Jeff Sherratt - Detour to Murder

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t prying. I had to know more about you, that’s all.”

“Of course, Jimmy, I understand. Is it okay to call you Jimmy?”

“Sure. But tell me. When did you get together with Jerome?”

“A few years ago,” she said. “It’d been a long time since he’d agreed to have me sent away to Europe. I’d heard that he had retired and was in ill health and had moved into the home.”

“So you decide to make your peace?”

“Yes, and he finally acknowledged me as his own flesh and blood. He explained how it would have hurt his career being a single man with a child in…” she practically spat out the last word, “… Hollywood.” She pushed her coffee cup aside. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“I’m now doing what his parents did all those years ago, taking care of him, fostering his image.”

“I guess he was kind of wild back in those days.”

“He deserted my mother when she was pregnant with me, and chased every skirt in town. He was an alcoholic and a reprobate. But, hey, we all have our little faults.”

I was beginning to like this woman more and more. To maintain a sense of humor after all she had been though and not carry a grudge against Jerome made her a rare person, indeed.

“My father explained how it would have been impossible to provide a decent home for me in those days if I’d lived with him,” she continued. “That he wouldn’t have been the best role model for a young girl. And he felt if I were raised in Europe instead of the hostile environment of the film industry… well, you know the rest.” She paused again, massaging her temples with the knuckles of her hands. “Perhaps he was right. He also told me my mother was being well cared for.”

She stopped talking and I took a sip of coffee and set the cup down. “It’s cold,” I said.

“I’ll warm it up.”

She went to the stove and picked up the pot. “Did you know Al Roberts and my mother had been engaged back in New York before she left him to come to L.A.?” she said.

I watched her refill my cup. “Yeah, I knew. I heard a little about his life in New York. He didn’t talk much about Sue, but I put together a few facts from what he had told me and from other sources. I knew she’d dumped him to become a movie star.”

“She loved Alexander Roberts, you know,” she said as she sat down again. “She married my father for fame and prestige, but she really loved Al.”

“Must’ve been tough being married to one guy and in love with another.”

“She had a complete mental collapse. It destroyed my mother when she’d heard that Roberts had murdered two people while trying to get to L.A. to be with her.”

“He didn’t do it, you know.”

“Yes, I know that now.”

“You do? You believe me?”

“Well, yes…”

“How come you think he’s innocent all of a sudden?”

“I… don’t know if I should tell you. I was asked to keep quiet-”

“What are you talking about? Asked by who?”

“My mother.”

“Your mother? My god! I thought she was dead.”

“No, she’s in a sanitarium. My father wanted to keep her out of the spotlight. For her own good.”

I jumped out of the chair, spilling my coffee. “Christ Almighty, do you realize Al Roberts may be trying to find her?”

“It was Al who told me about the new evidence you uncovered. And I believe him.”

“What! You talked to Al Roberts? Where? When?”

“I talked to him this afternoon.”

3:28 a.m., October 1944

Sue Harvey sat at her makeup table in the makeshift dressing room at the Break O’ Dawn Club, New York City. Her head was bowed, her hands folded in front of her as if in prayer. Off to the side lay the business card handed to her by a Hollywood bigshot.

Al Roberts’s piano music drifted in from the dining room. She felt the beat of his improvised boogie-woogie in her toes. She knew he liked to mix it up. Every now and then he’d throw in a lick of Chopin, shift the tempo while keeping the rhythm, his own arrangement. The customers ate it up and showed it by laying a little bread in the tip jar at the end of the piece.

It’d break his heart. But she couldn’t go through with it, and with the date looming she had to tell Al tonight. The engagement would have to be delayed. The marriage would not take place Saturday as planned.

Part of her gig was to dance with the customers between sets. A little over a week before the big day at City Hall where Al and she were scheduled to tie the knot, a well-heeled customer slipped his card to her and whispered, “Look me up if you’re ever in Hollywood. Baby, I could make you a star.” He told her she had the voice of an angel and the body of a goddess. Johnny Hyde, the famous talent agent, had promised to launch her movie career.

How could she pass up this once-in-a-lifetime chance at making it big? But what about Al? she wondered. Would he follow her to Hollywood, as she wanted him to, or would he stay behind, too proud to take a backseat to her fame?

She rearranged the lip gloss, foundation powders, and brushes on the table and thought. Al could tag along. He could be her accompanist. She’d see to it. She’d demand that Al be put on the studio payroll. Maybe not at first, but as soon as she hit the big time.

She glanced once more at her image reflected in the mirror. Makeup okay, but there wasn’t much she could do about her hair now. She quickly adjusted the orchid pinned in her blonde swirls and stood.

All eyes in the room followed as she made her way to the bandstand. She stopped at a few tables and laughed it up with the customers, mostly old, withered guys with plenty of dough. But every now and then a sailor or soldier on leave would wander into the club. She’d have to be careful with these boys. They’d been away a long time and now they all liked to play a little game of grab-ass as she moved on by. They meant no harm, and it didn’t bother her. But Al, watching from his piano stool, would always throw a fit.

When she ascended the two steps of the small stage for her next set, the spotlight shifted to her. She drifted to the mike and glanced at Al. His eyes found hers, he beamed, and his fingers switched from the upbeat tempo of the blues to the bittersweet harmony of the romantic ballad, “I Can’t Believe That You’re In Love With Me.”

Even though she ached inside-the sad, long walk home with Al later that night when she’d have to explain her new plans weighed heavily within her heart-she gave a bright and cheery smile to the audience. She was a pro, instinct took over, and her body swayed rhythmically with the music as she performed the number. Your eyes of blue,

Your kisses too,

I never knew what they could do…

Lovers always had a song, it was part of the deal, and that one was theirs. The title spelled it out, as far as they were concerned.

But now that would all change.

5:30 a.m., November 1955

Willy maneuvered the gearshift lever, cranked the wheel, and adroitly backed the huge sanitation truck into the small alley behind the celebrated Formosa Cafe on Santa Monica in West Hollywood. As the truck slowed, his route partner, Nat, jumped from the passenger seat, ran back and started wrestling the trash containers. The well-toned muscles of his sleeveless arms gleamed like polished black granite as be grabbed the first container and effortlessly rolled it out to line up with the truck’s dump hopper. He darted back and pulled the second bin away from the pink stucco wall.

“Holy shit!” he called out. “Willie, get yo’ ass back here.”