“She had these sweaters with such delicate embroidery work, tiny loops and circles around sequins and beads and pearls. She’d dress up for dates and twirl for me, saying, ‘What do you think?’ What I thought was, I could never wear clothes like that… but she sure could.”
Fowley said, “Your mother mentioned a screen test…”
“Yes. She was looking forward to that. Some big director.”
“But she never mentioned a name?”
“No. I don’t know if there was a name to mention. All of this Hollywood talk, I don’t know if there was really anything to it-she’d go on and on, like she was trying to believe it herself, like if she said it enough times, it would be true.”
I asked, “You don’t think she really worked in the movies-that it was just a pipe dream?”
Her brow furrowed. “You know, I’m not convinced she really cared about Hollywood. For all her movie talk, what really seemed to matter to her was finding the right man… That was her dream, far as I’m concerned. You know what she said to me once? ‘If I could only find some handsome Army officer, or sailor, or Marine, or airman, who would love me like I know I could love him… then tomorrow could be something wonderful.’ ”
Fowley smirked. “That sounds like acting, too.”
“No-it was how she really felt.” Chewing her gum, Dorothy gazed dreamily at nothing. “You could see it in her eyes. Those beautiful blue eyes.”
This was coming from a girl with eyes as blue as a summer sky.
Dorothy smiled-the first time since we’d begun talking about her late friend-and it was a bittersweet smile, at that.
“Funny, isn’t it?” she said, snapping her gum. “Funny coincidence, I mean.”
“What is?” I asked.
“You coming to talk to me when The Blue Dahlia is playing.”
“Why’s that?”
She blinked, batting long lashes. “Don’t you know? Maybe you haven’t heard… I guess maybe Mother didn’t know, or didn’t think it was important enough to mention.”
“What?” Fowley asked.
“Beth had this nickname, some guys in Long Beach gave it to her, she said, ’cause of her black hair and lacy black dresses, and ’cause she was… this is so silly… in ‘full bloom.’ And, anyway, The Blue Dahlia was playing at the moviehouse around the corner from the drugstore where these guys and Beth hung out, so it was a takeoff on that.”
“What was?” I asked.
She batted her eyelashes again. “Her nickname-‘The Black Dahlia.’ ”
Fowley looked at me and I looked at him. Then Fowley jotted that down in his notepad. I had a strong suspicion the days of “The Werewolf Slayer” tagline had just ended.
“The only other thing I can think of,” Dorothy said, “is her memory books.”
“Memory books,” I said. “Scrapbooks, you mean? Or diaries…?”
The usherette shrugged and her blonde curls bounced. “I dunno for sure-I never saw them. Beth just said, one day, she was sorry she’d left them behind, her memory books, wishing she could show us pictures of her late husband, and maybe paste in a few new pics of Mom and me.”
Fowley pressed. “Left them behind where, did she say?”
“In her trunk.”
“Did she say who she left it with-a friend, maybe?”
“It was in storage.”
“She say where in storage?”
“Los Angeles-the American Express office.”
If a trunk had been sitting awhile, unclaimed, it might be in a nonpayment warehouse by now. That should be easily tracked. I wondered if Beth Short’s “memory books” had any entries about a private detective she’d met in Chicago.
“What can you tell us about Robert ‘Red’ Manley?” Fowley asked.
“Not much,” she said, shaking her head, chewing her gum dejectedly. “I really wish I had something more to tell you. Oh, I do know the name of the motel where Red took Beth, after he helped her move out of our place.”
My mouth dropped open, and two words managed to tumble out: “The motel?”
“Yes, where he and Beth stayed, the night before he drove her to Los Angeles.” Lashes batted; gum snapped. “Would that help?”
10
Maybe Red Manley was new at cheating on his wife. Or maybe he needed a receipt, to make a claim against an expense account. Or maybe he was just a goddamn idiot.
Whatever the reason, Robert Manley had broken the first rule of philandering: on the evening of January eighth, at the Pacific Beach Motor Camp, he had signed his own name on the motel register; and so, incredibly enough, had his companion for the night, Elizabeth Short. Manley’s address was listed-8010 Mountain View Avenue, Huntington Park-as was his automobile license number.
Elizabeth Short had given only “Chicago” as her address. The lack of anything further-say, the St. Clair Hotel, or the A-1 Detective Agency-was small consolation.
“Chicago again,” Fowley said, as we looked at the register at the motel check-in counter. He grinned at me wolfishly. “Sure this ‘Dahlia’ dame ain’t some old girl friend of yours?”
“You never know,” I said, and grinned back at him, back of my neck prickling.
Huntington Park was five miles south of downtown Los Angeles, in the midst of an industrial district, and while Mountain View Avenue may not have lived up to the scenic promise of its name, the quiet residential street was a sizable step up from the tract housing of Bayview Terrace. At dusk, bathed in the dying sunlight Hollywood moviemakers called “magic hour,” the little Manley home seemed California idyllic: a modest green-tile-roofed pale yellow stucco in the Spanish-Colonial style with a well-tended lawn, a cobblestone walk bordered by brightly flowering bushes, and thorny shrubs that hugged the house like prickly bodyguards.
Fowley rang the bell, and-almost supernaturally fast-the door opened and a lovely young woman was standing there, raising a “shush” finger, the fingernail painted the same candy-apple red as the lipstick glistening on her full red lips. She was a honey-blonde with a heart-shaped face, big blue eyes, upturned nose, peaches-and- cream complexion and a trim, shapely figure wrapped up in a red-striped white seersucker sundress that left her smooth shoulders bare.
“Please be quiet,” she said, her voice hushed. “My baby’s sleeping.” I glanced at Fowley and he glanced at me-we each knew what the other was thinking: what kind of lunatic runs around on a dish like this?
“Sorry, ma’am,” Fowley said, almost whispering. He held up a badge-an honorary deputy’s badge the L.A. County Sheriff issued to certain reporters, which those reporters often used to imply they were law enforcement officers. “Are you Mrs. Robert Manley?”
After barely glancing at the badge, the big blue eyes blinked at us. She must have been about twenty-two, a kid herself-her pretty face still had a pleasing baby-fat plumpness.
“Yes, I am,” she said, alarm swimming in those big blue eyes.
I said, “Is your husband home, Mrs. Manley?”
“No, he isn’t. He’s in San Francisco on business-he’s a traveling salesman. In hardware.”
There was a joke in there somewhere, and it wouldn’t have taken much looking to find it, but I didn’t bother.
“Could we ask you a few questions, ma’am?” Fowley asked. “Would it be possible for us to step inside?”
Her eyebrows tightened and a vertical line formed between them, a single crease in an otherwise perfectly smooth face. “This is about that girl Robert picked up, isn’t it?”
Again, Fowley and I glanced at each other.
