Silent Murders (5 page)

“You know that director fella I told you I met last night?” she said.

“Johnnie Something-or-other?”

“Salazar. He’s with a small studio in Culver City, and he said they were testing next week for a film. He said I could come by Monday or Tuesday and test for a part.”

“Really? That’s swell.”

“No promises, but who knows?”

“I didn’t get to meet him.”

“You were outside. Johnnie was talking to Jack Pickford, and he introduced himself.”

I remembered the man. Jack Pickford’s friend. Dark hair, good-looking. I’d thought he was an actor. Well, there was no law against handsome directors, was there? “So you’re going to Culver City tomorrow?”

She nodded. “No point in waiting until the second day.”

I almost said, “The early bird gets the worm,” but stopped myself just in time. Myrna didn’t need reminding about the dead bird, and pointing out that no one had died last night would sound like “I told you so.” Instead I asked, “What’s the name of the studio?”

“I don’t remember. I’ve got an address but forgot to jot down the name. It’s not exactly MGM, but those fellas haven’t been knocking on my door lately.”

“When you have the name, I’ll ask around at Pickford-Fairbanks if anyone has heard of it. Just to make sure it’s on the up-and-up.”

“That would be great.”

“What’s the film about? Did he say?”

“Something mythological. Jupiter and gods and goddesses and so forth. When Johnnie Salazar learned I was a dancer, he mentioned the role. Said they were looking for actresses who could dance. I’ll probably just be another seven-dollar-a-day extra, but it comes in the nick of time,” she confessed. “The only thing in the piggy bank’s tummy is change, and rent’s coming due.”

“Myrna, you know you can always—”

“No,” she said firmly. “Thank you, Jessie, you’re a dear, but no. I’m a big girl, and I’ve managed to find jobs pretty steadily since I turned sixteen. If worse comes to worst, I can always beg Sid Grauman for my dancing job back. But I have a very, very good feeling about this part. Maybe once they see me in this mythology picture, MGM or Paramount or someone will sign me.”

“I’m sure you’re on your way!”

5

Later that morning I hopped the Red Car, fidgeting with the anticipation of seeing Esther and some of Mother’s old playbills. Like most vaudeville players, Mother saved every playbill in the bottom of her trunk, not just the ones with her name in bold letters or her face in color. After she died, these were my only link to her or to my childhood. They were the most valuable things I owned—at least they were until last fall, when my uncle destroyed them in an act of petty revenge that left a gaping hole in my heart. If I were very lucky today, Esther might offer me one of hers to keep.

Even better was the prospect of hearing Esther’s recollections from the Good Old Days. I could scarcely believe my luck in meeting her again after all these years, although it was really not so shocking because Hollywood was full of vaudeville refugees. Undoubtedly there would be stories I had never heard, glimpses of my mother I had never seen, and memories I could add to my precious store and hug close at night.

I sprang to the ground when the Red Car slowed and waved to the conductor as I scurried in front of him. Apart from a few Sunday drivers, there was no traffic. Without much trouble, I found Esther’s street and set off at a brisk pace through a quiet residential neighborhood not unlike my own, full of bungalows and cottages. Bees hummed and birds sang. Wildflowers grew alongside the road in patches of dirt that looked unfit for weeds, and around every house were beds of fragrant roses. Even the most lackadaisical gardener could grow flowers in this Garden of Eden.

Esther Frankel’s boxy stucco apartment building sat on a corner next to a ramshackle boardinghouse. Cracks in the stucco had recently been patched but the workmen had not troubled to match the shade of the stucco to the original, and their carelessness gave the place a dilapidated appearance it did not deserve. As I approached, a gray-haired woman peered out at me over a window box of geraniums, following my progress up the walk with suspicious eyes until I disappeared from her view. The lobby was bare except for one exhausted chair and a pine table shoved up against the wall with a tray on it for outgoing mail. Above the table were two dozen mail slots for the residents. Glancing over the names, I found the Frankel apartment: third floor, number five.

I took the stairs two at a time to the top floor and checked numbers until I found 305. The door was cracked. Esther was expecting me. I knocked loudly as I pushed the crack a little wider.

“Esther? I’m here. It’s me, Baby.” The old nickname made me feel like a child again.

The homey parlor brought a smile to my face. Every tabletop was covered with a crocheted cloth, and a crocheted antimacassar protected the arms and back of every chair. A clothesline was stretched in front of the window with a few undergarments pinned to it, and I was surprised that Esther would leave that up for company. To my left, a Pullman kitchen had been squeezed into a closet. To my right was the bedroom.

She was hard of hearing. I didn’t want to startle her. I called again, louder. “Esther? It’s Baby, come to visit.”

I crossed the parlor to the half-opened bedroom door and pushed it clear. My smile hardened. Esther was sprawled on the floor beside the bed.

“Esther!”

Horrified, I rushed to her side, thinking that she had fallen or fainted. When I saw her head, I knew she was dead.

No accidental fall could have caused that wound. She had been bludgeoned to death with some heavy object. The back of her head was bloody, her skull smashed, her hair matted. On the floor beside her lay a bronze statue of a rearing horse that was fixed to a marble-block base. Someone had come up on her from behind, grabbed hold of the horse statue, and clubbed her to death.

Stumbling backward with my hand to my mouth, I fought off nausea. My initial instinct was to run for help, but I had to be sure. I steeled myself and put one hand on her arm, taking care not to look at the bloody mess that had been her head. Her skin was cold. The blood was partly dried. No doctor could help Esther now. I needed the police.

Like most vaudeville players, I’d spent my life avoiding cops, not looking for them. The idea of summoning those blue uniforms filled me with such a fright I started shaking. They would accuse me of killing Esther. I had no witness to say that I didn’t. I’d go to prison forever. I’d hang. I sucked in deep breaths to calm my pounding heart.

The better plan was to slip out quietly. Someone else would find her soon enough. Someone else could call the police. Getting involved could ruin my life.

Then I remembered the nosy old biddy in 101. She’d seen me enter the building a few moments ago; she would see me exit. When the body was discovered, she’d tell the police about me. They’d conclude that I’d killed Esther and fled the scene. Someone of my description would not be difficult to track down in a town of this size. I was a newcomer, a vaudeville vagabond, no better than a gypsy or a hobo. It was always easier to pin crimes on our kind than to go to the trouble of hunting down the real offender.

Panic shouted,
Run! Head straight to the train station. Hop the next train out, change your name again, go to a big city where the police will never find you.

My mother’s voice steadied me.
Wait a minute, Baby. You haven’t done anything wrong. You’ve lived in Hollywood for three months, longer than you have ever lived anywhere in your life. It feels good to put down roots, doesn’t it? You have a job here and a start at a good career. Don’t throw it all away too hastily.

Mother was right. I loved Hollywood. It felt like my hometown. For the first time in my life, I belonged somewhere, and I wasn’t going to give that up without a fight. I took another deep breath to steady my nerves.

The only thing worse than calling the police was
not
calling the police. I’d look guilty either way, but less so if I took the initiative. After all, murderers don’t hang around after killing someone, waiting for the police to arrive, do they?

I looked about for a telephone, and that’s when I saw them. Esther’s playbills. Before she’d been attacked last night, she had dug them out of the trunk and laid them on her bed to sort through them, getting ready to show them to me the next day. There on the top was a blue and yellow poster dominated by a picture of my mother, smiling as if she had a wonderful secret she was about to share. It pulled me like a bug to light.

Hands trembling, I flipped through them. Esther had collected her friends’ playbills as well as her own, and there were four—
four!!
—of singer Chloë Randall. Esther didn’t need them now. They would just get thrown out. I knew she would want me to have them. I was certain of it.

It wasn’t stealing. But the cops wouldn’t see it that way. They might search me, thinking that I’d killed her to take something. If I said the playbills were mine, would they believe me? I could say they were mine, that Chloë Randall was my mother, but they would probably not believe me. Our names were not the same. I couldn’t take the risk.

I rushed back into the parlor and rifled the drawers of Esther’s oak desk. The search turned up most of what I was looking for—an envelope and a pencil. I folded the four playbills, stuck them into the envelope, and licked the flap. I had no stamp, but I knew how to send letters without stamps.

With an unsteady hand, I addressed the envelope to myself at Pickford-Fairbanks Studios, then wrote “Myrna Loy” and our Fernwood Avenue address in the upper left corner. When the post office saw the unstamped letter, they would “return to sender.” In the unlikely event that a benevolent postman allowed it to go through, I could intercept it at the studio office.

I clattered down the stairs, put my letter in the outgoing mail tray underneath several others, and pounded on 101. “Open up! Quick!” The walls in this building were paper thin—I could hear the old woman shuffling toward the door. Finally the door cracked. She had it chained. No fool, she. Her scowl was fierce.

“Do you have a telephone? I need to call the police, quick! Esther Frankel’s dead.”

Her eyes widened with alarm. Her door closed. I waited for her to unlatch the chain. I heard nothing but silence. Horrid old woman!

I crossed the hall and put my ear to the door of 102. A fussy baby howled. I knocked. This time the door opened and a lanky young man told me they didn’t have a telephone but the Joneses in 104 did. Thankfully, the Joneses were in. I placed the call.

“You can wait in here if you like, young lady,” said Mr. Jones. “That’s quite an upset you’ve had. My wife will get you a nice cup of tea.” I thanked him but Mrs. Jones was frying liver for Sunday supper and the smell was making me nauseous. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts before the melodrama went into its second act.

I was shocked. I was sad. I was angry. Who could have killed a defenseless woman like that, in the middle of the night? And why? I felt the loss keenly, although I hadn’t known her well. Now I never would. Esther was gone and her departure closed the window to my past.

6

Police come quick when it’s a murder.

Two blue uniforms, one tall and tan, the other shorter and older, met me outside the building and followed me upstairs to Esther’s apartment. On either side of us, hall doors opened and heads stuck out. Word spread like a bad smell seeping under the door. I stopped at Esther’s place and motioned them inside ahead of me. I didn’t want to look at her again.

“Don’t go anywhere,” snapped the older man.

“Yes, sir.”

Third-floor residents peered at me from the safety of their doorways as I leaned my back against the wall and looked at the ceiling. Snatches of conversation reached me from inside Esther’s as the police gave the place a quick once-over.

“Nothing’s messed up … Doesn’t look like anything’s missing … Check the kitchen … Hey, lookahere, no one was looking for money—here’s a few bucks in the sugar bowl…” I heard the clink of a china lid and I suspected there were now fewer bucks in the sugar bowl. “She’s been dead awhile … Whaddya think?… Looks like it…”

The younger of the two—the one with brown eyes and curly brown hair sticking out from under his hat—went across the hall asking to use a phone to call for the doctor. I heard him introduce himself to the man as Officer Delaney. Moments later, Delaney went downstairs.

After a while, the shorter man came out of the apartment and joined me in the hall, a pencil and notepad in hand. One fierce glare from him sent the people in their doorways skulking back inside. Then he began with the questions.

“Name and address.”

“Mine?”

He looked right and left. “Do I look like I’m talking to somebody else here?”

I gave him the name I had adopted a couple months ago and the Fernwood address, hoping he wouldn’t be checking the mail tray downstairs.

“Lived there long?”

“Three months.”

“Another country girl come to be a star, eh? When will you dames learn?”

That needed no response.

“Her name?” He jerked his head toward the body.

“Esther Frankel.” I spelled it for him.

“You a relative?”

“No. Esther was a friend of my mother’s when they were in vaudeville, fifteen or twenty years ago. She recognized me last night and invited me here to talk over old times. I really didn’t know her personally.”

“You know if she lives here alone? If she’s married? If she has next of kin?”

“I’m afraid not, although she didn’t mention a roommate or husband last night. I think you could tell by looking through her belongings if another person lives here. Or the neighbors might know.”

His snort told me I could keep my suggestions to myself. I reminded myself of the cardinal rule for dealing with a policeman—say as little as possible. At this point, the curly-haired Officer Delaney rejoined us.

“You have a key?” he asked. I shook my head. “So if she was dead when you got here, who let you in?”