Blessed Is the Busybody (20 page)

I saw the Gelsey I knew. Not clearly, of course, since the photo was probably fifty years old, but she was definitely there.

“What a babe,” Lucy said.

I turned it over and saw
Gorgeous Gelsey
stamped in faded red ink, along with the name of an agency of some sort and a telephone number.

“I don’t suppose they’re still in business, do you?” I asked. “Maybe a booking agency?”

“I doubt they’ve been around for decades.”

I set the photo down and quickly went through three more photos of Gelsey in different costumes, one as extravagant as the next. All had the same stamp on the back.

“I wonder if she worked in more casinos than George knows about?” I wondered this out loud.

“George?”

Lucy only had pieces of this puzzle, and what help was that? Besides, I was tired of being the only one besides Ed and the police who knew the whole story. I made a snap decision and filled her in on everything I’d discovered from beginning to end. I trusted her not to tell the world about Gelsey’s peccadillos.

“It’s too bad there’s no date on the photos,” she said when I was done and she had properly oohed and aahed about the connection to Jennifer.

I set the photos aside and pulled out a manila envelope that was next in the pile. I opened it and carefully dumped out more casino photos, snapshots this time, of showgirls on the stage. I suspected she was among them. There was a neon sign visible in one: Welcome to the Grandstand.

“Okay, still the Grandstand days.” I put the photos back and went to the next item in the pile. It looked like an address book or a journal, an old one with a leather cover and gilt-edged pages. The leather was powdery with age. I opened it, expecting to see names and addresses, four-digit phone numbers with two-letter prefix codes. I have my grandmother’s address book from the forties, and treasure it.

Instead, each page had an odd name like Hazelnut, Tomboy, and Tarzan, followed by a page of letters divided into groups of five with the occasional number mixed in. None of it made any sense to me. “Codes? What do you think? She was running a numbers racket? She worked for a bookie?”

“Beats me.”

We set that aside and I struck paydirt. A business card that read: “Gorgeous Girls. Why ask for any other?” And a phone number.

“Gorgeous Girls?” I handed the card to Lucy, who was trying to read over my shoulder. “You think she started her own talent booking agency? Gorgeous showgirls? Courtesy of Gorgeous Gelsey?”

“Ag, what experience did Wanda Ray have booking talent? She had a face, she had a body, and she had no problems showing the world. That’s all we know.”

But I was already rifling through the rest of the contents of the drawer. Another photograph, not of showgirls at work, but of three Lana Turner look-alikes in furs and low-cut dresses in what looked like an upscale cocktail lounge. Another of a man and a woman, taken at a distance and blurry. I was just as glad I couldn’t see too clearly what was going on. Another woman, an exotic redhead this time, puckering up for the camera. Yet another of a couple undressing each other too close to a window. Both appeared to be men.

“Gorgeous Girls,” I said. “Gorgeous Gelsey’s Girls . . . and Guys? Gelsey was running a brothel?”

“Prostitution isn’t legal in Las Vegas.”

I didn’t ask Lucy how she knew. “An escort service then?”

“Either she was running one, or she was participating,” she agreed.

I looked down at the address book and back up at her. Lucy nodded. “Running,” I said. “And I just bet if we play around with those numbers and letters long enough, we’ll probably know the likes and dislikes of every john who walked through her door.”

14

By the time Lucy and I had finished our Friday night treasure hunt, we had learned a lot about Gelsey Falowell a.k.a. “Wanda Ray Gelsey” a.k.a. “Gorgeous Gelsey” a.k.a. “Madam Gelsey” of Gorgeous Girls fame.

That last title hadn’t really turned up anywhere, of course, but we had seen plenty of evidence that Gelsey had gone from strutting on stage to sending gorgeous girls strutting in strange hotel rooms. The coded book plus an old bankbook in Gelsey’s name with substantial deposits and withdrawals strongly suggested she had been in charge, and the name of the service made us think she had been the founder, as well.

We had turned up letters, too, at least one that seemed to indicate Gelsey hadn’t been above a little old-fashioned blackmail. The snapshots of couples embracing had suddenly taken on new meaning. When the circumstances were right, Gelsey caught her customers in compromising positions and documented those Hallmark moments.

But even at that, the most difficult items to view had been at the bottom of the drawer. A birth certificate for Baby Girl Gelsey on March 14, 1964, and below that, a snapshot of the baby in the hospital nursery. Jennifer Marina’s defenseless little face scrunched up in sleep, her head covered in a pink knit hat, her fragile body wrapped tightly in a pink plaid blanket.

Even Lucy had blinked back a few tears.

We discovered a history, but the 8 mm movie had not turned up. Nor had any obvious reason for someone to murder either woman. I suspected that Gelsey’s days as a blackmailer were long over. Many of her former clients were probably dead. Those still alive might actually cherish a reminder of their youthful “vitality.” Surely that cash cow had turned into pot roast at least a decade ago.

I was thinking of all this the next morning at eleven as I filed in with two hundred other Emerald Springs citizens for Gelsey’s memorial service. The Women’s Society had prepared a lunch reception and decorated a table at the back of the sanctuary with framed photographs of Gelsey, an old letter from Brownie Kefauver thanking her for her work in the community, several others from charities she had assisted, and a guest book for mourners.

I wondered who would receive the book after the service. Bob Knowles, who was absent today and clearly would not mourn her passing? The owner of the doggie day care center in Boston where her mythical sister was supposed to reside? It seemed unbearably sad, somehow, that Gelsey’s life had been built on so many lies that at the end, it had simply collapsed.

After giving the service a lot of thought, Ed had opted to say little. He had asked Sally, Yvonne, and Fern Booth to speak about Gelsey’s life. Sally was careful not to mention facts that were now in question, but Yvonne and Fern, oblivious to the charade, repeated stories Gelsey had told of her childhood in Massachusetts. Other church members stood one by one to give readings or came forward to speak a few words. At the end, after our little choir sang “Turn, Turn, Turn”—a performance and choice Gelsey would have hated—Ed gave a benediction, and we filed out to the parish house for the reception.

I had no duties in the kitchen today. The Women’s Society has been organizing receptions for so long that a new pair of hands just confuses them. Instead, I moved from group to group, chatting and listening to stories about Gelsey and earlier years in the church. Several people questioned why no one from Gelsey’s family had come. Apparently, I am surrounded by detectives in training.

After ten minutes I was cornered by Fern and Samuel Booth. Rotund Samuel had a plate heaped with some of everything from the serving table. He seemed especially fond of cheese. Fern, a square-faced woman with a graying Prince Valiant haircut, had no plate at all. Fern strikes me as someone with little time to eat. I have never encountered her when she isn’t too busy passing judgment on somebody to take time for herself. Even her scowl is permanent, as if she hopes this might save time in her race to condemn.

“We’d like to know your husband’s plans,” Fern said, getting straight to the point.

“Well, this afternoon we’re going to the dedication of the new service center. Then I think Ed’s planning a nap.”

“Fern means long range,” Samuel said, as if I really needed clarification.

“Ed would like to retire to Maine. I’m more inclined toward someplace in the Caribbean. It depends on where the girls are living.”

“Are you purposely trying to misunderstand?” Fern demanded.

I took a deep breath. “Are you purposely trying to communicate with my husband through me?”

They both looked aghast.

I decided to be even more direct. “Because the best way to find out what Ed is planning is to ask Ed.”

I started to leave, but Samuel took my arm. “We’re just worried about the church.”

“Gelsey was worried, too,” Fern said. “God rest her soul, she disliked your husband from the first moment he appeared.”

I couldn’t answer. I was too busy swallowing every additional word that tried to force its way between my lips. But Sam was shaking his head. “You know, Fern, that’s not true. Gelsey voted to bring Ed Wilcox here, and at first she was as enthusiastic as I’ve ever seen her. She thought he was a man of intellect and wisdom. She said it was a miracle he would agree to come to a little church like this one.”

I opened my mouth and luckily only a question emerged. “Why did she change her mind?”

Fern was glaring at her husband, but Samuel shrugged. “I don’t know. She seemed to change from one day to the next. But don’t make the mistake of believing she had it in for him from the beginning. Gelsey wasn’t like that. She was fair. He must have done something.”

“When did she change her mind? Do you know? After the first sermon? The first board meeting? When she realized he wouldn’t do everything she wanted?”

He shook his head. “A month, maybe two after you arrived.”

I tried to think back. That meant last year about this time. We had arrived just at the end of summer. So what had gone wrong?

“I don’t see why any of that matters,” Fern said. “The point is that this church has not been the same since your husband arrived.”

“I’ll second that,” I agreed. “It’s been more interesting, more dynamic, and better attended. Of course you might not know that, since you so seldom come yourselves.”

Yvonne McAllister seemed to sense the brewing storm. She wound her way through the guests, grabbed my arm, gave a huge smile to the Booths, and steered me to a corner. “I don’t care what the Booths said to you, Aggie. It’s not true, and it doesn’t matter.”

I let out one long breath through flared nostrils. “Fern has hoisted herself into Gelsey’s place as Ed’s biggest detractor.”

“She won’t stay long. Gelsey’s shoes will be hard to fill.”

“Do you have any idea what set Gelsey off? Samuel said she was one of Ed’s biggest fans until we’d been here a month or two.”

Yvonne shook her head. She kept shaking it until I had to look away to avoid getting dizzy. “I just don’t know. But they’re right. That’s about the time she changed. At first she didn’t have enough good things to say. I remember being so surprised when she started complaining. He’d give a wonderful sermon and she’d pick it apart. He would make great suggestions at committee meetings and she would do whatever she could to see they weren’t implemented. It was like she had a vendetta against the poor man.”

“Yes, well . . .”

“The first time I noticed was after one of the Women’s Society meetings,” Yvonne continued. “It was the oddest thing. Gelsey went into the meeting as a supporter and out a detractor. And poor Ed was hardly even there. It was the first meeting of the season. He opened with a prayer, did a little talk about a sermon series he was planning, made a suggestion or two about what he’d like to see us do for the church, but not until he was asked, of course.”

I remembered the meeting now. I had attended so the women could get to know me better. The staff had been present for this welcome, and we were all treated to lunch afterwards. I’d even given a short presentation about my interest in the archives. I laughed about some of their parties and picnics and said when everything was put to rights we’d have a film fest and charge admission.

By now Yvonne had finally stopped shaking her head. “Maybe it was Ed’s suggestion that we use some of the proceeds from our bazaar to start a Friday night soup kitchen. Gelsey was old-fashioned in that way, you know. She believed people should pull themselves up by their bootstraps.”

Gelsey certainly had given her own a good yank, although I doubted that
her
way was one we ought to recommend to any woman needing help in our little burg.

I wished, once again, I could remember details from the missing movie. “Yvonne, is there any chance I was the one Gelsey disliked, not my husband? Did I do something so despicable that she wanted both of us out of here?”

Yvonne looked dismayed. “Oh, dear, I just—”

“I’m not going to be hurt.”

“Well, she didn’t have good things to say, I’m afraid. But her complaints were odd, like she was manufacturing them out of nothing. It was rather unlike her, actually. Gelsey was more than able to find real reasons to dislike anyone.”

“Did anything in particular bother her?”

“Your frankness, I believe. You do have a way of going straight to the heart of every matter. An admirable trait, I think, but she claimed it was inappropriate for a minister’s wife.”

I had seen Jack earlier at the service; now he came over to join his mom and me. He looked like a successful young lawyer on casual Friday. Jacket, no tie, khakis with the requisite crease. He took my hand and kissed my cheek.

“I hear you’ve had a little excitement in your life,” he said.

“A murder here, a murder there.”

“I was thinking about the protests at Book Gems.”

“Those? I think the good citizens of Ohio are just trying to make me feel at home.”

“Bob is incensed. I’ve had to remind him this is a death penalty state.”

“You must know him pretty well to make any kind of suggestion.”

“We do his legal work.”

Yvonne was clearly proud of her son. “Jack’s being modest. Bob asked for him specifically.”

“I bet he’s high maintenance,” I said.

Jack looked like he had stories to tell, but couldn’t. We chatted a few minutes until he was called away.

“Bob
is
a nuisance, although of course Jack would never say so,” Yvonne said. “But I know he’s in Jack’s office making one demand or another a couple of times a week.”

I wasn’t surprised. My boss had a lot to protect, or so it seemed. Now he had a whole lot more.

Protecting assets reminded me of something I’d been meaning to ask Yvonne. “You know, I heard that you have a key to the house across from ours.”

Yvonne made a face. “Had a key. I gave it back to the owners after I found out Jennifer Marina might have been murdered there.”

“You were checking on the house?”

“The Gilligans travel a lot, and it was no trouble for me to pop in when I was over at the church. If I couldn’t do it, Jack did it for me.”

“Jack, huh?”

“I had an extra key made so he could go directly from work if need be. We were called a couple of times to check out plumbing repairs that had been done while they were out of town.”

I remembered Lucy saying that the owners were neighbors of Yvonne’s brother and only acquaintances of hers. Even for Yvonne this was extraordinarily conscientious. “That seems like a lot of work for you both.”

“Oh, since I live so close I didn’t mind. And when my brother was ill last year, both Gilligans were over there every day with homemade soup or books from the library. We take care of each other in Emerald Springs. That’s why it’s so terrible to have murderers in our midst.” She sniffed and searched her purse for a tissue. “Poor Gelsey.”

I gave her a moment to pull herself together and patted her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said, once she was under control again.

“You and Jack are good, generous people. I hope the Gilligans understood when you had to give back the keys.”

“Key. Just one. Jack lost his somewhere along the way. We never got around to replacing it.”

“Oh . . .” I tried to sound nonchalant. “I bet Jack dropped it somewhere. I’m always losing keys.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Surely I had lost a couple in my thirty-five years?

“No, he kept the key in a tray by his telephone at the office. He’s sure it got mixed in with his junk mail one morning and tossed.”

“Well, a key’s just a key. Who would know what door it opened, even if they found it in the garbage?”

“It had a tag. But who would steal a key off Jack’s desk?”

This was a question I hoped to answer very soon.

The girls had spent the morning in Stephanie’s care. I arrived home to find them on the living room rug at the tail end of a Monopoly game. Deena had the most monopolies, but Teddy had hotels on Park Place and Boardwalk. Stephanie was a few bills short of bankrupt.

“Six-year-olds aren’t supposed to be this good!” Stephanie stood and shook life back into her extremities. “Send her to tutor Donald Trump.”

“Here’s some of the real stuff. Invest it. Teddy will give you tips.” I paid her and sent her away to nurse her wounds.