Walking in, I heard the shower running; the bedroom door was open. Kay’s favorite Brahms quintet was on the phonograph. Remembering the first time I saw my wife naked, I undressed and lay down on the bed.
The shower went off; Brahms came on that much stronger. Kay appeared in the doorway wrapped in a towel. I said, “Babe,” she said, “Oh, Dwight,” and let the towel drop. We both began talking at once, apologies from both sides. I couldn’t quite make out her words, and I knew that she couldn’t unscramble mine. I started to get up to turn off the phonograph, but Kay moved to the bed first.
We fumbled at kisses. I went open-mouthed too fast, forgetting how Kay liked to be coaxed. Feeling her tongue, I pulled away, knowing she hated it. Closing my eyes, I trailed my lips down her neck; she moaned, and I knew it was a fake. The love sounds got worse–like something you’d expect from a stag film actress. Kay’s breasts were flaccid in my hands, her legs closed, but braced up against me. A knee nudge parted them– the response was jerky, spasmodic. Hard now, I made Kay wet with my mouth and went inside her.
I kept my eyes open and on hers so she would know it was just us; Kay turned away, and I knew she saw through it. I wanted to ease off and go slowly, softly, but the sight of a vein throbbing in Kay’s neck made me go as hard as I could. I came grunting, “I’m sorry goddamn you I’m sorry,” and whatever Kay said back was muffled by the pillow she was burying her head in.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The following night I was parked across the street from the Sprague mansion, this time in the unmarked Ford I drove to SID field jobs. Time was lost on me, but I knew that every second was bringing me closer to knocking on the door or bolting outright.
My mind played with Madeleine nude; I wowed the other Spragues with killer repartee. Then light cut across the driveway, the door slammed and the Packard’s headbeams went on. It pulled out onto Muirfield, hung a quick left turn on Sixth Street and headed east. I waited a discreet three seconds and followed.
The Packard stayed in the middle lane; I dogged it from the right one, a good four car lengths behind. We traveled out of Hancock Park into the Wilshire District, south on Normandie and east on 8th Street. I saw glittery bar beacons stretching for a solid mile–and knew Madeleine was close to something.
The Packard stopped in front of the Zimba Room, a dive with crossed neon spears above the entrance. The only other parking space was right behind it, so I glided up, my headlights catching the driver locking the door, my brain wires unraveling when I saw who it wasn’t and was.
Elizabeth Short.
Betty Short.
Liz Short.
The Black Dahlia.
My knees jerked into the steering wheel; my trembling hands hit the horn. The apparition shielded her eyes and squinted into my beams, then shrugged. I saw familiar dimples twitch, and returned from wherever it was I was going.
It was Madeleine Sprague, completely made over as the Dahlia. She was dressed in an all-black clinging gown, with makeup and hairdo identical to Betty Short at her portrait photo best. I watched her sashay into the bar, saw a dot of yellow in her upswept black curls and knew that she’d taken her transformation all the way to the barrette Betty wore. The detail hit me like a Lee Blanchard one-two. On punch-drunk legs, I pursued the ghost.
The Zimba Room interior was wall-to-wall smoke, GI’s and juke box jazz; Madeleine was at the bar sipping a drink. Looking around, I saw that she was the only woman in the place and already creating a hubbub–soldiers and sailors were elbowing the good news to one another, pointing to the black-clad figure and exchanging whispers.
I found a zebra-striped booth at the back; it was filled with sailors sharing a bottle. One glance at their peach fuzz faces told me they were underage. I held out my badge and said, “Scram or I’ll have the SP’s here inside of a minute.” The three youths took off in a blue swirl, leaving their jug behind. I sat down to watch Madeleine portray Betty.