The Secret Life of Anna Blanc (42 page)

When Mr. Blanc opened his paper the next morning, Anna's bottom was on the front page, accompanied by the true story of her adventures in the brothel—that is to say, Anna's version of the story as explained to a very romantic cop from Pasadena, as he explained it to a
Los Angeles Herald
reporter over the phone. The article told about the dead and missing girls, how no one at the LAPD believed her, how Eve's death had driven her to the brothels to hunt for her killer, how she had solved the crime on her own, slain Louis Taylor, and saved Joe Singer from a fiery death, then selflessly saved him again by being his blanket when he was in shock. She left out the part about stabbing Edgar, as it didn't reflect well on her detection abilities, and he might not want the world to know that he had lost a fight to a girl.

Mr. Blanc didn't read the article, but the rest of Los Angeles did. Though some readers said Anna's behavior represented a terrible breach of decorum, many women in Los Angeles felt a certain pride on her behalf. Most men framed the picture of Anna's bottom and hid it from their wives. Everyone had an opinion and everyone was talking about her.

Anna missed the article. When the papers hit the newsstands, she was driving her yellow convertible through the mustard gold hills of California, heading for the spiritualist colony at Summerland, looking like a fairy that had fallen into a campfire. She congratulated herself on having had the foresight to take two dollars from Joe's pocket. Now she had money for Coca-Cola and gas. She had also stolen Joe's shoes, which fit her bandaged feet like canoes. He didn't need them, as he was horizontal and unconscious.

Madam Lulu and Charlene had delivered Anna's car to the Pasadena police station, bearing the news that the crowd had re-gathered at Canary Cottage, making it impossible for Anna to return. Anna didn't think Edgar would receive her after she'd tried to kill him. For a brief moment, she considered calling on the Breedloves. Of all the people in the world that Anna had loved, Clara was the only one that Anna was sure had truly loved her back. But Clara had surely dropped her. Clara would never approve of her stabbing Edgar, because Clara was not that kind of girl.

Anna took a swig of Coca-Cola and wished it were brandy. Without Clara, Anna's life could never be more than half worth living. They had been a two-woman sorority united against the Miss Curlews of the world—partners in subverting every cruel repression under Anna's dictator father. When Anna had needed books, whiskey, or an alibi, Clara had provided. When Clara had to visit her spiritualist aunt's haunted house, Anna had been there, brandishing her crucifix.

But now, other than some very nice prostitutes, Anna was friendless and utterly alone.

When the second article about Anna appeared in the paper, which featured Joe's side of the story, she was smashing a window at Clara's dead aunt's empty beach house. Unlike people, ghosts didn't care about tattered reputations, ruined fortunes, and mistakes one might make with a paring knife.

The house was full of furniture covered in sheets. There was an organ, a sonorous grandfather clock, and framed photographs of the aunt with ghostly images of transparent dead people hovering around her. There was a windowless room for séances, stairs and doors leading absolutely nowhere, and a library of spooky books—
The Salem Seer
and
Eusapia Palladino and Her Phenomena
. It was deliciously creepy, but not somewhere one would choose to sleep alone. She would have felt very safe with a policeman in her bed—one that could sing her to sleep with lullabies. She bit her lip and banished the thought.

Anna hadn't eaten in two days. Her stomach panged and she headed for the kitchen. The cupboards brimmed with crackers, pickles, canned peaches, jars of peanut butter and, to Anna's delight, several tins of kippers. Anna stuffed a salty dill pickle into her mouth and bit it like an enormous cigar. She opened a can of fish, slipped an oily creature into her mouth, and chewed it with the pickle. She moaned with pleasure. Three giant cucumbers and ten kippers later, she was satisfied.

Anna was too tired to see ghosts. Only Joe Singer appeared in her dreams, and in them he had left her for Helmut Melvin. She cried and cried in her sleep. Anna slept all night, all the next day, and into the following evening.

She awoke to the sound of footsteps on the stairs and sat up in bed. The door creaked open. A dark figure stood there, barely visible on the threshold. Anna rubbed her bleary eyes. Maybe Louis Taylor had come to apologize.

She reached for her crucifix and held it high. “Be gone, oh restless spirit!”

The ghost giggled.

Anna's arm dropped. “Clara? What are you doing here?”

“Oh, Dearest! When we saw your picture in the paper, we searched everywhere for you. Theo's been combing the brothels since the raid. But of course you'd come here.”

“That's why Theo was at Canary Cottage.” Anna blew out a long breath. She looked sideways at Clara. “You're talking to me? Looking for me? Are you here to tell me we can never speak again?”

“Oh, Dearest.” Clara's face flushed and scrunched up. She came and sat next to Anna, wiping tear after tear off her rosy cheeks. “I've been a terrible friend.” She sniffed. “I should love you no matter what your career is or who's seen your bottom, and I do. I think you're heroic.” She kissed Anna's stunned face. “Forgive me?”

Anna slipped her arms around Clara's waist and squeezed her tight. “You're good.”

“You're famous now.”

“Infamous.” Anna laughed and put her head on Clara's shoulder. “So is Enid Curlew.”

Clara and Anna spent the next week wading at the beach and digging through the aunt's drawers for incriminating personal items, while Clara's maid packed old knickknacks in boxes. In the evenings, they ate canned fish and pickles and watched the sun set from the porch. They drank every drop of the dead aunt's whiskey.

Clara told Anna all that had happened in her absence. A girl from the club had a bun in the oven. Clara's sister-in-law had learned a new card game. Miss Curlew-Taylor had gone into hiding. Anna told Clara about her adventures in the brothels, what it felt like to kill a man, and what Joe Singer could do with his tongue. She told her that she never really knew Edgar until the end, how he had never once kissed her, but how she loved him for all he had done and would think of him whenever she smelled petunias.

The next morning, Anna drove Clara and her maid to the train station in Santa Barbara. Theo was expecting them home. Anna planned to stay at the beach house until she had eaten every last cracker and pickle, at which time she would have nothing to eat and would have to return to Los Angeles. Hopefully, by then people would have forgotten her.

As soon as Clara's train was puffing its way down the coast, Anna went to the post office. She sent a letter to Edgar, begging his forgiveness for thinking he was a murderer and for all the rest, and saying how lucky it was that he looked so splendid in his chinoiserie robe and matching slippers, because otherwise she would have left her eyes open when she stabbed him and wouldn't have missed. She said she was very sorry, but she could not marry him, but asked if she could call on him when she returned to LA. Edgar did not reply.

Late one afternoon, Anna padded up the steps from the beach, all salty and rosy in one of the dead aunt's swimsuits. She wore it without stockings, exhibiting her bare, sun-kissed shins for anyone to see. But
the houses on the bluff were empty. There was no one to see, just the purple islands in the distance and the oilrigs adorning the ocean like tarnished silver filigree.

She reached the crest of the yellow hill, cooled by the ocean breeze on wet wool, the tired sun warming her legs, and heard a man singing.

She'll spoon you for a collar.
She's a menace with a paring knife.
Her bottom's black and famous
and she'll burn a man alive.

Joe Singer sat on the dead aunt's porch railing, holding a burlap sack, his face pink in spots from where the scabs had been after she dragged him across the driveway on his face. Still, he looked good enough to eat and Anna tingled. She had to steel herself.

Joe stopped singing. He looked down at her shins and let out a low, scandalized whistle. “I could arrest you for that, Miss Blanc.”

She tossed her singed, uneven hair. “Do you wear stockings when you swim, Officer Singer? I guess not. And you're out of your jurisdiction. I can do anything I want. I could swim naked…” Anna mentally kicked herself.

“I'd like to see you try.” He gave her his “mocking Anna” smile.

Anna glowered at him. She didn't have to be nice. She owed him nothing for his misguided heroism. She had saved him, not the other way around. She crossed her arms over her chest. “Why have you come? Shouldn't you be with your brothel girl? She was ugly by the way.”

Joe chuckled bitterly. “Shouldn't you be with Edgar Wright?”

She lifted her chin. “I would be, but…”

“Oh, that's right. You stabbed him.” He smirked. “You know, Anna, I'm glad you think I sleep with prostitutes, because if you didn't, the next time you needed something you'd be giving me your Juliet line, and I'd probably fall for it.”

Anna's eyes flared. “Are you trying to deny you sleep with brothel girls? I caught you red-handed!”

“Did you?”

“Yes!”

His stare was cold. She had to look away. “Why did you come here bothering me?”

“It's nothing personal. I'm supposed to track you down. Captain Wells wants you back.”

Anna's face lit up like Chinese New Year. “Really?”

Joe tossed her the burlap bag. She caught it in her hand, reached into the sack, and pulled out a wad of red fabric—Peaches' whoring outfit. She had left it on the floor in Joe's apartment, along with Lulu's blonde wig.

“I don't suppose you're gonna return my best suit,” he said.

His suit was now ash, and Anna was glad. She ignored the comment and held up the dress. It, too, was ruined, the filmy fabric torn diagonally up the back in two frayed pieces. She gave him a puzzled look.

“I commandeered it and Melvin ripped it. On behalf of the LAPD, I apologize.” He mocked her with a deferential incline of his head. “Captain Wells said he'd give you two new matron's uniforms in compensation, since you go through them so fast, if you'll come back.”