City of Ghosts (A Miranda Corbie Mystery) (27 page)

Miranda raised an eyebrow. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

She opened the door and stepped into the corridor, brocades and heavy wallpaper giving off the musty perfume of Cuban tobacco and San Francisco mold. Dianne always preferred her “gentlemen callers” to smoke fragrant cigars. They masked the smell of other, less pleasant odors at 41 Grant.

Portraits of pretty women in neck-plunging gowns lined the wall, lace and velvet, next to dandies in tight trousers and sideburns, dogs at their feet and horses in the distance. A few bucolic frolics of Greek shepherds and maidens mixed in, Greek robes transparent, nipples pressed tight against fabric, mouths open in eager anticipation.

Et in Arcadia ego,
Dianne’s Arcadia, crisp sound of folding money and rustle of bank receipts, idyll of a lost girl from Tupelo, never to be found again.

Miranda paused in front of the door. Took a breath and twisted the china knob, eyes adjusting to the red-tinted shadows.

Faded chinoiserie squatted on a low mahogany table. The small woman with dyed black curls, scalp line a thin, jagged white, delicately held the teapot by the handle, pouring water over dry leaves.

Dianne Laroche. Face and eyes and mouth of a Gibson girl but too many wrinkles around the pen and ink, lines blurring and caving in, past catching up and outrunning her.

She grimaced at Miranda and waved a hand in the air. Nails were hardened with wine-colored polish, fingers wrapped in gold.

Miranda moved forward, eyes taking in the room, matching it to memory.

Burgundy curtains and horsehair chaise, rubbed brocades and English landscapes, curios in an ebony cabinet. Acrid tang of bitter-black tea and red wine, Dianne’s particular aroma, commixed with Aucoin’s Southern Lilac and the rich, fulsome smell of apricot brandy in a cut-glass decanter, family heirloom from Mississippi and the ole plantation, while the tapestry peeled off the walls amid swinging, clinging Spanish moss, gentle strum of a banjo drowning out the screams …

“Please sit down, my dear. After Franklin told me what happened to poor Edmund—and of your connection to the murder—at least, your
printed
connection—I expected you to come. You always do, when one of them dies.”

Southern belle costume still intact, powder and rouge spackling cheeks and chin and forehead, magenta lipstick only a little smeared and rubbed into the cracks of her lips. Dianne reclined against the horsehair, studying her, smile revealing small teeth like little knives, bloody at the tips.

Miranda’s fingers twitched and she closed them in a fist. No cigarette. Not even a goddamn Life Saver, not at Dianne’s.

“I prefer to stand.”

Dianne opened her eyes wide, reproachful, hurt. Large, dark eyes, so easy to get lost in, easy to forget yourself, forget the johns in the upstairs rooms, forget the probing hands and eager lips, shriveled organ, stretched and plumped by illusion, fed by fantasy.

Día de los Muertos, día de los Muertos,
always the Day of the Dead at Dianne’s Escort Service and Tea Room.

The lightly cadenced voice throbbed with emotion. “Why you insist on your own discomfort—”

“Let’s cut the crap, shall we? You understand perfectly. We’re not friends, Dianne, and I’m not your dear child or your protégée or even your greatest disappointment, as I believe you described me the last time we met. This is business. And, as you say … you knew I’d come.”

Steam was still swirling from the china cup. Dianne picked up a nearly empty glass of wine from the mahogany table, raising it to her lips.

“I should have known you wouldn’t have the manners or decency to phone first.”

Miranda moved a step closer to the couch. Tried to keep her face impassive.

She said: “When did you last use Edmund for a job?”

Plucked eyebrows rose high into her forehead, face smooth and lined at the same time, like a prematurely old child.

“My, my. Not even tea and conversation? Surely you can spare some time for the woman who picked you up from the gutter, shedding tear after tear for your poor, beloved Johnny, the stupid fool—”

“Shut up.”

She tried to hide her quick intakes of breath, keep her voice low. Dianne’s eyes crawled over her again, head cocked to one side, mouth curved upward in a limp bow.

“Still cold at night, Miranda? Still sexless? No making love with your dead lover, dear girl, I never could understand why you so morbidly cling to dust and bone…”

Another step forward, face white, fingers straying to the gold cigarette case before she clenched them tight again. Her eyes were fixed on Dianne’s face.

“Answer my goddamn question. The bulls haven’t chased you down yet because I haven’t told them the connection—out of respect for Edmund. When did he last work for you?”

Another gulp of wine, chased by a sip of tea from the china cup, scent of lilacs and burgundy rising with the pale wraith of steam. Dianne sighed and waved her hand again, curls shaking, eyes narrowed, old and young and forever full of malice, running up and down Miranda’s body.

“All the work—all the effort—and you still dress like a dime-store mannequin. Tragic, really—such wasted potential—”

“Answer my fucking question, Dianne.”

The older woman raised her head in a regal pose, child’s mouth pinched in a wrinkled pout.

“You are beginning to bore me. Why should I give you any information? The papers seem to think you had something to do with it. I shan’t save you, Miranda … I tried that once, and look how you’ve repaid me—”

Miranda’s voice cut like a razor, brown eyes glinting green.

“Better think about saving yourself. Mann Act, Dianne. That’s just for openers.”

Jet-black curls and red lips trembled, hand holding the china cup shook, making the tiny spoon rattle.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Her eyes met Dianne’s. “I would. Now talk.”

Dianne reached for the bottle of burgundy hidden by her feet and poured liberally into the glass. One sip of wine, one sip of tea, one foot in the bank, one in the fucking asylum, small feet and teeth like a baby’s, eyes even larger, artificial curls bouncing in fear and loathing, breath straining against the stiff corset under the layers of blue velvet and cotton. Her voice dropped half an octave and most of the southern spice.

“Edmund left me last year. He came back once or twice for a special client, even flew down to Mexico with him, the lucky bastard. Bet he never told you that, no, not the connections, the life he was able to lead through me—”

“Name, Dianne—give me the name.”

Outrage and disaffection, stench of wine stronger now, mixing with the must and mold from the heavy drapes and Oriental rugs, faded into sepia. Dianne’s décolletage heaved under the costume, wrinkles in her neck pleated like a worn paper fan.

“I never divulge the names of my clients! Not to you, not to anyone—you think you can barge in here and threaten me—”

One more step forward, eyes on Dianne’s contorted heart-shaped face, aging child vaudevillian, never outgrew the act.

“Were you blackmailing the client, Dianne? Or just Edmund?”

The older woman pushed herself up from the couch, rings sparkling in the low, imitation gaslight. She gestured dramatically toward the door, painted finger stretched and shaking.

“Get out! It’s your fault he’s dead—just like Betty Chow. They see you in the paper and think they can just abandon me, find love and marriage like some fairy-tale ending, and what happens to them? What happens? Both dead—killed brutally. Your fault, you ungrateful bitch, your fault…”

Miranda turned back from the doorway. Dianne was fatter underneath the worn velvet, unsteady on her small, slipper-wrapped feet, face flushed red under the layers of makeup. Her Cupid’s bow of a mouth trembled, voice a jagged rasp. Words like bullets, scattershot, shotgun style.

“You’ve been dead for years, but you’re not just content to kill yourself. Sooner or later, Miranda Corbie, everyone you care for will be dead and gone. Everyone. You’ll be alone, so alone … and you’ll have killed them all. Just like your precious Johnny.”

Dianne bit the last syllable, gasping for air before sinking into the horsehair couch. She stretched out a hand again for the wine bottle, small animal sounds coming from her throat, bile and burgundy.

Miranda stood rooted in place, roar in the ears.
Bam-bam-bam,
artillery fire, scorched earth and dead orchards, dry parched soil and the smell of Rioja mixed with blood, laughter over the roar of cannon and bomb, birdsong in olive groves, fingers and hands and his mouth on her body, in her body.

She gasped suddenly, eyes open again, blinking. Unclenched her fists, holding her hands together, and looked down at the older woman. Her voice was almost gentle.

“I’ve spent a long time hating you, Dianne. Hating you and fearing you, thinking you’re a black widow in a sticky web, something small and venomous with power over others. Even power over me.”

Miranda shook her head.

“I was wrong. You don’t have any power. Not even over yourself. I don’t hate you, Dianne. I feel sorry for you.”

The dyed curls trembled and the Cupid’s bow drew open in shock, bent fingers with swollen knuckles picking at the blue velvet bodice, clawing the wineglass, large dark eyes stinging with tears and fury.

“You—you dare—”

“And by the way—don’t send any more johns my way. The last one got his teeth knocked out.”

Miranda strode through the door, shutting it softly on her way out.

*   *   *

She met Franklin in the foyer, his normally placid face anxious.

“I see what you mean about Dianne. What happened?”

He shook his head. “International Settlement. It’s cut deeply into business, and you know Miss Laroche isn’t … well, she’s not young anymore. She was quite upset about Edmund.”

Miranda raised her eyebrows. “I never knew Dianne to be upset over anything except Dianne. Look, Franklin—I never asked why you stay with her, and it’s none of my business. But I know you care about her.”

He nodded, eyes troubled. “She’s—she’s been ill since February. I don’t know how much longer she’ll be able to keep—to maintain—the business.”

She looked at him appraisingly.

“I figure you’re running things by now, anyway. At least I hope you are, because I know it’ll be cleaner—no room 103. I need your help, Franklin. The name of her client—the one who took Edmund to Mexico. Dianne wouldn’t give it to me.”

Franklin’s face flushed, and his voice was low. “I’ll try to find out for you.”

“Thanks. I thought Dianne might have tried to blackmail one of Edmund’s lovers—or Edmund himself. She’s got some teeth left, but after seeing her I don’t think they’re sharp enough for that. Right now I’m walking a tightrope with the bulls … but I’ll do what I can to protect you.”

She put a hand on Franklin’s blue uniform sleeve and met his eyes.

“If things get bad, call Joe Merello at the Club Moderne. He used to be sweet on her.”

Franklin nodded. “I’d forgotten.”

Miranda shuddered, lingering odor of wine and decay. “Let’s hope Joe hasn’t.”

She stepped outside onto Grant Avenue, blinking at the afternoon glare from overhead summer fog, the hats and new frocks enticingly displayed in the I. Magnin windows.

Checked her watch: 4:26.

Time to shadow Jasper.

Twenty-five

Miranda slipped her foot out of the sturdy brown walking shoes and flexed her toes, stifling a yawn. A spot between her shoulder blades twitched, and she rubbed her back against the broad seat of the Packard, tweed jacket almost as itchy as the ugly but practical brown lace-up pumps. She’d dressed this morning in mourning clothes, preparing to say good-bye to a dead friend and hello to a night’s worth of shadows.

Another gulp of tepid coffee, bitter and sour, eyes struggling to stay open against the terminal gray fog surrounding lower Nob Hill. A half-eaten cheese-and-dill-pickle sandwich sat on crumpled wax paper beside her.

Cold, tasteless dinner, corner market on Polk and California, fat proprietor too busy listening to
Amos ’n’ Andy
to make a goddamn proper sandwich.

But what the hell … it matched the fucking coffee.

She peered out the window of the Packard, car lid up. Nobody noticed anything about a convertible except for the fact that it was a convertible, so if Jasper happened to glance her way, he wouldn’t connect Marion Gouchard and a red dress and red shiny convertible to a lonely woman in frumpy brown tweed and a dusty red car.

She sighed. Looked around the building again.

1541 California and the California Court Apartments, cozy little flats for bachelors and couples, mid-Victorian in style, coveted placement on lower Nob Hill with just a short drive up to where the real money lived. Not too far from the Interurban or Key System trains, maybe thirty-five or forty minutes to Berkeley.

Easy in, easy out. Except the bastard wasn’t coming out.

The yawn escaped this time and she checked her watch: 6:35. Glanced over the typewritten papers lying next to the sandwich. Maybe reading them for the fourteenth time would yield something new. She shifted position to get a better light from the lamppost ahead of the car, plucking a Chesterfield from the open pack on the dashboard and placing it between her lips.

The M.E. figured Lois was killed by a professional—quick and relatively clean, no signs of a struggle, no movement of the body. Somebody with medical knowledge or practiced with a piano wire or both. Made sense, with robbery of the jade and other jewelry as a primary motive.

Edmund, on the other hand …

Edmund was hurried and sloppy. Her gut twisted when she read the words again, remembering his smile the last time she saw him.

“You can tell me all about it tomorrow,” she’d said.

Edmund had been hit on the head, fought against the killer, and dragged into the alley. They weren’t sure where the murder took place, but from the fibers on his clothes they figured backstage at Finocchio’s. His throat was seesawed open, raw and savage, red and white flesh open and exposed for the world to see, propped up against a wall like a message.