Final Curtain: An Edna Ferber Mystery (Edna Ferber Mysteries) (16 page)

“Those two are still in love.”

“So what?”

“So Dak was real protective of Nadine. I mean, you’ve seen her—she’s this…this wilting violet, bloodless, skin and bones. A weepy girl.”

“Unlike you?”

She bit her lip. “I can take care of myself. No one can use
me
.”

“Except for Gus.”

She didn’t like that. “That ain’t fair.”

“So be it, Meaka. It may be poor taste to speak ill of the dead, but I’ve done it before and never regretted it. And somehow Gus Schnelling needs to be spoken ill of, even after his horrific death. The day he signed on as a Nazi he forfeited his right to compassion from souls like me.”

She looked baffled. “What are you talking about?”

“And that’s the sad thing here, my dear. You
don’t
understand.”

“Well, anyway, Gus got a hold of the note. Somehow.”

I waited a heartbeat. “Maybe he took it off Evan’s body after he shot him.”

She screamed so loudly that Mamie Trout came flying out from behind her counter.

“It’s all right.” I waved her away.

“How can you?” Meaka was trembling.

“It’s a possibility, no?” Meaka had placed the notes on the table, but I reached over to take them back. “Gus was in a hurry to get into Evan’s room. There was something there that might implicate him. Maybe”—I pointed to the first note—“this is a piece of evidence. He was blackmailing Evan.”

Her head was swaying back and forth, a puppet’s wooden head loosed from its strings. “No, no. no.”

I turned over the note from Dak. Something bothered me about it, and then it hit me. “Meaka, Dak’s note is yellowing, dark at the edges. It’s an
old
note.” I pointed to it, happy with my discovery. “I think this note may date back to Hollywood. A time when Evan was in both Nadine and Dak’s lives. And Dak not happy. This is
not
recent. It was stored away, saved—as Evan did with so many pieces of his Hollywood past.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I don’t think I am.” I watched her face now. She was considering what I just said. “But I do wonder why everyone came to Maplewood this summer.” I smiled. “Not to see my debut as an actress, surely. Evan, Gus, even Nadine.” Idly, I thought: even Frank. Why? “Was everyone looking for Dak? Evan, the pied piper from Hollywood?”

Meaka breathed in. “Miss Ferber, Gus was scared.”

That stopped me cold. “What do you mean?”

“He’d never admit to it. That’s not the way soldiers for Hitler are built. But I could see it in his eyes. He was
scared
.”

“Of what?”

“That’s part of the secret. He didn’t tell me.”

I sat back, eyes narrowed. “Why are you telling me all this, Meaka? You don’t like me.”

She bit the corner of a fingernail, a squirrel-like gnawing at her cuticle. “I gotta tell someone. I mean, you’re…like a writer.”

“So?”

“You are the only one who’ll listen to me.”

“So go to the police.” I shook the papers. “With these.”

“No. No police.”

“What do you want from me?”

Suddenly her face caved in. “I don’t know. I got no one here to talk to. Gus is dead.”

A small part of me relented, as I softened my tone. “Go home, Meaka. Leave this…this Nazi stuff behind.” I waved one of the vagrant propaganda sheets left on the table.

“I gotta do this for Gus now.”

“Go home. Where do you live?”

“Newark.”

“Go home.”

“No.” The obstinate look, stolid, dull. She touched the swastika pin on her dress.

The door opened and George walked in, stopping short when he saw me sitting with the Nazi maiden. “Edna, I’ve been looking for you.” But he was looking at Meaka. “I just got through talking to Constable Biggers. The FBI just left Gus’ room.” He looked at Meaka. “Hello,
fraulein
.” She refused to look up.

“Did they find anything in Gus’ room?”

He pursed his lips. “Just stacks of dirty clothing on the floor. A Spartan room, he said. So little there—a stack of Nazi pamphlets and some swastika armbands.” He leaned into Meaka. “Hello,
fraulein
.
Wie gehts
?” She turned away.

“How nice.”

“Nothing else.” He continued to look at Meaka as he slid into a chair opposite her. “They’re looking for this young lady now.”

Meaka jumped up and grabbed the two notes, stuffing them into the white envelope, and placing it into the bag. She started to zip it shut, but the zipper snagged, refused to move. She whimpered like a hurt kitten. Then, fumbling with the bag, she swiveled, knocking a chair over, and rushed out of the café.

“Meaka, wait,” I yelled. I stood and followed her outside. The screen door slammed behind me. “The police…”

She was shaking her head wildly as she tottered away.

“Was it something I said?” George had followed me outside, the two of us on the sidewalk, watching Meaka try to run.

“Look at her, weaving in and out of traffic.”

“Constable Biggers is waiting at the train station, where she seems to be headed.”

As she ran, she waved her arms wildly. At one point she stopped, dipped into the canvas bag, and pulled out a stack of Nazi flyers. With one chaotic move, she hurled them into the air, and they scattered onto the street. The wind from passing cars spread them about. One flew by us—Hitler’s sour face immediately trampled by the tires of a car. Meaka moved in a straight line now, determined, headed for the train. Paralyzed, we stood there, George and I, watching the approaching world war rushing away from us.

Chapter Thirteen

Clorinda Tyler phoned me late that afternoon, panic in her voice. Nothing of the melodic, sweeping lilt of her transcendent sermon now, but instead, a strident cry of an animal penned up.

“Clorinda, for God’s sake, what is it?”

“Can we meet? I know I need to see Constable Biggers, but the man…well, the man slams me into silence, the way he stares, accusing, that dreadful pad in those claw-like fingers.”

“A little melodramatic, no? He’s simply doing his job.”

“Really? I step out the front door of the Assembly of God, those times with Dak at my side, and there he is, a statue, never saying anything, just staring. My Lord, had we lived in Salem, we’d all be hanging from a noose, innocence be damned.”

“What can’t you tell him?”

“Could you please meet at the Marlborough Inn? Around seven? I dislike going into the Village—people
stare
. An early dinner. On me, of course. Ilona has errands in town, and will join us. I know she can be…Well, you’ve met her.”

“Seven is fine.” I breathed in. “I was scheduled to dine with George and…”

She interrupted. “Oh, please, Edna. Not this time. He can be so…irreverent. Funny, yes, and I do appreciate wit, sardonic remarks, that repartee you New Yorkers cultivate. But last time he offended Tobias with his smart-aleck comments. Oh no. Please.”

“And I didn’t? With my remarks? You seemed to be made furious by my bringing up Nadine’s name.”

A little sob, swallowed. “Please, Edna, not now. Not that woman, that home-wrecking ingénue with too much lipstick and too few brains. Well, you I forgive…you’re a woman who understands agony. I can see that in your face. I mean…everything…”

I cut her off. “All right. Seven. By my lonesome.” A heartbeat. “Should I bring a pad?”

A whoop of false laughter. “Droll, Edna, that’s what you are. Seven.”

She started to say something else, but I hung up the phone.

I looked for George, then jotting down notes backstage, his brow furrowed. He glared at me. “You know, Edna, Shaw said that theater should make folks feel, make them think, and make then suffer. But these days only directors like me seem to suffer…”

I cut him off, telling him about Clorinda’s frantic phone call—and his omission from dinner.

“Well, so the gods favor me this evening. A first, I’d say. There’s only so much heaven my bloodstream can absorb.”

“Pity me then.”

“Almost everyone does, Edna.”

“Don’t expect me to summarize what happens later tonight.”

“Edna, Edna, a glass of merlot and you’re a chatterbox.”

***

“It’s all too horrible for words,” Clorinda slipped into a chair opposite me at the Marlborough Inn and whispered the words. I’d been seated for a few minutes, waiting, and Clorinda seemed to float in, a woman in layers of apricot taffeta, trailing a heady scent of lavender. Heads turned and she nodded at them, the star of the show, huzzahs and bouquets.

“What’s horrible?”

She leaned in. “I had words with Dak. We
never
have words. We are a loving mother and son, always. Always. What we’ve been through—dreadful—our early days. I know I get on his nerves because I get infused with the spirit and he stares as one befuddled, but we
never
fight. Argue.
Ever
.” She stressed the word, stretching it out.

“Tell me.” Impatient, I looked for a waiter.

She whispered again. “It’s because of the note. Ever since we learned about that…that horrible Gus being pushed to his death, there seems to be a pall on everything. Dak is so grumpy with everyone, short with Annika. I mean, Annika can be a little severe—she hasn’t learned the grace of God demands a lighter spirit—but he
ignores
her. Evan murdered, and now this Gus. We assumed all along that Gus murdered Evan. For whatever reason. None of our business, really. It was…well…convenient.”

“Clorinda, really! Convenient?”

“Oh, you know what I mean. I’m not heartless, but he was an odd young man. All that sickening Nazi spewing. Unnerving, no? Of course, Evan was his own worst enemy. The boy with the mirror stuck to his own face. I remember telling Dak when I
rescued
him in California from that two-bit actress harlot that Evan was a man to be shunned. The way he
slid
into your presence, a viper, like nothing could happen in the world until he showed up.” She was watching me too closely, I felt, her eyes wary. Suddenly I didn’t trust her.

“And then Evan showed up in Maplewood.”

A narrowing of the eyes. “And look what happened to him. The mills of God grind slowly but they grind exceedingly small.”

“I don’t know if that tired expression applies to a sudden gunshot to the heart. Or, for that matter, a shove off a subway platform.”

She ignored me, twisting her head around to gaze at the other diners.

“Clorinda, back up a second. What note? You mentioned a note you and Dak argued over.”

“Well, not argued—more debated…”

I held up my hand. “Stop, Clorinda. Tell me. Stop! You circle around like a sun-drenched butterfly.”

“Dak found it. He has rooms at Mrs. Judson’s home, you know. The old mother-in-law apartment she has. It was in a manila envelope, sealed, his name on the front. Block letters.” She reached into a purse and extracted the folded-over envelope. Her hand trembled as she handed it to me.

I withdrew the slip of paper and read the bold print: BEWARE! YOUR NEXT! TIMES 3. A FRIEND.

I read it again, out loud. Clorinda gasped, as though hearing it for the first time.

“Dak brought that to you?” I asked.

She nodded and looked on the verge of tears. “He was taking it to that…that…Constable Biggers, but I grabbed it from him.”

“Not wise, Clorinda.”

“It’s just too terrible.”

“Well,” I remarked, “it may just be the work of a mischief-maker, some town scamp. Or, I suppose, it’s real.”

Again, the gasp. “Tell me what to do.”

“We do what Dak started to do. Hand it over to Constable Biggers. He is the sheriff in this town.”

“But he’s so dedicated to arresting Dak for…
murder
.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Who else is left?” A helpless wave of her hand. “I mean, he was watching Gus and Dak and…and Dak…”

She closed up as the waiter came to take our orders. Clorinda refused to look into his face, tucking her head into her chest, hands buried in her lap.

I breathed in. “Clorinda, you know I believe in Dak’s innocence. That belief seems to have acquired some currency in town. Everyone, it seems, defines me as his advocate.” I paused, a dreadful heartbeat. “But is it possible Dak killed Evan? Maybe Gus?”

A long silence, her face frozen. “Edna!”

“I mean, we have to consider…”

Her words were laced with bitterness. “You’re doing it again, Edna. You turn words around, glibly, cruelly, and I feel…feel assailed by you.”

“It’s a question we have to ask. Others are asking it. I have no power, but others do.”

She half-rose from her seat. “Then what do we do?”

“We follow Dak’s advice immediately.” I pointed to the note.

She was nodding furiously. “Annika is having trouble with all this.”

“About what?”

“This murder, disruption, mayhem. This is not the life she
planned
on when she embraced my gospel. Dak’s wallowing in self-pity, drifting around, ignoring her to the point where she looks positively
hurt
.”

“Clorinda, did you ever consider that Annika is a poor mate for your only son?”

She eyed some diners walking by. Her voice seethed. “That’s ridiculous, Edna.”

“Have you asked Dak what he wants?”

An edge to her voice, short breathing. “Well, we’ve talked.”

“But have you listened to him?”

“Of course. Now you’re being ridiculous. You know him, Edna. Not like I do, of course, but enough. He’s charismatic, sensitive, a boy lost in his own romantic thoughts.
Spiritual
thoughts. The wild oats…”

I showed my impatience. “I know, I know. I’ve heard that before. The blessed boy, prodigal. Fatted calves. Blessed is the frail…do dah, do dah. All I’m saying is that Dak’s confusion these days, his distractedness, is because he may want something different out of life. He doesn’t want to
hurt
folks he cares about. In the process he hurts
everyone
—mainly himself.”

Her words were clipped. “And not want Annika? I’ve
trained
Annika. She is devoted to the church and to Dak. To
me
!”

“But Dak may not be devoted to her.”

She looked away, silent for a moment. “You don’t understand, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t think I’m wrong.”

Suddenly her eyes locked with mine. “Are you ever wrong, Edna?”

I smiled wistfully. “Never.”

She harrumphed, very nineteenth century
Tempest and Sunshin
e heroine, and lapsed into silence. She refused to look at me.

Ilona joined us minutes later and stared from me to her sister, registering the awful silence. “What happened?”

“Edna doesn’t believe what I’m telling her.”

Ilona chuckled. “A woman of exquisite common sense.” Ilona turned to me. “Did Clorinda show you that note Dak received?”

I nodded. “It confuses me.”

“Not me. I
know
who wrote it.” She sat down and dropped her hands into her lap, a smile on her face—the good student ready to please the teacher.

Clorinda interrupted. “Please don’t tell Edna that harebrained theory.”

“Tell me.”

Ilona sat up and rested her elbows on the table. A small woman like her sister, Ilona purposely effected a negative to her sister’s glossy print: where Clorinda was sensuous with a body accented by flowing robes and scarves and laces—a rainbow of pastels that made her seem a dizzy fugitive from a Grimms’ fairy tale—Ilona wore drab unstylish dresses or, for this dinner, a mannish brown suit, square-cut, with shoulder pads that blunted her upper arms. But she chose lipstick—Clorinda wore none—that made her mouth seem a bold smear of bright red. A ring on one finger had a black topaz mounted in a square setting. A rectangular rhinestone brooch. It was almost as though she mastered Clorinda’s round and flowing look, then purposely, viciously, countered it so as to make Clorinda look a little foolish, the aged ingénue still flitting across her own stage. It was as cruel a mockery, I thought, as any I’d seen. And, as with my own sister Fannie, a woman always poised to remind me of my unwed state and my unlovely appearance, I’d weathered a lifetime of similar savage sabotage.

“Dak wrote the damn note.” Ilona sat back, watching as Clorinda winced at the mild curse.

Clorinda shut her eyes. “Why would you say that?” Tears welled at the corners of her eyes.

“Because you know it’s true.”

“That’s quite an accusation.” I sat back, arms folded, fascinated by the dynamic of the two sisters.

“It’s a way of getting attention, stupidly trying to take the heat off him.”

Clorinda was sputtering. “Foolishness, Ilona. Your usual foolishness.”

The waiter placed a dish in front of Clorinda, but she pushed it away. Ilona eyed it and picked up a fork. Lips pursed, Clorinda pushed the dish close to her and shot Ilona a look.

“The kind of stunt he’d pull when he was a boy—to get people to pay attention. ‘Look at me! Look at me! I’m so cute.’”

“Well, perhaps if you’d treated him better.”

Ilona again flared, “I gave up my young life for him. Wasn’t that enough? I could’ve married…”

“He always loved you.” She hissed the words.

“So you say.”

I stepped in. “The two of you seem content to barter Dak’s love…”

Ilona was cutting. “Edna, you don’t understand what happened back then.”

“Well, tell me then. Dak these days is threatened with arrest for murder. Serious business, really. And yet you two play out some fierce and bitter memory that cripples everyone. And somehow—I don’t know how—that memory, Dak’s boyhood, plays a part in the murder.”

“Nonsense!” From Clorinda.

Ilona said nothing but wore a thin, ironic smile.

“Ilona is angry at Dak.”

“But why?” I pleaded.

“I’m not angry at Dak. I’m angry at
you
.” She shot a contemptuous look at her sister.

Clorinda let out a fake laugh. “Oh, really?”

Ilona addressed me, twisting her body so that she was turned away from her sister. “Edna, I once had a chance for happiness. I was engaged, believe it or not. I was—comely, even pursued, but shy. While Clorinda was chasing dreams in Hollywood—she was always the runaway spirit, uncontrollable, soaring above the trees—I sat at home with a cruel and nasty father. ‘Yes, Father. No, Father.’ The country doctor, loved by patients, fawned over by the ladies with their mineral salts and garden herbs, but a man who disliked his own daughters. You could see his dislike—not indifference,
dislike
—such a face when you spoke to him. Probably because they resembled a wife who conveniently died to get out of the house. And I had escaped, too. But the Great War and a bloody battlefield in France took care of that. My Charlie died. End of story. And I was appointed the spinster daughter to tend to that madman.”

Clorinda lisped, “Father was a saint.”

Ilona, sarcastic, “Clorinda imagines all kinds of saints around her. Father, Dakota, even—well, truly—herself.”

“He
was
. You…”

She raised her voice. “And then, just as I settled into my virginal bed in the old homestead, sleeping on the bed I still sleep on, shriveling up year after year as we speak, Clorinda, the madcap screen non-legend, marries the handsome actor who then dies. Yet the career had to go on, and Father, a man who despised the stage and Hollywood and, well, fun, demanded she deliver little Dakota—he of the preposterous name—see what happens when you go West in America?—to a stable life away from the hullabaloo of California. Father had already failed raising two children, so he saw no problem adding a third. The ultimate parental hat trick. And there I was, appointed surrogate mother.”