upstairs in their house and that the flat did indeed have a phone. I got ahold of the tenant, and, before long, Mrs. Phoebe Short was on the line. I identified myself as a reporter with the Examiner.
“Why yes, I have a daughter named Elizabeth.” The voice was medium pitched and touched with a New England accent, and its pleasantness indicated that news of her daughter’s death had surely not reached her yet.
“Is your daughter by any chance in California?” I asked.
“Yes, she is. She’s been out there some while, off and on, trying to break into the moving pictures.”
Richardson was seated next to Fowley, listening in as the reporter jotted down notes; the editor’s eyes- including the slow one-lighted up like a candle in a jack-o-lantern. The Werewolf’s victim was a starlet! What more could a sleazebag editor ask?
“Mrs. Short,” I said, “your daughter has won a beauty contest out here-Miss Santa Monica.”
“Oh! How wonderful… I can’t say I’m surprised. She’s such a pretty girl-she’s won these sort of contests before, you know, starting with right here in Medford. And when she worked in the PX at Camp Cooke, during the war? She was selected ‘Cutie of the Week.’ ”
Fowley was scribbling and Richardson was grinning.
“She’s such a wholesome young woman,” the excited mother was saying. “She doesn’t smoke, or drink…”
She was just arrested for underage drinking, and had a tattoo on her left thigh.
“How long has Elizabeth been in Hollywood, Mrs. Short?”
Now a little embarrassment seemed to creep into the proud parent’s tone. “Well, you have to understand, everyone back here was always telling Elizabeth how beautiful she was, that she was born to be a movie star.”
“Is that right?”
“She dropped out of Medford High in her junior year. Of course, pursuing her acting dreams is only part of why she left school. Hard to imagine, healthy as she looks, but she’s always suffered from asthma, and other lung conditions. So that sunny weather is good for her. She’s spent some time in Florida, too.”
I didn’t want to get into Elizabeth Short’s travel habits-since they included “sunny” Chicago-so I moved the mother back to Hollywood.
“Has your daughter appeared in any movies since she’s been out here?”
“She’s had some small parts-what do they call it, when you’re in the background of a scene?”
“An extra?”
“Yes, an extra. She’s appeared as an extra.”
“Has Elizabeth always been interested in acting?”
“I’m afraid my daughter’s always been kind of movie struck,” the mother bubbled, “and I’m afraid I have to take credit, or maybe blame.”
“Are you a movie fan, too?”
“Oh yes, I’ve always loved the movies. From when they were little girls, I always took Betty and her sister Muriel to the picture show, two or three times a week. Everyone says Betty looks like Deanna Durbin, you know.”
“There is a striking resemblance.”
“Betty’s sister, Ginnie, is very talented, too, studying opera, and the two girls would just battle over the radio-Ginnie wanting to listen to that long-hair stuff, and Betty just loved the popular songs. Was there a talent competition for Miss Santa Monica? Did she dance? Betty’s a wonderful dancer.”
“Well, I wasn’t at the competition, Mrs. Short-I’m trying to get in touch with Betty. Would you happen to have her most recent address?”
“I don’t understand. If she won the beauty contest, why don’t you have-”
“We got Elizabeth’s name from the Chamber of Commerce,” I said glibly, feeling like the goddamn liar I was, “who sponsored the contest, but they neglected to give us her address, in their press release.”
“I don’t know if I have her most recent address-she was staying in San Diego, at least until two weeks ago.”
Richardson was nodding at me, mouthing, “Good, good.”
“But it doesn’t surprise me she’s back in the Hollywood area,” her mother was saying.
“Why is that, Mrs. Short?”
“Well, Elizabeth said she only went down to San Diego because of the movie union strikes-she said everything in the film industry was kind of shut down. But I know she had to get back to Hollywood before too long.”
“Why is that?”
The pride in Mrs. Short’s voice was palpable. “Betty had a screen test coming up.”
“Really? Do you know for what studio?”
“It wasn’t a studio, I don’t think. She said it was a director, some famous director.”
“Well, that’s swell. Did she say what director?”
“No-just that he was very, very famous. It’s someone she met at the Hollywood Canteen.”
“Oh, she worked at the Canteen?” Actually, I knew that already-Beth had mentioned that, and the “famous director”-but I hadn’t shared the information with anybody.
“I don’t think she did, officially. But she said she was on the list to be a junior hostess, and got meals there, free, sometimes.”
“The Hollywood Canteen, that’s a wonderful thing, supporting our servicemen like that.”
Mrs. Short laughed, lightly. “I don’t mean to speak out of school, but my daughter does have a soft spot for a man in uniform.”
“Well, a lot of girls do these days, Mrs. Short.”
“They certainly do…” And now her tone turned somber. “… Elizabeth was engaged to a major in the Army Air Corps, oh, for almost three years. But he died in action.”
“I’m so sorry. Do you, uh, happen to know where she was staying in San Diego?”
“I told you, I don’t think she’s still staying there…”
“Have you heard from her since she left San Diego?”
“Well, no-but maybe the nice people she was staying with would have a forwarding address for Elizabeth… Let me see if I can find that letter for you… Do you mind hanging on? I mean it is long distance, and this must be terribly expensive for you.”
“No, please, do see if you can find that letter.”
“All right.”
As she put down the phone, I could hear Mrs. Short excitedly telling her tenant the good news about Elizabeth winning a beauty contest in Hollywood.
“Heller,” Richardson said, “you’re doing great.”
“Kiss my ass,” I said.
“I just might, if you land that address.”
Finally Mrs. Short came back on the line, and said, “I found it! Let me just read through this letter, refresh my memory… She was working part-time at a Naval hospital in San Diego, staying with a girl friend named Dorothy French, at the home of the girl’s mother, Mrs. Elvera French-in Pacific Beach. I believe that’s a suburb of San Diego. Do you have a pencil?”
“Yes,” I said, and she read off the address.
I glanced over at Fowley and Richardson. Covering the mouthpiece, I said, “You got your goddamn address.”
“Now,” Richardson said.
“What?”
“Tell her now.”
“What a sweet bastard you are…” Into the phone, I said, “Mrs. Short, I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest with you. Are you sitting down, ma’am?”
“Why, yes, I am-what is it? Is something wrong?”
“Forgive me for the pretense. I had to make sure I was speaking to the right person… that you were in fact
