The Last Gardenia

I.

IT’S THE SHOW YOU’VE BEEN WAITING FOR: ANNABEL AMES!

DANCING AND SINGING HER HEART OUT, AMES WILL BE AT THE HOTEL ST. BARBARA (ON WARRING AND THIRTEENTH) ON MONDAY, ONE NIGHT AND ONE NIGHT ONLY! SHE WON’T BE HERE LONG! DON’T MISS THIS ONCE IN A LIFETIME OPPORTUNITY BEFORE SHE’S GONE!

ANNABEL AMES: THE SOON-TO-BE NEXT BIG THING.

            Agnes spit out her coffee with a mixture of surprise and joy. “Paulie!” Agnes squealed at the little ad taken out in the morning’s press just underneath the announcement of the first annual Macy’s day parade. “My name in print! And ‘soon-to-be next big thing’? Why, that’s just marvelous.” The aspiring starlet smiled convincingly at her manager and producer of her biggest show to date.

            “Next up, your name in lights!” Paulie chortled, his fat face ruddy from his own excitement. Scowling, Lenore looked back and forth between her father and his newest project. She peered across the table to the ad Agnes was delighting over.

            “You know, Aggie,” she began. “Technically, that’s not your name in print. Your name is ‘Agnes.’ Your stage name is ‘Annabel.’ Or do you even know the difference?” Agnes glared menacingly but Paulie interrupted her before she could retort.

            “Cut it out, Lenore. Annabel is gonna be a star. Bigger than Milly Gant.” Paulie smiled again then added as an afterthought, “Even if her name is Agnes.” A phone rang in the dingy hotel suite the two young women were sharing, but it was the old man who got up to answer. “No one talks to my ladies without talking through me first!” He excused himself but returned shortly. “Annabel, I got a guy here who says he’s got a car waiting downstairs. Says he’s been asked to pick you up. Says he’s taking you to some press party or luncheon or something. What’s this, Annabel? What’s he sayin’?” Agnes’ brown eyes sparkled as she stood up and removed her heavy cotton robe. Underneath she was dressed in nylons and a boxy green cotton dress. She’d even been resting a mink stole in her lap where neither Paulie nor Lenore could see it. Running her fingers through her finger-waved black-brown hair like a comb, it was clear she had been ready to go since early this morning. “It’s just a little press interview I set up for myself. Called a driver to come get me. I’ll be back this evening. Paulie dear, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine on my own!” She bent down and kissed Paulie on the cheek. The scent of gardenias was intoxicating and struck him into a daze. “Thank you for everything. The ad, oh darling, everything.” By the time Paulie had come to his senses, she was gone.

II.

            A tall man with sharp features removed his grey fedora and bowed to the woman wearing a boxy green dress and mink stole exiting the elevator. She took the arm he extended to her and they walked together to the car. She nodded coldly to the pimpled blonde bellboy who muttered a quick “G’morning,” dizzy from her scent. The tall man helped the woman into the black Cadillac limousine and then climbed in after her. He motioned for the driver to go and then pounced on the woman. “Annabel,” he said huskily.

            “Oh, Parker.”

III.

            John Featherstone sat arms crossed and motionless at his desk, his Fosta Aviator sunglasses and chocolate brown felt Stetson hiding the fact that he was fast asleep. A cold smack on the back of the head startled him awake however and the detective found himself looking up at the beady eyes of his mousy little secretary. John grinned. Francine reminded him of his mother. She was petite but she packed a punch. Literally too, John thought to himself as he massaged the back of his head. “Detective Featherstone, I don’t think the captain would be too pleased to see you dozing on the job.” She placed a manila folder she’d been carrying on the young detectives desk. “It’s a new case.”

            “What’s it about, Fran?” John sat up and opened the folder. He peered at the name on the label: AGNES (ANNABEL) AMES.

            “A young woman and her dressing room burnt to a crisp at the Hotel St. Barbara. She was a dancer and a singer. Poor thing. I just read about her show in the paper too. Supposed to be the soon-to-be next big thing. Even heard she’d be bigger than Milly Gant.”

IV.

             John walked from the lobby into the hotel bar. When the barman told him they were closed, he discreetly flashed his detective’s badge. “Detective,” said the barman, automatically handing him a cold beer. His voice was husky and his skin was worn and leathery. “It’s on the house.”

            “Thanks. Say, you got a name?”

            “Joseph, sir.”

            “Well thanks, Joe. Can I call you Joe?” The detective did not wait for a response. “I’m Detective Featherstone. Manager says you been here a long time. Only one awake at the time of,” he cleared his throat, “well, you know. It’s what I’m here for.”

            “Had to be somebody,” Joseph chuckled grimly.

            “Well, I won’t keep you long. Just tell me about last night.” Joseph bit his lip.

            “Detective, Miss Ames came back late and went straight to the dressing room. I heard someone follow her but I was resting my eyes at the time and didn’t catch a glimpse,” he said sheepishly. “I just assumed it was someone she knew since she let them in. I’m sorry, Sir.”

            “I see,” said John slowly. “What time did she get back to the hotel then, Joe?”

            “Ten-ish, I suppose. I found her at two. I woke up because I smelled smoke.”

            “Did you hear anything?”

            “I’m sorry, Sir. The thing is that I’m a rather heavy sleeper.”

            “Alright then, Joe.” John said, rubbing his temples and setting down his notepad. “What can you tell me about the dead girl in general, not just last night.”

            And Joseph the barman began. John learned that though the girl had checked in under the name Agnes, she insisted everyone call her Annabel. She had arrived with her manager Paulie Little (“Who’s head-over-heels in love with the broad, let me tell you,” gushed Joseph) and his daughter Lenore Little, who turned out to only be a couple months younger than the Ames girl.

            “That musta ticked her off. Her father loving a gal nearly her age.” John stated.

            “Well sure it did. I think what ticked her off more, sir, is that before Annabel, Lenore Little was the rising star in Paulie’s eyes.” He paused. “I guess it sounds bad for Lenore when I put it that way. But, you know, detective, I don’t think she could hurt a fly.”  

            “I guess that’s for the police department to decide, Joseph. I’m gonna give you my card,” he handed the barman a small piece of cardstock with his name and telephone number. “Talk to the rest of the hotel staff. Call incase you remember anything.”

V.

            Though the walls of the dressing room were charred and black, it was still evident that the powder pink paint which had mostly covered the walls was cracked and peeling. The vanity appeared as if it would collapse into a pile of ashes if someone were try to sit and primp themselves upon it. A trunk harnessing all the worldly belongings of the deceased sat untouched in the corner. A metal box that had fallen to the floor had singed a rectangular mark into the uncarpeted part of the wood floor. The room reeked of burnt silk and burnt flesh, which surprisingly barely masked the scent of the gardenia perfume that had spilled. There was broken glass and what seemed to be a bottle of Scotch smashed into the dull brown carpet. Gold jewelry and other small metal trinkets were strewn about along with the rest of the debris. A fleck of silver lay in a crescent impression in the carpet. Where the body had lain, there were heavy chalk marks on the chaise lounge. The ashtray beside it could have been cradling cigarette butts or the ashen remains of the late Miss Ames.

VI.

            “Detective Featherstone, I won’t hide the fact,” she began, haughtily, “that Agnes and I were on poor terms, but I resent your implications that I had any part in her death.” Lenore Little tapped her manicured nails on the tiny table. A card table wasn’t the usual table for interrogation rooms but it suited Detective Featherstone’s needs in his makeshift interrogation room in a large utility closet of the Hotel St. Barbara.

            “Miss Little…” He paused and smiled coyly. “Can’t I call you Lenore?”

            “You most certainly may not, Detective Featherstone.” She was cute. Her furrowed brow and pursed lips couldn’t hide her naturally blushed complexion and button nose. For John, her straw colored hair glinted like gold. He smirked. Catching sight of his amusement she made a purposefully audible humpf! and turned away from the detective.

            “For someone who’s been called harmless, you seem to have a bit of an attitude problem.”

            “It’s not a problem.” She said this defiantly.

            “Miss Little, if you didn’t do anything, I’m on your side. Just tell me what you know. You got an alibi? ‘Cause you sure got a motive.” She sat silently, her dark eyes penetrating. “Sitting quiet and pretty won’t save you.”

            “I was in my room.”

            “Anyone see you?”

            “No. I don’t think so.” John sighed.

            “Alright so you don’t have an alibi. The only way to clear your name here, sweetheart, is to tell us what you know. You know something, start talking. If you’re innocent, you’ve got nothing to hide.”

            “I don’t like you, Detective,” she sneered.

            “Of course you don’t,” he said smiling, unconvinced. She reached into her purse, under the table John’s hand jolted automatically to his gun holster. As she withdrew a fountain pen, John withdrew his hand from beneath the table and breathed. Lenore noticed nothing. In sloppy print and peacock blue ink on a scrap of paper from John’s notepad she scribbled a name:

Parker Gant

            “Give him a ring. You could call him at the hotel he stays at with his wife, or the motel he stays at with his girlfriends.”

            “But how do you— “

            “Detective Featherstone. I’m no fool. Ask anyone in this hotel. My father’s the only one who didn’t know.” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t like the little alcoholic bitch then, but I will hate her more now for breaking Paulie’s heart. Detective, I didn’t have the heart to do anything to her. Lord knows I wanted to.” She straightened up and wiped her eyes daintily. “Well, you know what room I’m in. That’s where I’ll be.” And she excused herself from the utility closet.

VII.

            John found himself in a telephone booth outside the hotel. He dialed the number of the Flambé Hotel and Casino where he found Milly to be performing for the duration of the month. A telephone operator connected him to the presidential suite where the Gants were staying. A man’s voice answered.

            “Can I speak with Mr. Gant?”

            “Who is this?” asked the husky voice.

            “Detective Featherstone. Is this Mr. Gant?”

            “No. This is his personal assistant. You’ll have to phone again later. The Gants are busy.”

            “It’s urgent. Police business.”

            “What police business?”

            “I’d rather speak to Mr. Gant.”

            “There is nothing I can do. What can I tell him?”

            “Well let him know that his girlfriend is dead.” There was a long pause.

            “You’ll have to be more speceefic, Sir.” The assistant said quietly.

            “Annabel Ames.”

            “I am very sorry to hear that. I will relay the news. We’ll be in touch.” And the line went dead.

VIII.

            “Is this a closet, Mr. Featherbottom?”

            “Yes, and it’s Detective.” He added quickly, “Featherstone.”

            “That’s what I said,” he sniffled.

            “I am very sorry for your loss, Mr. Little.” John said, mechanically.

            “This is my allergies,” Paulie said quickly, pointing dramatically to himself. “Let’s keep this fast. The dust isn’t so good for my allergies.” The short and portly Paulie Little wiped his eyes on an initialed hanky. He tucked it back into his breast pocket. John didn’t need to note on his notepad that there was no dust in this broom closet.

            “So, can anyone confirm your wherabouts at the time of Miss Ames death? You told another officer you were in your room.”

            “Yes, I did, because I was. But no, sadly, no one can confirm it. Annabel was supposed to meet me. We were going to have a drink.”

            “Okay, moving along. Were you and Miss Ames close?” Paulie explained that the two of them were like two peas in a pod. She went everywhere with him and he gave her everything a girl could ever want. They might have been the very best of friends. When John asked him if Lenore and Agnes got along, Paulie’s whole face changed. His allergies miraculously subsided.

            “Detective, what are you getting at? You don’t think my Lenore had anything to do with my Annabel, do you? They weren’t so fond of each other but Lenore would never do anything like this! Annabel was a good girl and Lenore is too.”

            “Do you know this name, Mr. Little?” John handed to Paulie, the little scrap of paper his daughter had scribbled a name onto.

            “Gant. Gant. Gant. Milly Gant is the only Gant I know. I suppose this is her relation. What’s it got to do with anything, Detective?”

            “Parker Gant is her husband. You really don’t know anything about Parker Gant?” 

            “No. Should I?” Simultaneously, Paulie raised his hands up in exasperation. John leaned back in his fold out chair and examined the man in front of him. Their eyes met, Paulie wasn’t fidgeting, and he held their gaze. John believed he was telling the truth.

            “So I’m correct in assuming you didn’t know that Parker and Annabel were seeing each other?” Paulie’s eyes welled up once again. John felt uncomfortable, watching a grown man cry, but he felt grimly glad that Annabel was already dead: Lenore couldn’t kill a dead girl.

IX.

            “John, don’t you think it’s getting a little late?” Francine was standing by the door on her way out. “You need your rest. The case will be here in the morning. Agnes Ames isn’t getting any deader.” The detective was sitting, staring at the case file that lay in front of him. One victim and a band of suspects. Compelling motives. No alibis. He’d interviewed Lenore Little, Paulie Little, and spoken to Milly Gant briefly on the phone.

            “But the Gant girl doesn’t know jack about Ames. Said she had a P.I. tailing her husband but that there were no photos of him with Agnes. Didn’t seem too bummed about her husband sleeping around,” he added.

            “Probably had her own boyfriends too,” Francine nodded in agreement. “But did you talk to the husband? Parker?”

            “I suspect I was talking to him on the phone the other day. Said it was his assistant. Same voice called later and said it was Parker. I’ve arranged for him to come in tomorrow morning.” 

            “Well that’s good. What about the Littles? What do you make of Lenore and Paulie?”

            John got up and paced the room. Francine had taken a seat.

            “Paulie didn’t know about the boyfriend. He would have been jealous if he did. He loved Agnes. Or at least, he loved Annabel.”

            “So you think it’s Lenore?”

            “What else have I got, Francine?” he said in exasperation. “Here’s the thing, it just doesn’t add up.” John proceeded to explain to his mousy secretary about the multiple interviews he’d conducted over the past few days. He explained that while Paulie was genuinely upset with Agnes’ death, it didn’t rule him out as a suspect. “A testimony from a maid heading to bed in the maid’s quarters at twelve puts Paulie Little in Agnes’ dressing room near the time of death.”

            “Of all the nights for the all of the staff to go to bed early!” Francine sighed. John continued explaining that while Lenore was a prime suspect he wasn’t entirely sure she was the culprit either.

            “But I thought they found a piece of something from her shoe?” Francine asked.

            “Yes,” John sighed, picking up an evidence bag containing a small silver tassle. “This came from Lenore’s heel. We’ve already matched the impressions in the carpet. But they were made before the fire and that just means she was in the room at some point that day. She’s still a suspect but I don’t know, Francine. Do you see what I’m saying? It’s just not making sense.”

X.

            “How did you find out?” Parker Gant sat in a police interrogation room about six times the size of a utility closet.

            “She kept a diary. Only one day though so it doesn’t help much, but the first and only entry mentioned she was going to tell you she was pregnant. When did Miss Ames tell you she was pregnant?” John furrowed his brow and looked closely at his suspect.

            “The day she and I spent together. We had a lovely time and she said nothing but she was acting strange. I brought her back to the St. Barbara and went back to the Flambé.” He looked up. “Milly had a show, that night.” John nodded, cuing Parker Gant to continue.

            “Well,” said the husky voice. “Annabel called me at the hotel, which I’ve asked her several times not to do, and she said I needed to come over to the St. Barbara. It was urgent. I argued with her but she said I had to come. So I did. I met her in her dressing room. She said she was knocked up and she was gonna keep it. That made me real angry and we got to fighting and maybe I moved a couple of things around.”

            “You mean, you made the mess,” the Detective corrected.

            “Not all of it, nah, but I… Well I contributed.”

            “Mr. Gant,” said John slowly, unsure of whether he was hearing his now main suspect clearly. “Are you saying you fought with the victim the night she was murdered in the place she was murdered?”

            “Not when you put it like that,” he said meekly. “I mean, yeah. All that stuff you said is true, but I didn’t kill her! I swear! I left, I walked outta there past the sleeping barman. Agnes threw a bottle of Scotch at me and I left. We broke it off that night but I was gonna call her the next day. Things aren’t going so well with the wife.”

            “Mr. Gant—,”

            “No, listen, Detective!” Parker said slamming a fist against the table. “I didn’t hurt her! I didn’t love her, but I couldn’t hurt her! I’m no bad guy. I sleep around but I ain’t no bad guy. My wife thinks I’m cheating,” he almost blushed. “My wife knows I’m cheating. She hired a guy to take pictures. I seen ‘em followin’ me. He’s probably got a picture of me at the casino with other women at the time of Annabel’s death…”

            John left the room and made a phone call to Milly at the Flambé Hotel and Casino. He asked for the private investigator’s photos. Parker was released and dropped as a suspect when a photograph was brought over to the precinct by the P.I. The photo depicted Parker and two young women giggling and sipping drinks while playing slots. The grand clock in the background read quarter past one. Agnes’ time of death was approximately one o’clock and it was a forty-minute drive from the St. Barbara to the Flambé.

XI.

            Joseph sat snoozing at the bar. He had been halfway done rubbing clean a glass. The pimply blonde bellboy ambled up to the bar nervously. Though his uniform was clean and had been washed several times, it was wrinkled and slightly stained. He straightened himself and his little gold nametag, which read “Sebastian” in swirly letters, and tapped Joseph nervously on the head. He startled awake.

            “Garrrrumph!” he snorted awake. “Oh, Lord! Sebastian! I didn’t mean to be sleepin’! Hey at least it’s the bellboy waking me up instead of the manager.” He chuckled. Then he noted the frightened look on Sebastian’s face and the lack of color. “Say, what’s wrong? Is everything okay? What’s the matter? Speak up!”

            Sebastian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He inhaled gardenias.

            “Mr. Joseph, I think you should call up that detective. I think I have something he might want to hear.”

XII.

            Agnes lay out on her chaise lounge, smoking a cigarette and wallowing in self-pity. Mascara and tears ran down her face as she took a swig from the bottle of gin that sat unbroken in her lap. The rest of the alcohol that had been kept safe in her locked chest was now strewn about all over the dressing room. She sniffled. She brooded over the night’s events. Paulie had stormed in after she’d gotten back from her day off with Parker. How dare he think he owns me? No one owns me! She thought to herself. She was angry but she was hurt. Paulie had yelled. Paulie never yelled at Agnes. More tears. She spilled a little on herself as she downed another gulp.

            Then it had been Lenore’s entrance following Paulie’s exit. Paulie must have been too upset to notice his daughter creep into Agnes’ room or else he never would have let her bother her—no matter how angry he was. Agnes looked around, realizing Lenore was responsible for most of the mess. They’d thrown things at each other. First Lenore knocked over her make-up. Then Agnes threw a bottle. Then Lenore knocked over a jewelry box. She flung another bottle across the floor, soaking everything in alcohol. Agnes remembered thinking what a little hypocrite Lenore was for calling her an alcoholic all these months. They were both probably drunk during their fight.

            Then much later Parker came storming in hours after she’d called him back. For months Agnes had been trying to think up ways to tell Parker she loved him and to make him hers forever. The baby had been her plan. She leaned back further on the chaise lounge, thinking to herself, how could I have been so dumb? She realized only when she told him about the “baby” that he’d never love her. Parker flew off the handle, raging and hollering. He became violent and threw all the bottles and broke a mirror. Debris had lain scattered all over the floor. He’d left. She was too drunk and weepy to notice. That’s where she was now, crying and smoking. She let out a puff of smoke and a wailing moan.

            All of a sudden the door of the dressing room slammed open like a gust of wind or the power of the gods simply willed it open. The door knocked over more bottles and frightened Agnes. Her bottle of gardenia perfume—which had somehow managed to rest unscathed—spilled to the floor, soaking the carpet and splashing the figure in the doorway. In that split second, Agnes, so drunk and worked up from the evening’s events. She lost herself, and before she had a moment to get a grip, the cigarette had slipped from her hands and come tumbling to the ground to tremendous uprising. A surge of flames licked the bellboy’s heels as he watched the rising star do her final fiery dance among the liquored up fires. Screams of agony and pain wrenched at him. He’d only meant to see what was wrong. He knew he shouldn’t have been near the starlet or even thinking about her but he couldn’t help himself. She was too intoxicating. Pale, the boy slammed the door and ran. He ran as fast as he could away from the fiery door to hell, remembering as he smelled her gardenia scent the wink she gave him as she walked out the door that morning the last time he saw her looking lovely.

            “Detective, I’ve washed that uniform a thousand times. I’ll never get that last gardenia out.”