Final Curtain: An Edna Ferber Mystery (Edna Ferber Mysteries) (17 page)

I held up my hand. “But it seems to me you would love a child like Dak. You seem to dislike him so.”

“I did. I suppose I still do. A troublesome boy, always acting out. I didn’t know what to do. But Father kept telling him—your real mother is coming home. Any day now, the prodigal mama. So Dak looked
beyond
me. And then Clorinda found Jesus under a palm tree. And she moved from Father’s blacklist of fallen women to the Blessed Mother Herself, the itinerant Holy Roller on the broken-down bus. A life of poverty, but a life cuddling with God. And once Father died Dak was scooped up and taken on the road. When they stopped back home in Maplewood, Dak was cold, distant. He looked
beyond
me.”

“He’s a moody boy.” Clorinda was looking at me. “A special boy.”

A flash of anger. “You bad-mouthed me to him. Told him stories. He ignored me, looked at me as if I was—I don’t know—a dangerous stranger. You smothered him, Clorinda. You fed him God and not love. God is no answer for ruining a child.” A loud, raucous laugh. “You envisioned yourself some marked-down Madonna with a scrawny Jesus, bringing your message to the boondocks. Dak served as a prop for you. A theater prop. Him upon that stage singing his sloppy song. No wonder he fled to Hollywood. You made him vain and hollow. And you told him he could inherit the kingdom of heaven.”

“I saw in him what God planted there.”

“Bratty children must get on God’s nerves, Clorinda. Why not? They get on everyone else’s. You turned him against…himself. That sullenness…that distance. You wanted him all to yourself. You never shared him. Ever.”

Clorinda’s voice rose. “He is
my
child.”

“He was
mine
for a while.”

“You borrowed him.”

“He wasn’t furniture, Clorinda.”

“That’s cold.”

“And he’s not the savior of mankind now.”

“Yes, he is. Tobias has plans.”

Ilona chuckled. “For a spiritual lady, Clorinda, you do have a love of worldly trappings.” She pointed to the diamond earrings Clorinda wore.

“Tobias has been blessed.”

“Yes, by a rich, foolish mother. He was more
your
savior than anyone else.” Ilona faced me, her face flushed. “When Tobias entered the picture, everything changed. Suddenly Clorinda had enough clout to sponsor God.”

Clorinda
tsk
ed. “You are so irreverent. Perhaps if you
heard
one of my sermons.”

“I’d have to take to my bed. A welcome migraine, surely.”

Clorinda lapsed into silence, a faraway look in her eyes. One of her hands picked carelessly at a piece of bread, but she seemed dreamy, her lips trembling. “I fear it’s all slipping away.”

“What?”

“My church. All I’ve worked for—for Dak. For God!” She reached across the table and grasped my hand. Her grip was tight, fierce. “Scandal. Scandal, Edna. Ilona doesn’t understand, but scandal eats at—corrodes—rots—until there is nothing left but empty pews. Dakota has been a foolish boy, allowing himself to be a part of
that
world. If he had stayed in the chapel…It’s driven us to our first words. Our first tension.” She was whispering now, the words choked out. “Tobias is losing faith in Dakota. Can you believe it?”

Ilona scoffed. “The son of God laid bare.”

“Stop it, Ilona,” Clorinda snapped.

Ilona caught my eye. “Tobias’ utter infatuation with Clorinda is an umbrella that covers both me and Dakota. There may be a problem in paradise…”

“Ask Annika,” Clorinda added. “Annika ignored Tobias the other day. Unforgivable. I have created that child in my image—you know she was a lonely orphaned child from an uncaring family of distant aunts in Newark—and now she is slipping away.”

“Of course, she isn’t.” Ilona winked at me. “You have that girl under your spell. You managed to wipe out all traces of her own personality, filling in the cavity with Jesus Christ and the baubles you and Tobias toss her way.” A hearty laugh. “You’re angry because it didn’t work that way with Dakota. Such a willful streak in so weak a boy. Imagine!”

Clorinda was shaking her head. “Tobias yelled at Annika for something. Tobias never yells at anyone.”

“Maybe it’s about time.”

Tired of this sisterly bickering, I shifted the subject. “Dak dropped off the most exquisite drawing for me, a landscape…”

Clorinda grunted. “Oh Lord, all that doodling.”

“He’s talented,” I insisted. “The hours spent on his art…well, I was touched.”

“You mean he actually
finished
something? His rooms are crammed with half-done canvases and watercolors.” Ilona smiled. “He loses interest…”

“Well, not this time. It’s a charming landscape.”

Clorinda was staring over my shoulder, her face contorted with a look that was both baffled and stunned. I started to say something in defense of Dak the artist, but that sudden transformation silenced me. The prophetess of unconditional love now looked ready to faint—or to scream. It startled, quite.

Ilona and I both turned to see Frank and Nadine walking into the restaurant.

Frank looked grim-faced, though Nadine, stepping in front of him, was laughing, looking back over her shoulder at the older man. He was shaking his head like a befuddled parent teased by his child. It was, I thought, a curious tableau, those two stage folks somehow connected to Dak. While we watched, silently, the maitre d’ seated them at a table some twenty feet from us, handed them menus, and Frank took out reading glasses and positioned them on the edge of his nose. As he did so, he absently glanced around the room, and froze. He mouthed something to Nadine, and the smile disappeared from her face.

“Clorinda?” I thought I detected a little concern in Ilona’s tone, which surprised.

Clorinda said nothing, yet she didn’t avert her eyes. Her eyes flashed utter hatred now.

Nadine, I thought. Clorinda once again dealing with the sweet temptress wooing Dak away from God and empire. The wife who disappeared in a heartbeat. The waving of a magician’s wand. Nadine, whose presence in Maplewood—through my indiscreet revelation—so shocked Clorinda. Nadine, considered so safely in Dak’s Hollywood past, a frivolous and transitory wedding, playing home among picturesque California palm trees. Nadine, conveniently annulled out of mind. The marriage that never happened. Nadine, back again. Nadine, somehow the electric current that tied Dak to Evan—and now somehow to Frank.

Yes, I thought, Clorinda’s unrelieved stare, malevolent and arctic, took in the inauspicious Nadine.

Then, in a hasty retreat, Frank and Nadine, withering under Clorinda’s furious look, pushed back their chairs and shuffled out of the restaurant. The waiter began speaking but Frank’s hand flew out—no, no. He was shaking his head.

But watching them leave, I realized something awful. Clorinda was not displaying her venom toward the hapless young girl. Rather, her eyes were locked on Frank.

Her breath came in short, frightful gasps. A gagging sound from deep in her throat. Then, barely audible, a word: “Frank.”

She watched as he left the restaurant, but she never took her eyes off the entrance. Her hand gripped a fork so tightly her knuckles were white.

She looked as though she’d seen a ghost.

Chapter Fourteen

The rehearsal was over, though I’d simply gone through the motions, distressed as I was by last night’s scene in the restaurant. When Frank was in the wings and I stepped off the stage, I called to him. He glanced over, tilted his head toward an imaginary caller, and disappeared.

George overheard me. “Edna, what are you up to?”

“A conversation, that’s all.”

“With Frank?”

“It seems his presence in leafy Maplewood was unknown to Clorinda—until last night. He absolutely shocked her into silence and, I’m afraid, into a numbing anger that is not appropriate for this…this ambassador of God.”

“Edna, I knocked on your door last night, but you weren’t in. I wanted to hear about the dinner with Clorinda and Ilona.” He rolled his tongue into his cheek. “Obviously it was eventful.”

“Not really. But at the end…”

“Edna, you keep disappearing and I expect another body to be found.”

“Don’t joke, George. There really
is
a danger.”

His face got tight. “What do you know?” he stammered, nervous.

“There are a bunch of pieces coming together, but something is still missing. The
how
these people are connected. Everyone knows one part of the large picture, and I need to put it together. I keep talking to everyone. You know, George, people talk and talk and eventually somebody will say something.”

George rubbed his chin with a finger. “You’re making me nervous.”

“I make everyone nervous. I’m hoping I’m making the killer nervous.”

“Edna, is that wise? We’re a couple days away from opening night, and I don’t want to go to the closing of your casket.”

“Not funny, George.”

“I’m not trying to be funny.”

I was nodding rapidly. “Let’s take a drive after lunch.”

“What are you planning, Edna?”

I caught a glimpse of Frank moving behind some scenery, turning his body away. He stepped out onto the stage, caught my eye, and then darted out of sight. George caught me looking. “Edna, what part does Frank play in this?”

“I don’t know.”

“So Clorinda recognized him?” he asked.

“That was my impression—and she wasn’t happy to see him. And it had nothing to do with Nadine.”

George was looking in the direction of the disappeared Frank. “What you’re saying suggests that she didn’t know he was working here. Dak never mentioned his name at home, obviously. Well, he said he was forbidden to mention anything to do with the theater.”

“Exactly.”

“Remember when his name came up in Cheryl Crawford’s apartment? We wondered why so accomplished a stage manager—already connected to a bona fide Broadway smash—welcomed a trivial summer job in Maplewood.”

“Yes, I do. And I’ve been thinking about that since last night. Just how well does Frank know Clorinda?”

“I don’t think he’s one of her camp followers, tambourines clanging in an upraised hand at one of her revivals. That doesn’t sound like the man I know.”

My mind was racing. “Hollywood? Was he out there when she went to rescue Dak from the clutches of Nadine? Was he a part of that?”

He rubbed his chin. “Maybe. Frank is all over the place. A single man, he travels a lot. I know that. He has friends in Hollywood, of course. Friends who drift from New York out to the Coast.”

“But what could he have to do with Dak’s annulment? Is it possible he knew Dak and Nadine out there? Was he involved with Nadine? All along I was thinking his hiring of Dak here was by chance.”

“Perhaps he was friends all along with Nadine. They seem very close now in town, dining together.”

“Possibly,” I speculated. “Maybe he was
her
advocate during the separation.”

“But why keep it a secret?” George wondered.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Well, maybe it’s only a secret to
us
.” I paused. “But no—Dak would have mentioned Frank being out there. Unless he had a reason to keep it a secret, but that makes no sense. Maybe Gus would have mentioned it, too. No one talked about Frank.”

George wasn’t buying it. “You know, Edna, Dak isn’t always forthcoming. He didn’t exactly rush to tell you he was married to Nadine while he was shadowing her like a love-struck puppy. You had to learn it, I seem to recall, from our young Nazi friend.”

“True, so Gus could have known Frank out in California.”

“So we can assume he didn’t.” He was lost in thought for a moment. “And someone hired Gus as an electrician. Did Frank play a part in that?”

“A Nazi? Frank?”

“Who knows?”

We stood there, the two of us, neither speaking. Finally, I blurted out, “Unless Frank knows Clorinda from somewhere else. From her own days in Hollywood.”

“But that was decades ago.”

“So what? Obviously the sins of the past have come to haunt more than one generation of Hollywood hopefuls.”

“I’ll ask him,” George said.

“Not just yet, George. I want to watch what happens.”

He nodded. “Where are we going for a ride?”

***

DeHart Park lay in a section of Maplewood I didn’t know. When I asked the desk clerk for directions, he eyed me suspiciously. Visitors rarely left the Village—the world of the train station, the theater, and the shops like Foster’s Drug Store and Leonard’s Barbershop. A close-knit community, built along Maplewood Avenue. The Hills were north of the railroad tracks, streets where the rich lived. The poor part of town—the other side of Springfield Avenue—had tough neighborhoods. DeHart Park was there, I was told. A scruffy park, unpopular.

I commandeered a Buick from one of the stagehands—he hesitated but finally acquiesced—and George and I headed for the park. George never learned to drive, adamant about the horrors of getting behind the wheel of a car, and I did so reluctantly. A careful driver, somewhat plodding, I cruised short distances, marking the miles by the number of cigarettes I nervously snubbed out in the ashtray,

“Lord, Edna,” George joked, “a throwback to your flapper days. In one hand a martini and in the other a cigarette as you lounged in a speakeasy on the arm of some sycophant.”

“George, you’re a woeful fabricator.”

I pulled the car into a parking lot under some overgrown willow trees. On the hot August afternoon there was no one there, and the thick foliage wilted under the blazing sun. I recalled Dak’s description of the murder scene, but also from the local newspaper, in particular, which specified where Evan parked his jazzy new car. Under the bank of willows just right of the walking path, across from the fountain. “Here.” I stopped the car. “Evan parked here.” I stepped out of the car, which I kept running, and moved past a bank of hedges, trailed by a reluctant George. “And here.” I pointed to a clearing where there was a picnic table and a stone barbeque pit. “Here. His body was found next to this table. On his back. Shot at close range in the chest.”

“What are we looking for, Edna?”

I looked back toward the parking lot. “This clearing is sheltered from the parking lot. We can’t see our car. Remember—he left it running, with the driver’s door left open.”

“But it’s close by. He didn’t plan on staying.”

“Precisely. A planned meeting with someone in a place secluded by trees. But a spot known to Evan—and the killer. An appointment, a quick one. One that Evan didn’t expect to end in violence.”

“Because he was cocky.”

“Most likely. Sure of himself. But what for?” I was baffled. “There had to be a reason they chose this spot. The killer also couldn’t afford to be seen by anyone. And yet Evan trusted him.”

“Or trusted enough to walk into a hideaway copse.”

“Why not turn off the car?” Something bothered me. “Dak confessed to driving into the park that afternoon and spotting Evan’s car. He even told Frank that he’d been following Evan. For whatever reason. He spotted Evan crusing by.”

“Well, what reason did he have to follow him? What if Evan had seen Dak following him? And yet Evan pulled over, opened that door.”

“Dak says he saw the door open and then drove away. He thought Evan was having some sort of…assignation. Maybe.”

“With the door open?”

“All right, that doesn’t fly. He was getting something from someone and he wanted to get away fast.” I stared at the empty picnic table, the barbeque, and the bank of sheltering trees.

“What?”

“Only one thing. Money.”

“Of course,” George agreed.

“Blackmail.”

“Frank?” George voice sounded triumphant.

“Maybe.” A heartbeat. “Maybe. A scene he wouldn’t want at the theater.”

“He wouldn’t have been meeting Gus—or Dak. He saw them all the time. The rooming house. In town. It had to be someone he couldn’t conveniently contact in town.”

“Or be seen with.”

Someone who’d just given him cash, I think. All that flashy money. But then—why meet that person
again
?”

“Maybe his greed.”

“Or something else? Information?”

“True,” I agreed. “And where was the second car? Did the killer walk here? Or hide a car? And no one found a gun, I gather.”

“There’s about a three-hour window that afternoon when Evan was out on the town, cruising around. Where was everyone? Frank? Gus, I suppose? Even Meaka? Nadine?”

“How are we to ever know?”

“Well,” George was nodding “we know where Dak was.”

I sighed. “Unfortunately.” I looked round. “But why would he confess to being in the spot where a murder took place?” I clicked my tongue. “
Following
him here. And obviously he didn’t see another car. Just Evan’s car. That’s it.”

George smiled. “He confessed because that’s Dak, no? He doesn’t believe it could implicate him.”

“An innocent.”

“Ironically, then,” George summarized, “his being at the murder site is a sign of his innocence.”

***

George and I walked into the Full Moon Café where Annika and Dak huddled at one of the tables. They were arguing, I could tell—sputtered words, abrupt silence, looking down, purple faces. A vein in Annika’s neck throbbed. Dak was sweating and kept mopping his face.

“A lover’s quarrel?” George impolitely asked, though I was glad he did.

Both looked up, though only Annika appeared annoyed. His head tilted back, Dak wore a bemused look, a little sheepish perhaps, but with bright eyes. “We’re making a scene in public. Tobias would be furious.” A pause. “It should embarrass us, I suppose.”

“He doesn’t favor public scenes?” I asked. “If you’re going to make a scene, it’s best to do so in public. Otherwise—why bother?”

Glancing toward the kitchen, I noticed that Constable Biggers was seated at a back table, not looking at us, ostensibly absorbed in a newspaper that covered his face. His legs were stretched out in front of him, two ungainly stumps. That infernal pad he always displayed lay on the table, the stub of a pencil resting on it, untouched.

Annika kept glancing at him, and finally sneered, “Our watchdog followed us in.”

Dak bit his lip and glanced toward the policeman. “He’s always around me.”

“What is he expecting you to do?” Annika was whining. “Stand up and confess to a murder you did not commit? In of all places—here?”

“He thinks I did it.”

Her voice was loud, aimed at the shielded man. “Well, let the fat man waste his time.” She yelled toward the man. “We all know Gus killed Evan.”

“How do you know that?” I asked, my voice a whisper.

“Well, who else? The process of elimination.” She threw back her shoulders defiantly.

“Then who killed Gus?”

That stopped her for a second. “I dunno. That was in New York. Things like that happen there. He’s running around with Nazi signs and praising Hitler. It stands to reason someone would shove him in front of a train, no?”

Constable Biggers lowered the paper and glared. His fingers drummed the untouched pad. Portly, with that round head with a few strands of sparse hair, with those big ears, he seemed a small-town Falstaff, eating pie and waiting for revelation.

Annika grabbed her purse and tucked it into her lap. She glanced toward the door and nudged Dak. “We need to leave now.”

“A second, Annika.” Dak motioned for George and me to sit down, which I did, with alacrity. Annika fumed.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

They looked at each other. Dak sighed. “Just squabbling. Annika believes I should quit working for the Maplewood Theater.”

Annika’s voice was arch. “He has enough to do at the Assembly of God. This fall we’re adding a satellite church in a warehouse in downtown Newark. Across the street from Bamberger’s Department Store.” She grinned. “They have Toyland at Christmas there—well, we’ll have Holyland. Tobias is funding renovations and he’s ordered a steeple built, shipped from Switzerland…”

Dak twisted his lips. “I’m supposed to be in charge.”

“We both are,” Annika said firmly.

“Annika, what does it matter that Dak works part-time at the theater?” I wondered.

Again, the glance from one to the other. “Tobias and Clorinda think he’s wasting time.”

Dak spoke up. “Work isn’t a waste of time. I’m with new people, with…”

“With lost souls.”

George snorted. “Well, thank you, my dear.”

“I don’t mean you.”

“Oh, only Edna?”

Annika fumbled. “You know what I mean.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I gladly wear the banner of being a ‘lost soul,’ Annika.”

Annika snickered. “You’re welcome, then.”

I cleared my throat. “Dak, I don’t know whether I thanked you for the landscape. I’m forgetful. It was a pleasant surprise. A wonderful gift.”

Dak looked embarrassed. “It was nothing.”

“You finished it?” Annika asked. “The one with the waterfall on the mountain?”

He nodded. “I gave it to Miss Ferber.”

“You have a real talent—as befitting a descendant of Asher Durand.”

Annika raised her eyebrows. “He told you he’s related to that artist? That cockamamie story?”

“Yes. A legitimate heir, I’d say.” I glanced at George. “Dak has a real passion—yes, that’s the word, truly—for art. It should be cultivated.”

“A hobby,” Annika insisted.

“I think people should follow their hearts.”