Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 763 & 764, March/April 2005

Society Blues by Ruth Francisco

Ruth Francisco’s first short story for EQMM, “Dream of Murder,” also formed part of her second novel, Good Morning, Darkness (Mysterious Press/’04). At the time of our publication, reviews of the book were not in. Now they are, and here’s what PW has to say: “The adroit plotting and additional fillip at the end are sufficiently compelling to qualify this as one of the year’s best mysteries.” Hats off to an extraordinarily promising new author!

October, 1935. Dr. George Kendall Dazey arrived home for a late lunch, hoping to see his wife before dashing back to Santa Monica Hospital for Mrs. Ruby Crockett’s operation at 3:45. He parked his maroon Roadster at the corner of Twenty-third and Georgina, and cut across the lawn to his front door.

As he stepped over the spongy grass, trying not to muddy his shoes, he glanced up: A white figure appeared to be floating inside the front window. He heard a crash followed by a frustrated moan. He ran to the front door. It was locked. “Doris! Are you all right?” Breaking into a sweat, he jammed his key into the lock and swung open the door.

Teetering tiptoed on the edge of a dining-room chair, Doris reached for the top of the Dutch cupboard. She yanked a candy dish off the top shelf and thrust her fingers beneath the pale-blue wrappers. “Goddammit!” She whirled the dish across the room; butterscotch candies skittered over the terra cotta tiles like hail.

“I found all of your hiding places when you were away,” Dazey said calmly. He placed his medical bag on the dining-room table, then took off his hat and coat.

Doris spun around and fell back into the cupboard, yelping as the sharp shelves dug into her ribs. “I hate you,” she hissed, swatting away his hand. “Don’t touch me! Leave me alone!” She lost her balance and grabbed the shelves. The cupboard rocked forward: Porcelain cups and glass goblets slid and shattered on the floor. As she let go, the chair wobbled and her foot slipped. Dazey rushed to catch her.

She punched his arms, smacking his spectacles across the room. The chair tipped over and she fell on top of him. Dazey’s legs buckled and they both tumbled to the floor. She beat his chest, thrashing wildly. “Let go of me, you bastard!”

He grabbed her wrists and rolled her over, straddling her as gently as he could. He glanced down at her legs, spread-eagled, her nightgown hitched up around her waist, her thighs bloody, cut from the broken glass. He felt hollowed out, as if a cold damp cavern had replaced the core of his being.

“Makes you hard, doesn’t it?” She sang, taunting him, “Dr. Dick with his big fat prick, puts you to sleep with a candy stick.”

He couldn’t bring himself to slap her. He leaned on her wrists and brushed his nose over her naked shoulder, breathing her in, whispering as if to a baby, “Shh, darling, quiet. Everything is all right.” She groaned, relaxing, then burst into tears.

He sat back on his heels and let her cry for a few moments. He then wrapped one arm around her waist, the other under her knees, and lifted her carefully. She clung to his neck, whimpering softly like a child yanked from the path of an oncoming train.

As he carried his wife upstairs, her perfumed heat seeped from her torn nightgown. Her breath smelled of sherry as she gulped for air. He must have missed a bottle in the kitchen used for cooking. Doris hadn’t.

“I’m so scared!” she sobbed, clutching at his collar.

“There’s nothing to be frightened of,” he assured her, which set off another set of howls in sliding octaves, slicing the air like scimitars in a ritual dance.

He kissed her hair, his lips trembling. Nothing was enough. Not his love, not his drugs, not his professional expertise. He stood by helplessly as demons tried to scratch their way out of her skull. “It’s okay, angel,” he whispered. “I’m here. You’re safe now.” But he knew it wasn’t true.

Dazey laid her on the bed. He tucked the pink satin sheet under her chin, leaving her left arm exposed. Her crooning subsided to a whimper; she followed his movements with watery blue eyes wide open. He pushed up the sleeve of her nightgown, unlocked a drawer in the bureau, and pulled out a black box that looked like a revolver case. He opened it. Inside sat ten prepared hypodermic needles packed as snug as bullets.

Dazey brushed her hair out of her face. Her beauty took his breath away. It always had.

They met in 1933 at the Cocoanut Grove. He was smitten by her, a tall, thin actress with honeycomb curls bouncing on her shoulders. Her large eyes, cerulean blue, were set off by a white lock of hair that started above her right eye and curled around her ear. Dazey knew immediately that she was ill, hopped-up on studio white, downing champagne with the thirst of a long-distance runner. He watched her from across the lounge: her eyes darting back and forth between the guests, her delicate hands gesturing to someone, then landing on her fur collar as if seeking warmth and security, like an injured sparrow chirping for help, fraying her broken wings as she beat the ground in fear and frustration. He yearned to save her.

Yet he knew even then that there would be no gratitude and little love. He knew that if an injured bird doesn’t die in your care, it will peck your hands bloody to be free. He knew that one day she would hate him.

Many of his friends wondered what he saw in her, but to him her soul was as pure and elusive as a child’s laugh, her beauty so intense, it nearly hurt him to look at her. She made him feel strong and capable and generous. She had once kissed his palms and told him they were like the sculptured hands of Michelangelo’s “David.” They made her feel safe, she said, words that flooded his body with love for her; if he could do this, to still her distress for even a moment, perhaps she could be saved.

Dazey dabbed her arm with alcohol and placed the used needle in a tray.

She closed her eyes, smiled, then opened them again. “I don’t think I’ll go out tonight,” she said. “I think I’ll stay right here.”

“We’ll see how you feel,” he said cautiously. Even a hint of disapproval might send her on a frenzied escapade.

“Maybe I’ll go pick up Wally and make you dinner.”

Even now she was beautiful, he thought, her moist eyes sparkling like a grove of blue spruce after an ice storm, her mouth turned up sweetly. “I need to check on my patients,” he said. “I’ll be back in a few hours. Do you want me to have Betty Rose come stay with you?”

“No, I’m fine. I feel better now.”

“Okay, my precious.” He’d call Betty anyhow. “You get some rest.” He kissed her on the forehead and left the door to her room ajar.

Later that evening, despite promises to her husband and reprimands from her maid, Doris dressed for a night out on the town.

She drove her chocolate-brown Packard to the palisade at the end of Pico Boulevard. The night was young, just beginning to take on a life of its own. Santa Monica Pier, lit up with Ferris wheels and amusement rides, twinkled below like a rhinestone bracelet on a colored chanteuse.

Slowly, she drove down the incline to the pier, through the crowds of teenagers, sailors, and lovers arm in arm, her tires clapping over the wooden planks. Garish lights spiraled around her like fireworks — pink, yellow, and blue. She inhaled deeply the scent of cotton candy and fried fish, and watched couples dance to Les Hite’s big band broadcasting from Frank Sebastian’s Cotton Club. Overhead, a roller coaster swooshed down like an avalanche, excited screams and laughter tumbling after like loose scree. The pier trembled with excitement.

She parked and stepped out in a white gown, white sable stole, and silver slippers. The cool ocean air rushed into her lungs; her eyes sparkled. She gazed out into the vast black ocean.

Anchored just beyond the three-mile limit, the casino ship S.S. Rex rocked in the gentle surf, its lights strung between its masts down to the bow and stern. Like a jeweled crown awaiting her coronation. She walked down the pier to the water taxis.

Thirty minutes later, under the warm golden glow of gas lamps, amid boisterous laughter, the clack of roulette wheels, and the squealing saxophones of Curtis Mosby’s band playing “Society Blues,” Doris tossed her dice like breadcrumbs to greedy gulls. She admired her graceful arms and her white hands. She saw others taking note of her, flattering her with long looks. Her temples pulsed, her breath quickened. She talked to no one except the croupier, reveling in her performance — the mysterious woman, cool and aloof.

She played for nearly an hour, losing more than she won. As she leaned forward to bet more chips, she glanced up through the window to the deck. Two men, escorted by the ship owner, Tony Cornero, strode past the gaming room, followed by two bodyguards. She caught her breath. She recognized the shorter man from a mug shot in Ballyhoo magazine. She remembered the headline: “Hollywood’s Long-Legged Lookers Lindy-hop with Ganglord.”

He wore a double-breasted overcoat that hung to his knees, a fedora pulled down over his brow; only his mouth and chin were visible. The block of flesh beside him turned his square head toward Doris in slow motion as if sensing her gaze. His eyes bored into her, a warning as clear as sirens before dawn.

Doris stood trembling, fascinated. A rush of heat and electricity pulsed through her; her cheeks felt cold, her upper lip moist.

“Snake eyes!” called the croupier. “You win, madam. Would you like to roll again?”

As if woken from a dream, Doris turned back to the table and picked up her dice. Snake Eyes: That was one of his nicknames. It was a sign.

Her eyelids fluttered shut; she clutched the edge of the table until her dizziness passed. She was shivering and her temples burned. Was her fever coming back? No, it must be the rush of the roulette wheels, and the gimlets she’d been drinking. She picked up her chips, cashed in her earnings, and tucked the crisp bills into her sequin purse. She pulled her stole around her shoulders and walked outside.

The sea air, heavy with moisture, aroused her, the breeze blowing her silk slip against her naked legs. Lights glittered on the water. The darkness called her.

Snake Eyes climbed down into a private boat, followed by his bull henchman. Quickly Doris walked to the other side of the ship, to the landing stage, and stepped into a water taxi that was nearly full with passengers. Moments later, the taxi pulled out toward the pier.

Doris sat involute among the gamblers, like a moon goddess on a starless night. The water taxi slapped over the rolling swells, the motor puttered. As they neared shore, the shadows under Santa Monica Pier appeared black and still, like evil intent beneath a nervous giggle.

As soon as her taxi docked, Doris hurried up the pier. She spotted the two men pausing in front of a striped canvas tent. She ducked behind a group of teenagers and bought a bag of peanuts. When she peeked back, she saw the men disappear into an arcade.

She followed, sidling into the noisy room. The clatter of games disoriented her. Children shot pop guns at clowns, threw beanbags at frogs, rolled bowling balls at pins. Old men took turns with boys at a pornographic kinetoscope. She noticed a narrow L-shaped hallway, lightless and cool. She slipped behind the Skee-Ball lanes into the dark.

The hallway was eerily quiet. She inched back, feeling the roughness of the wood through her slippers. Two closed doors stood at the end of the passage. A toilet flushed and the left door opened. A small weasel of a man shuffled past her buttoning up his pants.

Beneath the other door shined an inch of light. A brass plate mounted halfway up read Manager.

Doris slipped into the bathroom and shut the door. The moist air stank of human excrement. She let her eyes adjust to the darkness, listening: ocean waves crashing against the timber piles beneath her; bells and slamming balls from the arcade; and, in the next room, tense angry voices. She concentrated hard, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then three thumps and a man’s grunt. She looked up.

Several feet above, a streak of light the size of a quarter shone through a knothole in the plank. Her stomach quivered with excitement and dread. She stood on the toilet seat and peeked next-door.

The bull was kicking a man who knelt like a dog. The man’s elbow gave way and he collapsed to the floor. Snake Eyes sat in a captain’s chair, his face in dark shadow. He spoke quietly. Slowly he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. The oil-skin lamp on the desk illuminated his face: It was heart-shaped, framed by a widow’s peak, with heavy brows over small, close-set eyes. His thin lips barely moved when he spoke. He said something to the bull, who picked up the crumpled man and slammed him down in a chair in the corner. Snake Eyes stood, put on his hat, and walked toward the door.

As the gang boss reached for the doorknob, the bull pulled out a gun and shot the man in the chair. A second shot blew off the top of his head. They turned and left. As simply as if they had said goodbye.

Doris felt the man’s guts smack against the wall. She clasped her hand over her mouth, corking a scream. The men entered the hallway and closed the door to the manager’s office. Their shoes paused outside the bathroom.

She dropped her bag of peanuts, which scattered across the floor. Horrified, she pressed her back against the wall, holding her breath, expecting any moment for the bathroom door to slam open, for them to gun her down. Blood throbbed in her temples: Could they hear it? She prayed not to faint, but felt her legs becoming numb, her head inflating and floating away.

Then, two sets of footsteps walked rapidly out of the arcade.

Doris gulped for air. A sharp pain shot down her legs, her thighs trembled. She slid down the wall and sat on the toilet, gunshots still ringing in her ears. As she clung to a two-by-four stud, she brushed her hand across her cheeks, astonished at her cold tears. What a damn fool she was, she chided. Slowly her terror gave way to shame and disappointment.

She needed a drink badly. She needed people, happy, glamorous people. A place to erase this memory and plenty of others. The night wasn’t over yet.

She stood, opened the door, and stumbled into the dank night.

The following afternoon, Dazey called his wife from his office across from Santa Monica Hospital. Still no answer. She’d been asleep when he stopped by at lunchtime. Now it was 3:15 P.M. If she had gone out or was napping, Betty Rose should have picked up the phone. Maybe they had gone out to do some shopping together.

He tried not to be alarmed. Perhaps she was still asleep and hadn’t heard the phone. But normally Doris was up by this time of day.

Dazey knew not to panic with someone as unpredictable as Doris. Just the same, he felt strangely uneasy. He figured that he could make it home and back in fifteen minutes. If she fussed about being checked on, spied on, as she called it, he would invite her to dinner at one of her favorite clubs.

He slipped on his coat and grabbed his hat. He’d leave from his office door that led to the hall — wouldn’t even tell the receptionist he was gone. He placed his hand on the doorknob.

“Dr. Dazey, they’re ready for you in surgery.”

He spun around, embarrassed as if caught sneaking into a matinee without paying. His nurse, hands on her barrel-sized hips, filled the doorway. “We aren’t scheduled until three forty-five,” he said plaintively.

“Dr. Grodin canceled, so they moved everyone up.”

“When did you find out about this?” he demanded.

“Just now, sir. They’re waiting for you.”

Fuming, he tossed his coat and hat on his desk chair. He left his office, descended the stairs, and crossed the street to the hospital.

Even before she opened her eyelids, she felt the cool afternoon mist seeping in through the bedroom windows.

Silence hovered in the house. What had awakened her? The phone? Down the street, children laughed, a dog barked, a car started. The muted sun released the scent of gardenias into the damp air. She stretched her legs, enjoying the feel of the cool sheets. She felt deliciously alone.

She heard a thunk downstairs. Or was it outside? Was Wally throwing toys? Couldn’t be — the baby was still at her parents’. “Betty?” she called, then remembered that, in a fit of pique, she had dismissed the maid. Probably it was the postman. She closed her eyes and sank back into her pillow, grateful for her solitude.

Her mind floated over the images from the night before; the memory seemed remote. Was it possible it hadn’t happened? Where had she gone after the pier? She couldn’t remember — some after-hours joint. She couldn’t recall how she got home.

She opened her eyes and turned to the clock: It was 3:20. She wondered if George had come home for lunch. She seemed to remember sounds from the kitchen, maybe a figure in her bedroom. Had she been sick? She couldn’t remember.

She heard knocking on the front door. Loud steady taps. She waited: Maybe they would go away. Three more taps. She swung her legs out of the bed, pulled on her turquoise pongee robe, and tied the sash tight around her waist. She looked for her slippers. They weren’t under the bed; they weren’t in the closet. Tap, tap, tap. Fiddlesticks. She ran her fingers through her hair, then left the bedroom.

As she descended the stairs, she saw the back of a gentleman through the glass panels in the front door. He had broad shoulders and wore a fedora. Had something happened to George? Suddenly worried, she opened the front door quickly, without hesitation.

Her first thought was that the mist was as heavy as a fine rain, and she worried for the man’s cashmere coat, which was obviously expensive.

The man turned and moved toward her in an unhurried but forceful way, like the incoming tide, with comforting inevitability, extending his leather glove, pushing her gently into the house. She thought how handsome he looked, the brim of his hat pulled over his forehead, how handsome his collar, turned up under his square chin, how handsome his steady eyes that bore into her soul. What has taken you so long?

As she surrendered to his strong grip and his glove over her mouth, she was surprised at the soothing masculine strength of his damp woolly embrace.

Dazey returned home at around seven. He turned off the ignition, then the headlights. His hands fell into his lap, his body wearily sinking into the leather seat.

How much more could he take? he wondered. He was trained to be dispassionate, to be strong enough to witness pain and suffering. But he couldn’t — not with Doris. He loved her so much, but he felt exhausted and spent. He guiltily admitted that sometimes he wished he could come home to an empty house.

He stepped out of his car and slammed the door, the vigorous movement lending him energy to make it across the lawn. The sky was gray, retaining a glimmer of twilight. He looked up through the bare branches of the jacaranda tree — gnarled crone fingers scratching at the October sky — and he thought of Doris’s pale hands writhing in agony during one of her fits. He sighed heavily and walked up the front steps.

The windows were dark.

He opened the door, hung his coat and hat on a bentwood coat-rack, and set his doctor’s bag on a chair. He listened: The silence had an eerie sibilance. She must be dozing. He’d better go wake her or else she wouldn’t be able to sleep through the night.

He went upstairs into their bedroom, opened the door, and turned on a light. The bed was unmade. The coffee cup he had brought to her that morning sat empty on her nightstand. By Doris’s pillow, the Santa Monica Evening Outlook lay folded to the society page.

“Doris?” He checked the bathroom. No one. He headed down to the kitchen. Maybe she had gone out?

Dazey stared at the bowl of oranges on the kitchen table. No note. He heard the faint sound of a car motor, the distinct putter of a Packard sedan. She must be just leaving, he thought. He banged open the kitchen door and dashed across the backyard to the side door of the garage.

He paused to catch his breath, then opened the door.

A blast of hot air slammed into his face. Toxic milky-gray gases swirled in front of his eyes. Coughing, waving his arms, he reached to the wall, felt for the light switch, and snapped it on. The rounded shape of the rumbling Packard was barely visible. He sprang forward and grabbed the handle on the driver’s door. He swung it open and turned off the ignition.

He ran outside, gulped a mouthful of fresh air, then dashed back in. He tripped over something soft and fell, the heels of his palms slamming hard against the garage doors. He looked down. At first he thought it was a pile of rags. Then he saw the hair — there was so much of it. A wig? A Halloween costume?

Then he saw her profile.

He gasped, horrified, choking so hard tears sprang to his eyes. Grabbing the handle of the garage door, he shoved it open with his right shoulder.

Doris’s body curved along the arc of the streetlight like the figure of a goddess poised on the edge of a Roman portico. Her face, an arm’s length from the tailpipe, angled away from the car, her cheeks black with soot, her eyes partially closed, her hair spread out behind her as if facing a stiff wind.

He stared a moment, then, coughing violently, ran into the street. He buckled over and vomited.

Poisonous gases seeped into the street like a departing spirit.

He staggered back into the garage and knelt beside her. He pressed the artery at the base of her neck, checking for a pulse. Nothing. The throbbing blood he felt was his own.

He hurried into the house and came back with a wet towel. He tried to wipe the soot from her face, but managed only to streak it. He folded the towel and put it under her head, then sat back on his heels to look at her.

Grief would come later, he supposed, along with the inquest and accusations. But now all he felt was relief.

You can never save anyone, he realized. Not when one wants to die, not when one reaches out to Death like a flame to oxygen. He had always seen it in her, this tremulous wanting.

The sparrow had tumbled from her nest. Perhaps now she was free.

Were not all deaths suicides, he wondered.

Copyright ©; 2005 by Ruth Francisco.