I tossed her a ray of hope: “The boy is doing fine, Mrs. Groberg. He’s living with his father.”
“Thank God for that.”
“I understand that Marcella sublet her apartment to your brother in the summer of ’51. Do you recall that?”
The Groberg woman laughed. “Yes, I do! I set it up, and what a mistake it was. My brother Morton had a drinking problem, just like Marcella. He came out from Omaha to go to work at Lockheed and dry out. I lent him the money to come out here, and the money to rent the apartment. But he found Marcella’s liquor and drank it all! He was swacked for three weeks.”
“How long was Morton in the apartment?”
“For two months! He was on a bender, and he ended up in the hospital. I–”
“Marcella was gone that long?”
“Yes.”
“Did she tell you where she was going?”
“No, but when she got back she said, ‘You can’t go home again.’ That’s the name of a book, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am. Had Marcella taken her son with her?”
“No … I don’t . . . no, I know she didn’t. She left the tot with friends. I remember talking with the child when Marcella came back. He didn’t like the people he stayed with.”
“Marcella moved out after that, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where she went?”
“No.”
“Did she seem upset when she returned from her trip?”
“I couldn’t tell. That woman was a mystery to me! Who … who killed her, Officer?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to find out,” I said by way of farewell.
Barely controlling my exultation, I drove with shaky hands over the Cahuenga Pass into Hollywood. I found a pay phone and called Doc Harris. He answered on the third ring: “Speak, it’s your dime.”
“Doc, this is Fred Walker.”
“Fred, how are you? How’s the insurance game?” The bluff heartiness of his tone told me that he knew the game wasn’t insurance, but that he wanted to play anyway.
“Fifty-fifty. It’s a racket like any other. Listen, how would you and Michael like to go for a ride tomorrow? Out to the country somewhere, just get in my car and go. I’ve got a convertible.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. Finally, Doc said, “Sure, kid. Why don’t you pick us up at noon?”
“Until then,” I said, and hung up.
I drove to Beverly Hills.
Lorna’s office was in a tall building attached to the StanleyWarner Theater on Wilshire near Beverly Drive. I parked down the street and walked there. I checked out the rear parking area first; I was afraid Lorna had already left for the day, but I was in luck: her ’50 Packard was still in its space. Hardworking Loma– still on the job at six-thirty.
The sky was turning golden, and people were already lining up for the first evening performance of “The Country Girl.” I waited an hour by the parking entrance, until the sky turned a burnished copper and Lorna turned the corner onto Canon Drive, staying close to the building, jamming her heavy wooden cane into the space where the wall met the sidewalk.
When I saw her, I felt the old shakiness grip me. She walked head down, abstracted. Before she could look up and see me, I committed to memory the look on her face, her hunched posture and her light blue summer dress. When she did look up, she must have seen the love-struck Freddy Underhill of old, for her drawn face softened until she realized this was 1955, not 1951, and that walls had been constructed during the interim.
“Hello, Lor,” I said.
“Hello, Freddy,” Lorna said coldly. Her manner stiffened, she sighed and leaned against the marble of the building. “Why, Freddy? It’s over.”
“No, it’s not, Lor. None of it.”
“I won’t argue with you.”
“You look beautiful.”
“No, I don’t. I’m thirty-five and I’m putting on weight. And it’s only been four months.”
“It’s been a lifetime.”
“Don’t do that with me, goddamn you! You don’t mean it, and I don’t care! I don’t care, Freddy! Do you hear that?”