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  “You did what—?” Belle made no attempt to hide her confusion.

  “‘Borrowed’ it, I guess you might say … At least at first …” The woman who called herself Paula Flynn seemed to drift into a trance. A thin smile crept across her wizened face. “In Boston, in 1951, some Hollywood producers came through on what they called a ‘talent hunt’ … I’d been to plenty of contests like it before. They were usually no more than a bunch of dirty old men ogling the young girls—trying to use the ‘casting couch’ routine … Anyway, I was twenty-six years old by then and I’d learned how to gauge who was on the up-and-up and who wasn’t … The Bijou Theater, that’s where the contest was held … It’s where I met Katie …”

  “The Boston contest …” Rosco’s words were more confirmation than question. He looked at Belle, who returned his gaze in utter silence.

  The old actress’s voice continued. “It was amazing how much we looked like each other … Of course, Katie was a brunette and I was blond. Naturally blond; not a bottle blond.” The smile grew then abruptly receded.

  “But the newspaper articles out in Taneysville indicated Katie was sixteen when she got her big break,” was Belle’s perplexed response. “That would have made her ten years younger than you.”

  “Katie acted a good deal older than her years. And I always looked young for my age. I could pass for a college girl until I was well into my thirties.” The shoulders hunched. “She’d had an awful time of it at home. She and her sister—”

  Belle was about to ask another question, but the old lady’s words drifted off in a different direction. “It was on a Friday afternoon … a wet day in early spring. The building’s heat was either on the fritz or the owners were being cheap. Whatever the case, we were all chilled and damp and pretty wilted. That on top of bad cases of nerves and not having much in our stomachs … There were about fifty of us. All types of girls … Katie and I gravitated to one another because we looked so much alike I guess—same height, build, everything. We could have been twins, except for our hair … And we’d obviously traveled down the same unpleasant roadways.

  “Anyway, the talent scouts were on the level that day—that is, unless you consider the studio contract they roped me into, and the six years it took me to get them to ‘release’ me … That and the ‘favors’ I had to do for certain directors in order to get ‘meatier’ parts in their films.

  “But back then everything seemed golden. The five winning girls were going to be taken out to Hollywood for a screen test—all expenses paid. In those days you had to be able to sing and dance as well as act; not like today when … well, no matter … Anyway, we all auditioned, and were told to come back on Monday for the final decision—meaning forty-five girls were going to return just to be told to ‘take a hike.’ I offered to let Katie bunk in with me. I had a small flat in Boston, and that way she wouldn’t have to go home. But she said she was leaving home no matter what—win or lose, come hell or high water—and needed to pack her belongings. She was really desperate for a way out of Taneysville—”

  “But she didn’t win, did she.” Belle interjected, more as a statement than a question.

  “Oh, she did! Of course she did. Katie was a talented kid.”

  “Now I’m the one who’s confused,” Rosco said.

  “On Monday we returned to the Bijou—all of us contestants sitting in the audience, and the talent scouts arranged behind a long table up on the stage. Katie was nowhere to be seen, so I assumed she’d missed her bus or something. I thought she’d fly through the doors at any moment … As the men began calling off the winners there were screams and hollers … I remember my fingers were crossed so tightly they went numb. Or maybe it was the cold … Then a man said, ‘And the fifth girl is … Katie Vanovski.’ And my heart sank. I wanted to be one of those five so badly.”

  “But Katie still wasn’t there.”

  “No … There was this heavy silence. I looked around … We all did. All of us in our hats and dress coats holding our breath and clutching our purses. He repeated the name, and by the way he said it, I knew he wasn’t prepared to wait, that he’d assume Katie had gotten cold feet—which would be a sure indication she’d never make it in the movies … So I jumped up and said, ‘Here I am … Here I am! Katie!’”

  “And these guys believed you?”

  “We were a bunch of amateurs; we didn’t have pictures or resumés for them to look at; no one filmed the auditions; and there were so many of us of us to keep track of. ‘Well, Katie Cat-Got-Your-Tongue Vanovski, this is your lucky day,’ the man said as I walked toward the table. I remember him grinning at the notion that I was too excited to know my own name, but his only question was to ask what had happened to my hair. I told him I’d bleached it over the weekend, and he grinned again and said, ‘I like it better this way, Katie. You’re going to go somewhere, kiddo.’”

  “When did they take you to California for your screen test?” Rosco asked.

  “We were on the train the next morning. It turned out the studio was desperate for women with Boston accents for a Katharine Hepburn film, and all five of us got contracts.” Paula’s eyes misted over. “I really only did it to save Katie’s spot. I would have admitted the truth if she’d shown up … even out in Hollywood … but she never did. And after a while I managed to fool myself into believing she really had gotten a case of cold feet, and that she wouldn’t have lasted two seconds with the wolves and lowlifes that lurk around every studio … In the back of my mind, though, I always guessed there had been a problem.”

  “And so Paula Flynn’s your real name?” Belle asked at length.

  “Oh, no … The studio invented it. If Katie had been at the Bijou that day, she would have been renamed Paula Flynn instead of me … And I would have spent my life—well, doing what I’d been doing before.”

  The three were quiet for several long minutes, but Rosco wanted to hear the obvious, so he asked, “And you have reason to believe the body found in Taneysville is Katie Vanovski’s?”

  The old head nodded. “I have no real proof; just an old woman’s intuition. As soon as I read the story in the newspaper—that’s when it all hit me. Although, I guess … I guess I’d always suspected Katie had been killed … Because if she was so desperate to leave home, why didn’t she show up to hear the results of the contest—?”

  “But she didn’t know she’d won—”

  “And later on, when I was in California … when I was, well, when I was lying and telling folks I was born and raised in Taneysville … Why didn’t she challenge me then? Why did she just stay silent? Year after year …?”

  Belle frowned. “After you’d become a star you could have told the truth. You could have revealed your own story.”

  A weary sigh greeted this remark. “No, I couldn’t. My past was … well, let’s just say it wasn’t all that squeaky-clean. I needed to be someone exactly like Katie. People didn’t need to know who I really was … or what I’d been.”

  “But there’s no proof the remains are actually hers,” Belle offered after another few moments of silence.

  “That’s simple enough for Abe Jones to determine,” Rosco replied. “If his DNA samples match up with the Bazinnes’—that solves half the mystery. As to who the murderer is … or was—”

  “That’s what I wanted you both to figure out,” Paula interrupted with some vehemence. “Instead of tracking me down … When the body showed up, everything came back to me: everything Katie said—and everything she was too scared to tell me about what her brother-in-law was doing to her.”

  “Jacques Bazinne,” Belle finally said. “Also deceased … The father of three middle-aged offspring who are convinced their famous aunt deserted them.” She looked at Rosco. “How do you tell someone their dad may have been a murderer?”

  CHAPTER 40

  “So …” Belle said as she and Rosco settled into the front seat of her car, “what next? I feel we have an obligation to share what we’ve learned with
the Bazinne family.”

  “Absolutely. I agree.” Rosco drew in a troubled breath. “It’s not going to be easy, though.”

  Belle was silent, thinking. “Well, we can’t do it over the phone, that’s for certain … I’ve met Jeanne … Maybe I should drive out there now and talk to her—”

  “It’s going to be a tough conversation, my love.”

  “I know … but what other choice do we have?”

  “… Okay.” After a beat he added, “But I should be with you.”

  Belle considered the suggestion for a moment. “I’d love to have the company, Rosco … And I know I’m really going to need it on the return trip … However, I have a feeling it will be better to approach her as one woman to another.”

  Rosco also remained quiet as he considered this. Then said, “I hate to make you face this alone, but I think you’re probably right … I’ll tell you what, though: Why don’t you leave me at Hoffmeyer’s store first, and then pick me up after your conversation with Jeanne. That way you’ll have company on the ride home.”

  Belle nodded brief agreement as she started the engine. “No time like the present … I guess.”

  Rosco removed his cell phone from his jacket and began punching in a series of numbers. “Before we go running off to Taneysville, I should bring Tree Hoffmeyer up to date. I’m sure he’s going to want to formulate some sort of press release.”

  As Belle left the Bayshore Retirement Home’s parking lot and began driving west, Rosco did just that, concluding with a subdued: “Of course, the odds of ever knowing conclusively who killed Katie Vanovski are next to nil.”

  Tree’s response was businesslike. “That’s probably beside the point at this juncture. The salient fact is that the murder occurred more than fifty years ago, dispelling all speculation about ‘mobsters dumping bodies’ and ‘dirty laundry,’ et cetera. We’re looking at ancient history; the fact that a movie star had some connection to the event will only increase voter recognition. I feel sorry for this Katie Vanovski, I do, but in the long run, I hate to say it, but this is a best-case scenario for my campaign … I really appreciate all the hard work you’ve been putting in, Rosco, and I’d like to talk longer, but I should schedule a news conference right away—”

  “Ahhh,” Rosco said in an attempt to slow him down, “could you hold off on that for a while? We’re on our way to Taneysville right now. It’s only fair to notify the Bazinne family before they hear the news on the radio or TV.”

  In the silence at the other end of the line, Rosco could hear impatience and compassion vying with one another. “It’s Friday afternoon. I’ve got only four days before the election. This information has to get—”

  “Just give me a couple hours, that’s all I’m asking. You’ll still have time to make the evening news.”

  Hoffmeyer took a few moments to answer, but eventually said, “I’ll wait for your call. Just don’t hang me up on this, okay?”

  Rosco clicked off and slid the phone back into his jacket. “Politics isn’t the nicest game in the world.”

  On the drive to Taneysville, Belle and Rosco decided they should also inform the elder Hoffmeyers—a duty Rosco would handle while Belle explained the situation to Jeanne Bazinne. Pulling up in front of the general store, Belle tried for a lighthearted: “Watch out for the pork rinds,” while Rosco also attempted a pseudo-sunny:

  “What you don’t know won’t hurt you.”

  Both sallies fell flat. Then Belle turned her car toward Lonnie Tucker’s gas station.

  She parked, took a deep breath which was intended to banish the complex sensation of pity mingled with outrage, then stepped from the car. Gloom, sorrow, and anger walked beside her as she entered the garage office, where Lonnie greeted her in pleasant unconcern as he tallied up some figures in his accounting books. “Jeanne’s in the trench working on an oil change,” he said. He seemed totally unconcerned about Belle’s motives in seeking out his mechanic. As Belle began crossing the shop’s gritty floor, Jeanne had just started to crawl out of a large pit that allowed her access to the underside of the car she’d been servicing.

  “You here for a change?” she called out without looking to see who the visitor was.

  “Change?”

  “Oil change?”

  “No … Actually, I came here to talk to you, Jeanne … about your father.” Jeanne stood in utter silence as myriad expressions began racing over her face.

  “He’s dead.” Jeanne wiped her greasy hands on a rag that was equally embedded with grime, then turned as if to resume her work. Another thought arrested her, however, and she stepped toward Belle. Her lips were tight with unspent fury. “So don’t think you or that PI you’re married to can accuse him of offing that girl up at Quigleys’.”

  Belle paused for an infinitesimal second, enough only to wonder what private connection Jeanne had made. “That’s quite a leap … What makes you imagine we’d be considering that?”

  “Blaming my pop?” Jeanne snorted. “Why not? Everyone comes lookin’ for us Bazinnes if there’s trouble. Fire up at the old house? Frank’s the bad guy. No one even bothers lookin’ for the truth or pays the slightest attention to Big Otto mouthin’ off in Eddie’s Elbow Room … No, sir … Otto’s the one playin’ with matches … But it’s always the same around here. You got trouble? You hunt up a Bazinne …” She threw the rag on a zinc-topped table strewn with wrenches and grease guns. “That’s why I ‘imagine’ you’re thinkin’ my dad was involved in what happened up at Quigleys’. It was only a matter of time before those goody-goodies up at the church decided he snuffed that girl … Makes it a heck of a lot easier with him bein’ dead and gone, don’t it?”

  Belle said nothing, but neither did she back down. She simply stayed put and continued studying the angry woman who in turn seemed to grow larger and more ferocious as she stared defiantly back.

  “You’re not gettin’ me to spill my guts about our glorious, fun-filled childhoods, if that’s what you’re hopin’, doll. And you’re not gonna catch Frank or Luke doin’ it either … And they won’t be near as polite as me—”

  “It’s you I want to talk to, Jeanne. Woman to woman.”

  “Oh, lady, where are you from? The moon? You and me got nothin’ in common. Absolutely nuttin’!” Again, Jeanne made as if to step back into the trench; Belle read rage in the rigid set of her shoulders—as well as some other indecipherable but equally violent emotion.

  “Tell me about your aunt, Jeanne.”

  “Lady, you’re not listenin’ to me—at all! I don’t want to talk. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

  Belle stood her ground. “Katie didn’t desert you, Jeanne.”

  “What do you call it when someone up and leaves and never looks back? Never sends her sister a birthday hello or a sympathy card when she’s dying—”

  “Katie didn’t go to Hollywood, Jeanne. She didn’t act in those—”

  “She sure as heck did! She changed her name to Paula Flynn! She was a big star! She was famous. I saw her picture in all those—”

  “That wasn’t your aunt. That was someone who took Katie’s name.”

  Jeanne rounded on Belle. Beneath the caked dirt, her face was an ugly and threatening red. “You can’t steal names!”

  “You can if no one protests.”

  Either the words themselves or the gravity of Belle’s tone finally took root in Jeanne’s conscious thought. Her heavy shoulders quivered ever so slightly, but the emotional change this small physical gesture revealed was immense. “What do you mean?” The voice was now hesitant and uncertain.

  “I mean the actress known as Paula Flynn isn’t your aunt. I met her today … Paula Flynn … She told me all about the talent contest that she and your aunt attended—”

  “Before I was born—”

  “That’s right. In the spring of 1951. And yes, your aunt Katie won … She won the chance to go to Hollywood and take a screen test, but she wasn’t there to claim her prize … She’d retu
rned to Taneysville to pack. She never made it back to the theater in Boston.”

  Jeanne’s bewildered gaze fell to the floor. “But Mom said … I mean, Aunt Katie had already moved out of our house when she did that contest … She’d rented the room over Hoffmeyer’s store … on accounta … on accounta … well, Mom said Pop used to get real mad at Katie. Didn’t like her gettin’ fancy ideas … didn’t like her wearin’ fancy clothes … showin’ off to all the guys …” Jeanne’s fists swiped at eyes that were suddenly brimming with tears. “But Pop wouldn’t have … I don’t think Pop would have … He wouldn’t have hurt her like that.” She shook her large head. Belle reached out her hand, but Jeanne flinched away.

  “I don’t want to talk to you anymore, lady. And I don’t want you talkin’ to Luke or Frank either. We got enough troubles without people makin’ up stories about things that happened half a century ago.”

  “How did your mother die, Jeanne?”

  “If you’re askin’ if Pop beat her up, he didn’t! … She got cancer—just like other people do … And I called out to Hollywood. I tried findin’ where Aunt Katie lived …”

  Belle took a deep breath. She knew her next piece of news would be the hardest to bear. “It’s almost certain that the body found near the Quigley house belonged to your aunt. DNA testing will prove it conclusively.”

  “But Katie went to Hollywood. She left this dump and never once looked back—” Jeanne’s face crumpled. “My pop had nothing to do with this! I swear he didn’t.”

  Milt Hoffmeyer Sr. hadn’t been in his store when Belle had dropped off Rosco. Unable to immediately perform his part of the assignment, he’d purchased a large bag of pork rinds—“to share” he’d told the girl minding the cash register—as well as a copy of Newsweek, both of which he’d carried outside to the wooden bench that sat beside the store’s main entrance. There, Rosco had settled down to wait.

  After twenty minutes, Milt stepped onto the porch, looked down at Rosco, and said, “I guess you’re waiting for me.” His heavy face looked both serious and sad, and Rosco felt some annoyance that Hoffmeyer’s grandson hadn’t kept his end of the bargain but had obviously called his grandparents to tell them the news.