Wendy Hornsby - Midnight Baby

Hanna was in some of the album photos with her, and so was Randy. Someone had carefully preserved a record of family outings, holidays, other important events in their lives. Just the three of them. No friends, no relatives. They were attractive, and from appearances, they were happy. At least they smiled a lot.

The story in the album ended with a printed card from Hanna’s funeral and a pressed rosebud. There was no other album, no later photographs in the room. Nothing before kindergarten. Nothing after Hanna. I found that profoundly sad.

I slipped the kindergarten picture out of the album and tucked it into my pocket. Everything else I put away before I went into the adjoining bathroom.

Hillary had a drawer full of teenage makeup, the usual curling irons and electric curlers. In her medicine chest I found, among the half-used bottles of cologne and tubes of Clearasil, an unopened L’Oreal hair-tint kit, medium brown. Had I found hair color in my daughter’s bathroom, I would have taken a good look at her roots to see what she had done to her hair and what she was trying to cover.

When I met Hillary, her hair had been bleached white-blond. In her yearbook pictures her natural hair seemed to be a rather dark auburn. The dye kit in her bathroom was unopened. So maybe she had bleached her hair before she left home. Maybe she and Elizabeth had fought about it.

Hillary’s closet was full of trendy brand-name clothes. Casey had pouted for two days because I would not give her sixty dollars for a plain white cotton blouse that had a particular tiny label sewn onto the pocket. Hillary had three of them. And everything that coordinated with them, right down to the socks. I was grateful Casey wasn’t seeing this wardrobe; I would have taken heat for weeks.

I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for. Hillary herself, I suspect. What I found was an indulged yet typical young girl. And a medium-brown hair color kit.

I closed the closet doors and went out to check on Martha again.

I found her sitting up on the bed, fiddling with one of her hearing aids. She smiled at me, not a bit sleepy-looking. I picked up the copy of Rebecca I had left on the bed the night before.

“Where is the maid?” I asked.

“Elizabeth fired her ages ago.”

“How many ages?”

“Why, right after she married Randy and moved in. He didn’t like the idea, but she insisted she could take better care of her house than a racist expletive deleted.”

“She was like that, was she?” I chuckled.

“Indeed,” she said gravely. “Elizabeth was no Hanna.”

“When did Randy marry Elizabeth?”

“No more than a year ago. I suppose you might say Randy and Elizabeth were newlyweds.”

“Ah.” I was surprised. “I thought they had been together longer. You said they fought.”

Martha gave me one of her wise, make that wise-ass, looks. “Elizabeth entertained.”

“She had a lot of parties?”

“No, dear. During the day. When Randy was out.”

“Men?”

She shook her head. “Man.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Why, you spent an entire day with Regina Szal. I was certain she had told you. How could she have left out that gem?”

“You saw him, the other man?”

“In passing.”

“Describe him.”

“He’s a bit heavy, I would say. Top-heavy. I don’t care for his type. I would describe him as oily. He must be very rich for her to prefer him to Randy, because she didn’t choose him for his looks.”

“When did this affair start?”

“I don’t know, dear. I do remember noticing him right after the honeymoon. The first time Randy left the house, the friend paid a call. A very long call. Of course, since February, he has been here almost constantly.”

Sly had said, “Her mother fucks at home and her father fucks a broad.” Accurate, it seemed. At least half of it.

John Smith Investigations was a cubbyhole office in a handsome downtown high rise. No reception room, no receptionist, and no one waiting ahead of me. Sitting in the client chair by Smith’s desk, if I angled my head just so, I could see a tease of ocean shimmer in the single window.

“I know your findings are confidential, Mr. Smith,” I argued. “But your client is deceased. I believe that something Hillary Ramsdale told you, or perhaps gave to you, might be crucial to the investigation into her murder, and her father’s murder as well.”

Smith sighed and gazed away in search of that bit of ocean view. He was maybe fifty, a burly, balding former cop in a good gray suit. He had a bravery commendation certificate on his wall next to a dartboard with J. Edgar Hoover’s face behind the target. There was also a framed diploma from a storefront law school. It was a cheesy law school, and a cheesy frame. I thought it could only help his credibility if he took it down. After a few minutes of conversation, I knew he was smarter than his alma mater suggested.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said after thinking over my proposition. “If I want to give information to anyone, it will be to the police. You’re cute as a bug, Miss MacGowen, but so was Mata Hari. How do I know who you are or what you’re up to?”

“My best local reference is a Los Angeles homicide detective,” I said. “The one I told you would be very upset if he knew I was here. I can hardly have you call him.”

He steepled his fingers and propped his fleshy chin on them. “You understand my position, don’t you?”

Smith had a tooth-sucking smugness I didn’t care for. He leaned back in his big swivel chair so he could sight down his nose at my breasts. I wondered if the printed parrots on my shirt might have eyes just there to meet his stare. I didn’t look down to see.

My mother’s Texan cleaning woman always told me sugar attracts more flies than vinegar. In that case, it was spelled sugah.

“Mr. Smith,” I cooed, “be a sport.”

He chuckled wryly, a no sale. “Sorry.”

I nodded, looking around, appraising the Spartan furnishings.

“You’re in a high-rent district,” I said.

“Address is important.”

“Uh huh. The police won’t pay you a dime for what you have.”

“And you will?” He leaned closer to me across the vinyl veneer desk. “What you’re asking me to do is highly unethical, thoroughly immoral, and probably illegal. How much do you think my eternal soul might be worth?”

“What is your standard fee?”

“Two-fifty a day plus expenses.”

“I see,” I said, leaning closer myself. “What if I hired you to continue with Hillary Ramsdale’s case?”

“What if?” he repeated.

“If I were your client, I would ask to see the progress you have made to date.”

“Go on.”

“That’s it,” I said, sitting back. “How many more days do you think you would need to complete the job?”

“Tell me one thing. Why is it so all-fired important for you to get into this? You’re not a relative. You hardly knew the kid.”

I raised my palms. “Who else does she have?”

“You tell me.”

The pictures in my bag were showing some wear. One more time, I took them all out, Amy and Pisces both, and spread them on the desk facing Smith. This time, I added the snap of Hillary heading off to kindergarten.

“Amy Metrano. Hillary Ramsdale. One is missing. One is dead. Why do their names keep coming up together?”

Smith sucked his teeth some more, thinking hard, studying the girls. Finally, he straightened up and looked me in the eye.

“My client relationship with Hillary legally ended when she died. Now that I have been informed about her death, I feel obligated to offer to the police anything I have that pertains.”