The Secret Life of Anna Blanc (40 page)

In one swift motion, she picked up the chair and conked him on the head with it. There was a loud crack as wood splintered. He stumbled backward, losing his balance, clutching the telephone receiver. Anna shoved him, and they went down together. His body broke her fall, and his head smashed hard on the tile. The receiver clattered to the floor, the wire no longer attached to the telephone.

The blow left Edgar stunned. Anna gulped air, face down, spread eagle across the silky lotus flowers on his chest. She slithered off him and crawled on her belly toward the door, her diaphragm seizing. She dug beneath her skirts and fumbled to unhitch the paring knife from the stiff lace garter.

Anna scrambled to her knees and twisted around in time to see him at his full, glorious height, descending upon her. “Anna!”

She had a flicker of time to raise the knife before he could grab her arm. Despite her good intentions, instead of aiming for his heart she closed her eyes.

He screamed. Anna landed flat on her back with Edgar on top of her. The weight of his body forced the blade in deep. But Anna had missed. The knife found its sheath not in his heart but in his arm.

Edgar rolled over onto his back, taking her with him as she clung to the slick handle of the knife. The cutter slipped from the wound with a sucking sound and a spray of bright, warm blood. He rolled her off and climbed on top of her like a lover, pinning her. He was dripping hot blood onto her face, the metallic salt of it flooding her tongue. “Anna, stop!” His eyelids were spread wide, his irises dark drops in a pool of white. He would surely kill her now.

Anna kneed him in his secret man parts, not hard, but that was the nice thing about secret man parts—they were man's Achilles heel. She had learned that from Douglas Doogan and Joe Singer.

It felled him like a redwood. His face paled and he curled into a ball, wheezing. His eyes were open but unfocused. Blood spread across his robe, wet and dark, turning the lotus flowers scarlet. His mouth went slack. His lids fluttered closed. He didn't move. She kneed him hard in the groin again, but he did not stir. His body remained still, splayed out under the blue robe. She lowered her ear to his full, unkissed, white lips. His breath went in and out almost imperceptibly. Anna panted like an overheated poodle. She wiped the back of her hand across her brow, flinging sweat onto the floral wallpaper.

Anna clambered to her feet and looked around. Her heart beat in her ears. She didn't want to kill him. She would tie him up until the police could come. Slowly, she moved toward the dark kitchen to fetch twine, never turning her back on him. She would grab the twine and tress him like a roasting chicken. If he struggled, she'd conk him on the head. Anna walked backward, assuring herself that whatever might be in the kitchen could not compete for the attention she must give the fallen villain. Edgar remained still. Though she knew she was alone with him, she didn't feel alone. She felt a heavy presence, imagined cold
breath, as if any second a dark creature—the demon that drove his evil deeds—would rise up and swallow her.

Anna made it to the kitchen pantry. She could no longer see Edgar. She quickly rifled through the cupboards in the dark, feeling for the tiny rope. She moved on to drawers full of sundries—wooden spoons, nutcrackers, matches, and an ice pick that pricked her finger. No twine.

Then it dawned on Anna that she was wasting time. Of course Edgar's cook had no twine. He didn't like chicken. She would find something else. She felt lightheaded and leaned her palms onto the chopping block where Edgar had sliced the cake. It was grainy with crumbs. Through the window, in the moonlight, she could see the barn. Maybe she could find rope there.

Something warm and living gently grazed Anna's fingers. Anna screamed and swatted at it. A tail disappeared behind the cake. She fell against the door, breathing heavily. It was just a mouse. She wondered that Edgar didn't have a cat to catch mice, and then she remembered that he was afraid of cats. The murderer, Edgar Wright, did not like headcheese, he did not eat chicken, and he was afraid of cats.

Anna knew then that she had stabbed the wrong man. Edgar couldn't be the killer. He couldn't have left Peaches Payton dead in a field teaming with feral cats. The place had tens of cats and their kittens. Furry, lousy cats that the brothel girls fed and that were not afraid of people. Cats that came up to be stroked whenever any human—innocent or killer—stepped into the field.

Anna ran to her fallen lover and skidded onto her knees beside him. She watched for the rise and fall of his chest. She could hear the faint whistle of his breath, weak and irregular. She tore a strip from her petticoats and bound the wound, leaning on it until the bleeding stopped. “Edgar, I'm sorry.” She showered his white, unconscious face with kisses.

But if Edgar wasn't the killer, who was? Anna's mind spun like a merry-go-round, dizzyingly, settling nowhere.

She heard the front door open and close, and stiffened. Was Edgar expecting someone? Surely not. He had dismissed the servants so Anna
could have privacy, and whoever it was had not knocked. She skittered out of sight, wrapping herself in the heavy chintz curtains.

Joe Singer appeared on the threshold looking fierce, his dimples flattened by a grimace, his shirt stained with sweat. His hair swept up and out like the mane of a lion who rode a motorcycle while wearing too much brilliantine. Anna's breath caught. Had he changed his mind? Had he followed them here to reclaim her for himself? It was a romantic gesture. She choked on a sob. But she wouldn't have him, no matter that she had just stabbed her groom, and she was alone in the world.

She watched him move into the parlor and turn around. His shirttails were untucked. He called out, “Anna! Anna!”

She steeled her heart. He couldn't hold a candle to her Edgar, standing there in his denim trousers. True, he was not afraid of cats. He was very brave and owned two. But he slept with brothel girls, while Edgar only went for business. As the son of the chief of police, Joe probably got as many beautiful girls as he wanted for free. He probably went twice a day. Likely three times.

Anna could feel a volcano erupting inside her. Every muscle in her body clenched so tight she trembled. Sweat dripped into her wild, bulging eyes. Joe Singer was a reprobate, why not a murderer? He had arrived in LA just before the murders started. His uncle was British and probably had buckets of sixpence. Not once had she seen him in mass. Worst of all, he had made her hysterical with desire, just to muddle her head so she couldn't solve the murders. Then, he rejected her in favor of a prostitute—an ugly one. Anna watched Joe through narrowed slits. He had said that he loved her, and he had never loved her. And he was standing in the doorway holding
her
rod.

Joe had not seen Anna. Quiet as a hawk, she circled behind him. He scanned the room and saw Edgar lying in a shining puddle of blood. He looked around. “Anna!” Silence. “Aaannaaa!” He tucked the gun into the back of his trousers and crouched before Edgar.

Edgar's blood was thickening on the knife in Anna's hand. She stole behind Joe in her bare, raw feet. She could wield her knife better if she didn't have to see his dimpled face. Anna slipped the wet blade
against his throat. Joe's lids lowered and he stiffened. She put her lips to his ear. “If you move, I'll kill you. I'll probably kill you anyway.” She could smell his deliciousness and feel the prickly stubble on his neck. She wanted to rake her teeth across it, but instead she said, “It was you all along. That's why you wouldn't investigate the murders.”

Joe was balanced tightly on his toes and fingertips. He relaxed a bit when he heard her voice. Anna sensed it and bristled. How dare he think she wasn't dangerous? She deliberately stepped on his finger.

Joe tensed up again. “Ow.”

She pushed harder on the knife. With one hand, she groped in his trousers for her gun and flung it, sending it spinning across the floor. It slid through the door into the dining room, making a clattering sound.

Joe's voice squeezed from beneath the knife. “Sherlock, Edgar Wright and I can't both be the murderer.”

“That's right.” She arched one eyebrow. “But he's afraid of cats, although I didn't realize it until after I stabbed him.”

Joe swallowed. She let the knife follow his Adam's apple slightly up, then slightly down.

“Anna, you're not making any sense.”

“Oh, no? He wants me! He's marrying me and taking me to Buenos Aires!” She ran the sharp blade across his stubble leaving a trail of hairless, agitated skin. She nicked him.

Joe winced as a trickle of blood ran down his neck—his blood mingled with Edgar's. “The clock is ticking, Sherlock. He's bleeding, and you know I didn't kill those girls. You're just mad about the prostitute.”

“Hah!” Anna tugged on his mane, cocking back his neck, and met his angry, upside down eyes. They stared at each other, his grim, beautiful lips turned up in a cynical smile. He said she knew he didn't do it. But why? Because she'd loved him? Because her heart told her so? Her heart said he didn't sleep with prostitutes, and he most certainly did. But was Joe Singer a killer? What had she missed? Her hand shook.

“Anna, your lover boy's gonna bleed to death. Who you gonna run away with then? You say he's innocent. Let me take him to the hospital.”

Anna's mind raced, rolling through their history, looking for an
insight that would show her what to do. What had Joe said in Boyle Heights? He was neither for prostitution nor against it. It just was.

Anna's hand dropped. “You're too blasé about prostitution to get worked up enough to kill a girl.”

Joe took the knife from her limp fingers. “Thank you.” Anna went and leaned her forehead against the wall, while Joe got to his feet. When he saw her wedding dress, he narrowed his eyes. “You certainly are eager to marry Wright.”

Anna's voice quivered. “As if you cared. I hoped you were in jail.”

“The jailer let me escape so I could save you. And I'm gonna pay for it later.”

“Good.”

Joe chuckled mirthlessly. He picked Edgar up by the armpits, squatted, and heaved the big man over his shoulder, grunting with the effort. One of Edgar's blue silk slippers tumbled to the ground. Joe headed for the door. Anna followed Joe outside and down the porch steps to Edgar's truck, each step a needle on her sore soles.

The rims of two tires rested on the ground in puddles of rubber, not having survived the rocky road. Anna stomped her scraped foot and wiped a nervous tear. “Biscuits! Biscuits!”

Lulu's poison-green motorcycle sat in the drive. Anna's stomach clenched. Joe knew the madam well enough that she would let him borrow her motorcycle. He was a whoremonger. Joe hauled Edgar over and slid him carefully into the sidecar. Edgar slumped forward. Joe took off his coat and cushioned Edgar's head. He sounded pragmatic and so cool. “I'd like to take you Sherlock, but there isn't room. Find your gun. Lock up and hide. I'll come back for you.”

Anna scrunched up her face and suppressed a sob, her shattered heart breaking all over again. He was a Beelzebub, but still, she wished he cared. She didn't want him to know, so she squatted down and gave Edgar's white lips a lingering kiss. Joe turned as pale as Edgar. He swung a leg over the seat and stood hard on one pedal. The motorcycle lurched forward. He pedaled off, becoming a shadow. Halfway down the drive, the motor caught and they were gone.

Anna was alone.

She went inside and locked the door. The lamp had gone out, leaving the parlor in darkness. She reached for it. It was slick with overspills of oil, and hot from burning. She jostled it, listening for the swish of liquid, but there was nothing. She would have to look for the oil jug, but first she would lock up. She locked the kitchen door and began to circle the house, downstairs, then upstairs, checking each window, one by one.

Who knew she had left with Edgar? The whole city by now. The red-light girls, the officers, the men in the street all saw her get into his truck. They would spread the word. If Joe could find her, the murderer could. Good. She wanted to trap the murderer. Now all she'd have to do was wait for him to come to kill her.

But who was she waiting for?

Her mind raced. She'd been wrong about Edgar. The killer might be a longtime resident. If the New High Street Suicide Faker had been active in LA prior to January, the victims were not brothel girls. He must have seduced and killed ordinary women. He had to seduce them, or they wouldn't make good Gomers for the Prophet of Doom.

If the early victims had been decent women, the coroner would never have covered for their killer. He would have reported a rash of murders thinly veiled as suicides, and Wolf would have investigated. But Wolf hadn't investigated. Why not? Because the murders weren't thinly veiled. They must have been thickly veiled.

The murderer skillfully hid his crimes prior to January, and now he hid them poorly. Why? Had he become careless or cocky? Did he want people to know he murdered the city's Gomers? It must be a terrible secret to keep. Possibly he felt proud of his crimes.

But he wasn't afraid to get caught. Did he suddenly feel immune to justice? And what made a man immune to justice in LA?

Money.

Then there was the sudden switch from ordinary women to parlor girls. They were beautiful, except for Joe's whore, and easier to obtain. They didn't have to be seduced. One only had to pay.

Anna knew who the murderer was.

If the murders had started one month earlier, she would have discounted him as a suspect. Money was the key.

Outside the window, a man stood on the porch steps. She'd been lost in reverie and hadn't heard a motor. Where was her gun? She'd forgotten to find it. It lay somewhere on the floor in the dining room. But the house doors were locked. If he cared to break one down, it would take time. Time enough for her to find the gun?

Anna flew to the stairs and down into the shadowed parlor. She scanned the room for her pistol, but the floor, with its rugs and furniture, was blanketed in darkness.