dark hair. It hung around her eyes and down to her collar line so sleekly, it reminded me of the fur of a seal. She had big brown eyes rimmed with long dark lashes that made them look sooty.

  “Miss Pangborn?” she said, with a confidence that belied her waifish appearance.

  I looked at her curiously before I remembered. “Brucie Jergens,” I exclaimed. “Mustard’s friend! I’m sorry. What a day it’s been. Forgive me. I’d forgotten all about you.”

  Her smile was wide and open and revealed even white teeth. “Nothing to forgive. I wasn’t here to be hurt by your forgetting,” she pointed out reasonably. “Now if I’d gotten here and you’d left without me, that would be a different story.”

  I gauged Brucie Jergens to be somewhere right around

  thirty. I could tell she was somewhat older than me, but she was possessed of a merriness that made her seem a good deal younger.

  “Let me just finish tidying up the office and then we’ll go. Make yourself at home,” I told her, indicating the waiting room chairs. “I won’t be long.”

  “Thanks,” she said, putting her handbag on my desk and taking a seat.

  “How do you know Mustard?” I asked politely while I straightened up, making conversation but not quite knowing where to begin.

  “He was friends with my husband, Ned.”

  “Your husband,” I repeated, oddly surprised that she was married.

  I saw a shadow pass over her face, and I almost knew what she’d say before she said it. “He died a few weeks ago. I’m a widow now.” She said this last with such resolution that I knew it was something she was still trying on, like at Bullock’s when you’ve found a sweater that’s just the price and that you know will keep you warm, but you can’t bring yourself to like it well enough to actually want it. This was like that.

  “I’m sorry,” I said mechanically. It was the right thing to say, but it’s never enough. Still I wondered. Is saying something always better than saying nothing at all?

  “It’s OK,” she said. Then she shrugged. “Well, as OK as can be. It was bound to happen though. We always knew there was danger. I just didn’t… I just didn’t… I just hoped the danger would miss him, is all.”

  I looked at her uncomprehendingly.

  “Mustard didn’t tell you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, then,” she said thoughtfully, “maybe I’ve said too much.”

  “No,” I said, “he probably would have said more, but we were on the phone. He just said you needed a place to stay, and he figured I might know of something.”

  Brucie sighed, then smiled. “That’ll do for now, if that’s all right.”

  “Sure,” I told her. “Sure, that’s fine.” I was curious, but I didn’t ask. Brucie’s life was none of my business. Hell, I didn’t know her from Eve.

  I grabbed my handbag and the coat I’d worn into the office that morning, and Brucie picked up her own handbag.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” I asked her.

  “With me, yeah. Mustard is going to bring my things by your place tonight.”

  We pushed out of the building onto the street into full and glorious sun. After spending most of the day indoors, I had to shield my eyes and blink while my body reevaluated its situation.

  Brucie laughed when she saw the action. “You look like a mole coming out of her hole,” she said brightly, as we walked north on Spring Street toward Angels Flight. “No offense though,” she assured me quickly. “A pretty mole.” Then she watched me closely to see if she’d hurt my feelings. She hadn’t and I smiled to reassure her.

  “Some days coming out, I feel like a mole,” I told her. “You saw my desk; my boss has the only window in the place. When he’s in there and the door is closed, I don’t have any way of telling if it’s light or dark out.”

  Brucie shuddered delicately. “That sounds horrible,” she said. “I don’t know if I could do that… work in an office. Especially one where I couldn’t see outside whenever I liked.”

  I shrugged. “Actually, aside from the window thing, working in an office is more fun than you’d think. I never would have thought so before. But it’s exciting sometimes. Being in the middle of so many things, but none of it really affects your own life.” I stopped for a moment, considering. “I can’t really explain it better than that. I guess you have to experience it.”

  “I can’t imagine I ever would.”

  “I’m guessing you don’t work in an office,” I said. It was nice, this walking and chatting. Pleasant. I hadn’t really had any girlfriends since I’d left school and started working. It made me realize how much my life had changed.

  “Honestly, I’ve never worked at all. I met Ned when I was still in high school. We were so crazy in love; we didn’t even wait for me to graduate.”

  “You went to high school together?”

  Brucie laughed, as though that were the funniest question she could imagine. “Oh, no,” she said. “He worked for Chummy McGee.”

  She said the name as though it were important, but it didn’t mean anything to me.

  “What did he do?” I asked.

  “Ned? He was Chummy’s right hand.”

  This too was said as though it had meaning, as though I should know what she was talking about. I didn’t pursue it.

  At the Angels Flight station house I hesitated. Normally, to save money, I scampered up the stairs adjacent to the funicular railway’s tracks. On my way in to work in the morning, I’d ride the cars; down was always free. But I only ever paid for the ride home when I was feeling especially flush or especially tired. It may only have been the cost of a cup of coffee, but a whole week’s worth of that added up to a loaf of bread. Plus I reasoned that none of it was going to be bad for my behind— especially after a day of sitting on it. I was in the embarrassing position of having to watch my nickels, but I couldn’t very well ask Brucie to hike up the 150 to 200 steps to the top.

  Brucie saw my hesitation and mistook its meaning. “Are you sure this is it?” she said. “I’ve ridden this thing before, but I would have sworn it looked quite different.”

  That made sense to me. “That’s Court Flight,” I said, pointing north. “It’s a few blocks that way. That’s farther from the office. That’s the one people use when they drive into town because there’s easy parking on the Bunker Hill side. This is Angels Flight.” I pointed to the sign. “And my house is just a block from the station house at the top.”

  Brucie smiled. I thought she looked like a child anticipating a Sunday outting. “This is fun,” she said. And I decided I could no more deny her a trip on Angels Flight than you would taking that child to the zoo.

  At the ticket window, I prepared to pay for two adult tickets, but Brucie stopped me. “Here, let me,” she said. I was going to insist, but she reached over me and handed the coins to the ticket taker.

  “Thanks,” I said, as we moved away from the window.

  “It’s my pleasure,” she sa
id candidly. “And please don’t feel like you should have paid. I’m Ned Jergens’s widow.” There seemed to be sadness mixed into the mock bravado in her voice. “Money’s nothin’ to me.”

  I looked at her closely, but didn’t say anything. There was more there that needed saying, I guessed, but it seemed as though Brucie didn’t think it was quite time. I held my tongue while we waited for the train.

  The ride up the steep hill in the tiny railcar seemed to restore Brucie’s spirits. “This is wonderful,” she said, as we chugged almost straight up, the downtown core getting smaller behind us.

  I nodded my agreement. I did this trek—by foot or by train, the view was the same—every day, and I never tired of the experience. I knew that the reason was tied into memories of my childhood. Trips I’d taken downtown when I was a little girl, my tiny hand lost in my father’s much larger one, but clinging on for all I was worth in the fear of becoming separated from him and lost forever. Or the occasional shopping day when my father would assign Marjorie to take me to Blackstone’s department store to outfit me for another school year. Then home again, our arms laden with packages filled with new things for me. Sometimes Marjorie would have purchased a small package of fudge during the day, and she’d bring it to light as we sat on the train, letting the sweetness revive our tired limbs.

  I didn’t share any of this with Brucie, who chirped away happily about the view, the observation deck we passed under, and the other people in the tram. As much as I loved the short trip, it was pleasant viewing the familiar landscape through her fresh and enthusiastic eyes. When it was over and we were back on solid ground, Brucie went to the guardrail and looked wistfully back toward downtown. “That was a wonderful trip, Kitty,” she said. “I forgot for a moment.”

  I didn’t ask her what it was she had forgotten. I even had the feeling I wasn’t quite ready to know.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  WE TRUDGED up Olive to my house, which is a trek that has changed a lot in my recollection. Throughout my lifetime the neighborhood has been in constant flux. When I was very young, the beautiful Victorian mansions were already being torn down, and a more modern era has been encroaching ever since. My childhood home was flanked by nearly identical apartment buildings, the sunny garden I’d played in was now constantly in the shadow of the building next door. It didn’t matter. No child had played in that garden for a long time.