The Fate of a Flapper--A Mystery, page 4
Gina stopped short when she entered the room. A figure was sprawled across the bed, on top of a bright green coverlet. Though a light blue blanket covered much of the body, she could see a woman’s arm jutting out awkwardly, along with a shapely and silk-stockinged leg.
“W-what happened to her?” Gina asked, stepping closer, trying to keep her stomach from lurching.
“Just take the photographs, would ya? We can talk about it later,” Nancy said, sounding impatient. “Cops will be here any minute.”
“I’ve never really done this before—”
“Come on, just take some pictures from different angles. The body and the rest of the room. Okay?” Then, with some begrudging courtesy, Nancy added one more word. “Please.”
The word “please” got to Gina, particularly since it was not a word that her cousin used very often.
“How’d you know about this?” Gina asked, taking out her new pink Vanity Kodak and carefully loading the first roll of film into the camera. Despite its gorgeous and silly appearance, with its spaces for a lipstick tube and mirror, it was quite a serviceable camera that took excellent photographs. She looked around. “Why aren’t the cops here? It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“My neighbor called me. I’d given her my number a while back, since we’re on the same block and all that. She sounded half out of her mind on the telephone. I came over to see what was going on and found this mess. I made her call the police when I saw you arrive. Didn’t want to delay anything too long, you understand. So you gotta hurry. They’ll be here any minute.”
Gina didn’t really understand at all, but she began to study the room’s light and shadows with a serious eye. As she began to take pictures of the body and the room, she pulled back the drapes in the window and turned on several lamps so that the corpse would photograph better.
“Just gotta remember to put that back in place before the cops come,” Gina muttered to herself as she worked. She knew enough about criminal cases to know that detectives still expected to work a crime scene that hadn’t been touched. “I won’t touch anything else.”
“I thought you said you were the cops,” a woman behind them said, sounding suspicious. Her blond hair was tousled, her eyes were rimmed in red, and she wore an expensive-looking black silk bathrobe that was wrapped messily around her. The woman looked vaguely familiar, but Gina didn’t have time to ask any questions, turning her attention back to taking photographs of the room and the body.
“We are,” Nancy said. “I just want to get a jump on those slowpokes.” Then, in a more speculative tone, she added, “I wish we could see under her blanket.”
“Oh, I can move it,” the woman said. Before either Nancy or Gina could stop her, she had stripped the blanket off, a look of revulsion crossing her face as she stared down at her roommate’s body, still clad in a shiny evening ensemble. Clearly, the woman had not yet readied herself for bed when she died.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Nancy said blandly as she leaned over to look more closely at the corpse.
“Well, it’s how I found her,” the woman replied, sniffing back tears. “I just thought it was more respectful to cover Fruma up a bit, you know?”
Fruma! Gina forced herself to stare down at the dead woman’s face. The face was purple and distorted. Virtually unrecognizable. Yet her curly brown hair was memorable.
Gina glanced back at the roommate, with her messy blond hair, pale cosmetics-free face, and tousled demeanor. Out of context Gina hadn’t recognized her at first, but memories from the night before came flooding back. Both these women had definitely been at the Third Door last night. Adelaide and Fruma.
“What’s wrong?” Nancy asked, her voice sharp and demanding. “Why aren’t you taking more pictures? You didn’t run out of film already, did you? The police photographer usually brings backup rolls. Didn’t you?”
Gina closed her mouth and bent her head over the camera, not wanting to bring any attention to herself. Adelaide did not seem to have recognized her yet, most likely because she was still in shock. Or, equally likely, because people don’t remember the faces of cigarette girls, particularly when they are busy photographing a crime scene the next day. Probably better to keep this to herself until she could discover what was going on.
“Just brought two rolls,” she muttered to Nancy, allowing her long bobbed hair to obscure her face from Adelaide. “That’s all I had on me at home. And it’s not like you gave me any time to run to get more. Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to make the most of my shots.”
Fighting a wave of nausea that surged up from her belly, Gina angled her camera to get a picture of Fruma’s face, studying the dead woman’s features more closely. They were fixed in an expression of terror. A dreadful ending. Additionally, there were black marks all around her eyes and cheeks, most likely from her mascara. Had the woman been crying when she died? The thought caused a chill to run up and down Gina’s spine.
Looking closer, Gina also could see some white powder near Fruma’s nose, as well as in the drool that appeared to have dripped from the woman’s mouth. She sniffed. Fruma smelled of strong perfume, smoke, and something more acidic. Vomit, maybe? “What happened to her?” Gina asked, still keeping her face somewhat obscured from Adelaide’s scrutiny.
“I don’t know!” Adelaide wailed, sinking back into a purple chair in the corner. “I just found Fruma like this, about a half hour ago. I had come to see if she wanted any breakfast. I was making eggs and sausage, and I thought she might be h-hungry. This is awful!” She put her face in her hands and began to weep in earnest.
Despite the woman’s incredible distress, not surprisingly, Nancy made no movement to comfort her. “Was she sick?” Gina asked.
Adelaide stopped wailing and seemed to try to regain her composure, although her eyes were still dilated from shock and fear. “Fruma had too much to drink last night, I do know that. I heard her getting sick. I thought I heard her crying at one point.” She gulped. “I should have checked on her.”
“Why didn’t you?” Nancy asked.
Adelaide looked guilty. Because you were mad at her, Gina thought. Without thinking, she snapped a picture of Adelaide, hoping she wouldn’t notice.
Then she turned back to the body. “What’s that on her face?” Gina asked. She pointed to the traces of white powder on the woman’s upper lip and by her nose before taking another picture.
“Sleeping potion?” Nancy leaned over and sniffed. “Did she usually have trouble sleeping?”
“I don’t know,” Adelaide said, wringing her hands. She seemed really confused. “Yes. Maybe. I’m not sure.”
Gina thought about other powders she’d seen Mr. Rosenstein grind up at the pharmacy. “Maybe it was some sort of headache medicine?” She looked around. “I don’t see any vial or bottle. No cup for water. We should check the kitchen. Or the bathroom.”
“I’ve never seen her take any medicine, not even when she had a headache,” Adelaide replied. “She never seemed to need the stuff. She was strong like that.”
“Maybe it was something else,” Nancy said, still peering closely at the woman’s mouth and nose.
“Maybe—” Adelaide started, but then stopped, looking frightened.
“Maybe what?” Nancy asked. “Go on.”
“Fruma was funny last night. Not ha-ha funny. Odd.”
“How do you mean?” Nancy pressed.
“She was moody. Sometimes up, sometimes down,” Adelaide replied, sounding more eager now that she had something useful to share. “Despairing even. There was something that had been bothering her, I know that.”
“What was it?”
“Well, she’d recently broken off her engagement, for one thing,” Adelaide said, still seeming a bit dazed. “She had seemed glad to be rid of him, but maybe she was more upset than I knew.”
Gina snapped another picture, thinking about the interactions of the two women the night before as she listened. Fruma had been mostly in good spirits, not despondent like Adelaide was describing. Still, she’d been fried when they left; maybe her mood had turned for the worse after they left the Third Door. Drink could certainly do that to a person.
She also remembered her conversation with Adelaide in the ladies’ restroom. I called dibs. Then Fruma decided she wanted him for herself, she’d said. Then her final words before sashaying out. Gonna go reclaim my guy from Fruma.
She wanted to probe Adelaide’s account, but she didn’t want to reveal her identity to the woman until she’d had a chance to speak with Nancy in private. For now, it seemed better to stay quiet and listen to Adelaide’s explanation.
Adelaide had begun to cry again. “Oh, I should never have gone to bed. What kind of friend am I? She was suffering, I just know it. Maybe she wanted to do away with herself. Took an overdose?”
“Suicide?” Nancy asked, considering the body, peering down at the substance on the woman’s lips and nose. “Hmmm … Could that powder be cocaine, not a sleeping potion? Or heroin maybe?”
“Is there a note?” Gina asked, when Adelaide didn’t answer.
“Let’s look around,” Nancy said. She and Adelaide looked around the room, rifling quickly through the dead woman’s dresser, desk drawers, trunk, and wardrobe. As they did this, Gina quickly put in the second roll and took a few more photos. She didn’t really know what she was doing. She looked around. What else? She wondered. What else would a crime scene photographer focus on? Sighing, she took a few more shots of Fruma’s inert form, hoping she wasn’t missing anything important.
“Nothing,” Nancy sighed. “She’s not likely to have hidden a note. Suicides leave their notes in plain view, when they leave them.” She smoothed her hair in a habitual way. “Doesn’t rule out an overdose, of course. She takes a dose, falls asleep, gets confused, takes another dose. Then, before you know it, she’s overdosed. I’ve seen it before.”
The bragging quality to Nancy’s words caused Gina to look at her sharply. When Adelaide huddled again in the purple chair, Gina sidled back over to her cousin. “Nancy,” she whispered, “why did you ask me to take pictures?”
“Because I’m tired of those ninnies on the force cutting me out of all the interesting investigations, that’s why,” Nancy hissed. “I should be a detective by now. Or at least a sergeant.”
Gina began to take pictures from each corner of the room as Nancy continued to grumble. “I mean, look at Alice Clement! She was one of the first women on the force, and she made detective thirteen years ago!” Nancy pounded her fist into her other hand. “I’ve got nothing to show for my twelve years on the force. Street beat, brothels, docks—nothing big. Nothing that will put me on the map. Nothing that will get me noticed.”
In the distance they heard the police sirens. “All right, Gina, time for you to skedaddle,” Nancy commanded. “Out the back door, if you would.”
Gina hurried about, making sure she had her camera, case, and film canisters all safely tucked away. She was almost out the door when she remembered to pull the drapes closed and turn out the lamps she’d turned on earlier.
“Better put the blanket back in place,” she added, before heading toward the kitchen. “There a back door this way?” she called.
“Yes, but it’s been jammed for a while now.” Adelaide replied. “You’ll have to go out the front door.”
“They’ll see me!” Gina exclaimed. The sound of the sirens was definitely closer.
“Well, don’t let them,” came Nancy’s terse reply.
Gina had just made it a few steps down the street when the police car carrying several uniformed men drove by her. She couldn’t help but glance at it, before casting her gaze back to the ground. Unfortunately, the man in the backseat was looking out the window, right at her. Roark. No doubt coming to photograph the scene at the request of the police. He swiveled around to stare at her, but she didn’t look up. She half expected him to stop the car and ask her what she was doing, but when he didn’t, she continued to move quickly down the street.
CHAPTER 5
As Gina pushed open the door to her other flat, the one above the Third Door, she breathed in the familiar aroma of the chemicals used to develop film and make prints. Another smell, an essence really, always lingered in the air, too, and Gina had never been able to quite capture what it was. She thought it might have been the scent Marty had worn before he died, back when he was still the Third Door’s official photographer, or perhaps it was just a remnant of the cigarettes he used to smoke. Marty’s bequest had shocked her, but she’d certainly enjoyed having her own space, even though she knew that nosy Mrs. Lesky, Little Johnny’s mother, who lived in the flat below, kept tabs on her whereabouts.
Since she still had quite a few hours before she would need to bathe and dress for her next shift at the Third Door, Gina changed into one of the older dresses that she kept at the flat, in Marty’s old bedroom closet. It was worn and frayed, and it didn’t matter if some of the harsh chemicals got splashed on it.
Moving into the flat with the darkroom, Gina carefully laid out all the materials that were needed for the first part of the developing process. After about twenty minutes, she’d finished developing the film and hung the strips from a cord over the bathtub while they dried. She’d learned to be much quicker and efficient when she developed the film, so it didn’t take her very long at all.
She then moved back across the hall to where Marty had lived, plopping down on the living room sofa. Over the last few months, Gina had been gradually making the flat a bit more cozy, even though she still liked using Marty’s things. It helped her feel close to the cousin she’d hardly known. She pulled out the Sears and Roebuck catalog, beginning to make lists of things that she might order for her papa. Now that she’d had a steady income for a while now there were things she wanted. She’d already ordered him some new shoes and herself some more developer’s paper and a waterproofed apron for when she made the prints.
As she flipped through the catalog, she came across the home study pages. Grammar made easy. Mathematics made easy. Bookkeeping made easy. Everything made easy. Speeches for the man who must make a speech. None of that seemed particularly interesting. A few books on developing personality—How to win men over with your personality. No thanks, she thought.
Her perusal of the catalog was interrupted by a sharp rap at the door. She peered through the pinhole, finding Roark standing there, a deep scowl on his face. What do I say to him? Gina asked, feeling a bit panicked. What’s he gonna say to me?
Bracing herself for an onslaught, she unchained the door and let him stride in.
“I saw you at the site of a police investigation this morning,” he said. His tone was curt, measured. She couldn’t tell if he was angry or not. “What were you doing there?”
She shut the door behind him. “You saw me on the street, taking a walk near where my cousin Nancy Doyle lives.”
“You were visiting her?” When Gina didn’t reply, Roark continued. “Look. I know you were at Fruma Landry’s apartment. Don’t bother denying it. What I don’t know is what you were doing there.”
Gina folded, giving up the pretense. It seemed pointless to lie, particularly since he’d probably find out the truth sooner or later anyway. “Nancy called me around eight a.m. Asked me to bring my camera. She asked me to photograph the scene.”
“What?” he exclaimed. “Why you?”
The question stung. “Why not? I’m plenty good enough.”
“Settle down, bearcat. You are plenty good enough.” Without asking, he began to study some of the recent photographs that she’d left spread across the table. “You’re definitely getting very comfortable with the camera.” He smiled at her then, with the funny twisted smile that made her heart lurch. Then his jaw clenched. “Tell me why Officer Doyle asked you to photograph the scene. Be straight with me.”
Gina sighed. “She wanted her own set of photographs.”
He looked exasperated. “In heaven’s name, why?”
“Nancy just wanted in on the investigation. The men on the force keep her off the good cases.”
“So she decided to go around them. Not a great way to build up trust.”
“Do you blame her?” Gina frowned. “She’s been on the force, for what, ten years? Fifteen? Does she ever get included in the big cases?”
He shrugged. “Maybe not. I do blame her for bringing you into the case. We don’t even know cause of death yet—it could be a criminal case. And even if its not, this is police work. Civilians shouldn’t be involved in cases like these. You shouldn’t be involved and she should know better.” He was looking angry again. Standing up, he went and looked out the window. There was not much of a view, just the buildings across the street. Then he turned back to her, a stern question in his eyes. “How did Nancy know about the dead body before the rest of the police?”
“She lives on the same block. The roommate, Adelaide, called her.” She thought about Adelaide’s dazed expression. “She seemed out of it when I was there.”
“The neighbor called Nancy? That’s not good. Looks like she was going around the law. Nancy, too.”
“Nancy did call the cops. Almost right away,” Gina protested, surprising herself by defending Nancy’s actions. “Are you going to tell on her? Tell the other cops that she asked me to take photographs before they called the police in?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m still a bit steamed.”
Gina decided to change tactics, hoping to convince him that they weren’t adversaries. “Do you know what happened to the woman? Fruma Landry?”
Roark sat back down in the chair opposite her. “What do you think?”
“I have no idea,” Gina replied. “Except she had white powder on her face, around her nose and mouth. Was it a sleeping potion? Or even cocaine? Perhaps she suffered an overdose. That’s what Nancy thinks.”
“Do you agree?” He seemed genuinely interested in her opinion. That trait always surprised and warmed her.
