Winter in June (2 page)

“Do you think we're making a mistake?” I asked.

I hadn't bothered to pose the question until then. Jayne was the kind of friend who, when you suggested going to the South Pacific in search of your missing ex-boyfriend, responded by asking what she should pack. It never occurred to her to say you were off the rails. I liked to think that if the tables were turned and this were her scheme we were pursuing, I would've been a stand-up gal, too, but the limits of my friendship hadn't been tested. Yet.

Jayne put her hand on mine and squeezed. “It's not a mistake. It's an adventure.”

On the pier behind us a sailor picked up his girl and swung her around. He wasn't getting on a boat to go somewhere. He'd just arrived home for leave, safe and sound, from whatever hell on earth he'd been stationed at. Both of their faces were broken apart with joy. It wasn't a pretty kind of happiness. Rather they seemed to be clawing at each other, as if the very ground they stood on was nothing more than quicksand.

“We'll find him,” said Jayne.

“Promise?” I asked.

“Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a pickle in my eye.”

It wasn't much of a guarantee, but it made me smile all the same.

An hour later we were being led through the ship by an eager-beaver sailor named Carson Dodger. He'd fished us out of the line right before we stepped onboard and said they'd been worried that something had happened to us. We were the last of our touring group to arrive, and didn't we know that we didn't have to wait with all the other poor schlubs?

“Must've slipped our minds,” I said.

Carson was my height and pudgy, his body showing the results of being too long at sea with too little to do. He had the kind of face that always looked jolly, though on closer inspection I realized it wasn't because he was happy so much as fat and sunburned.

“Is it true there was a woman's body in the water?” Jayne asked him. She was a master at playing dumb.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said. “It looks like she was shot and pushed off the pier.”

“Did they finger the culprit?” I asked.

“Not yet, but they will. They think he might've climbed onto one of the ships, which is why we had to shut things down for a while.”

“How do you know it was a he?” I asked.

“Just a guess, ma'am, but this sure doesn't seem like the kind of thing a dame would do.”

Boy did he have a lot to learn about skirts.

“Rest assured,” said Carson, “you'll be perfectly safe aboard the
Queen of the Ocean
.”

I wasn't sure I found that very comforting. After all, the
Queen of the Ocean
was the size of two football fields. Surely they couldn't have made a very thorough inspection in two hours' time.

I didn't press the issue. As Carson continued to flap his gums about how safe the ship was, I took in the lay. Before the war, the
Queen of the Ocean
had been a luxury cruise liner that took muckety-mucks from California to Hawaii while plying them with top-drawer food, top-notch entertainment, and lavish surroundings. After Pearl Harbor, the Navy coopted it, replacing the food with army grub, the entertainment with an out-of-tune piano, and painting the bulk head olive drab so that the remaining chandeliers reflected dull, regimental surroundings.

Carson led us into what had once been a ballroom and was now one of several mess areas set aside to feed the people we'd be traveling with. The only remnants of the ship's previous purpose were the gilded wood paneling, marble floors, and a smattering of padded leather chairs. There was no chow awaiting us. Instead, two other women sat in the huge, empty space batting the breeze.

As we arrived, they stopped talking and took us in as if we were ponies up for auction.

“Hiya,” I said. “I'm Rosie Winter, and this is Jayne Hamilton.”

The woman on the left rose and offered us her hand. “I'm Violet Lancaster.” She had a rectangular face and blue eyes that were so tiny it looked like she was squinting. Her blond hair was piled on top of her head and turned into fat sausage curls that were an ill-advised attempt to emulate Betty Hutton's hairstyle. She'd applied
makeup with a heavy hand that left a clear division between her face and her neck. I suspected that if you let down her hair and chiseled off the lacquer, she'd be quite a looker, but left as she was, she could've gotten a job with the circus.

“I'm Kay Thorpe,” said the other woman, offering us her hand. She had a regrettably equine appearance. At the top of her long, strong body was a face dominated by a schnozzle that would've given Cyrano a run for his money and teeth so large we could've projected a movie on them. When she spoke, she looked at everything but us. At first I thought she was rude, but it became increasingly clear that she was just shy. Great: a shy performer. That would be about as helpful as a blind bus driver.

“Did you hear they found a body?” asked Jayne.

“Hear about it? Why, I was here when the gun was fired,” said Violet. She had a southern accent that I could tell she normally buried, rolling it out whenever she thought it might be useful to assert her gentility and otherness.

“You saw the killer?” I asked.

“No, I only heard the gun go off. It practically scared the pants right off me.”

That was quite an accomplishment, since she was wearing a skirt. “Is that all you heard?” I asked.

“No, there was a scream too. And a splash.”

“Did you tell the coppers?”

Violet lifted her head as though the question was an affront to her. “Of course.”

“Who was the girl?” asked Jayne.

“I don't think they know yet,” said Kay, her eyes glancing at the ceiling. If I was ever caught committing a crime, this was the witness I wanted to try to pick me out of a lineup.

“I hope it wasn't someone going on tour with us,” said Jayne. “Could you imagine how awful that would be?”

And typical. In the last year two people I knew had been zotzed. If I were a prominent member of the underworld, I could understand those odds, but I was an actress for crying out loud.
The worst thing my people were supposed to face was rejection. And waitressing.

“Oh, don't worry,” said Violet. “She's not one of us. Number five is safely locked away in the captain's quarters.”

“What did she do to deserve that?” I asked.

Violet returned to her seat and crossed her legs. “You mean you haven't heard?” I shook my head. “Oh, this is too rich. Hold onto your hats, girls. We're not just five anonymous actresses going to the South Pacific—we've got a star among us. Gilda DeVane has joined our little troupe.”

“Gilda DeVane?” said Jayne. “Really?”

Violet leaned forward and lowered her voice, as though Louella Parsons and Hedda Hopper were lurking in the shadows with their pens at the ready. “It's all hush-hush, but I've got a friend who's got a friend who put the whole tour together, and he said Gilda signed on at the last minute to go with us. Kay saw her board the ship earlier. Didn't you, Kay?”

Kay nodded. “They whisked her up to the captain's quarters right before they started searching the boat.”

“Apparently, the rest of us are expendable,” said Violet.

“Why would she go to the South Pacific?” I asked. “I thought the big names went to Europe.”

Violet grinned, which made her squint seem twice as bad. “The ones who have nothing to lose like to go where the fighting's the worst. It makes for the best headlines.”

I got what she was saying. Gilda was trying to do what Van Lauer did, but instead of enlisting and getting some plush, privileged assignment, she'd opted to go into the danger zone so the public would see her risking her life to help out the troops.

“She's more clever than I thought,” said Violet. “She needs to find a way to get people interested in her again. Flash and sex are on their way out. And of course, I'm sure MGM will be mad to get her back when this is all done. If she's smart, she'll have all the fellows she meets write the studio on her behalf. No one can say no to a hero.”
If
that's what Gilda set out to do. It was inevitable that what
ever she did after MGM fired her would be read as an attempt to reignite her career. No matter what her intentions, some people would insist that she was only doing what she was doing to get a contract. “Anyway,” said Violet, “the bad news is, we'll be taking a backseat to Gilda, but the good news is the weather should be nice.”

When I wasn't thinking about how to find out what had happened to Jack, I romanticized my role in the USO shows. I pictured myself becoming a star attraction, the kind of gal men lined up to see hours in advance. I'd end up on newsreel footage, find my puss on posters, and directors back home would be clambering to talk to me even before I returned Stateside. I'd be doing something good, of course, but I'd also be securing my future career.

I didn't like the idea that someone had already determined that we were supporting players in the tour. I could take being demoted by virtue of everyone around me being more talented, but being forced into the backseat because someone was more famous than me? I'd been down that path before and it still didn't sit well.

Before I could share my discontent, the ballroom doors opened, and our fifth member joined us in a rush of fabric and perfume.

We all gawked at her as she arrived. Gilda DeVane didn't just command a room when she entered it. She convinced you that she had the power to make the walls disappear with a snap of her fingers. She was smaller than I would've thought, even while wearing a pair of impressively high heels. Despite her tiny size, her body curved into an ample hourglass shape that made Jayne look like Shirley Temple by comparison. Her honey-blond hair was long and wavy, framing her face in such a way that she seemed to be perpetually in silhouette. And her big, sleepy green eyes hinted that she'd just done something that she knew was naughty but that she just couldn't resist participating in.

From the moment I saw her, I couldn't take my eyes off her. Like the body in the water, she held me under some kind of spell.

She took a few steps toward us and paused, with one leg slightly in front of the other. It was the trick of a film star. She knew her best angles and exploited them whenever she could.

“I take it this is the group?” Her voice was low and musical, urging you to lean forward so that you didn't miss anything important.

We clumsily rose to introduce ourselves. She walked the remaining distance and shook hands with each of us. Her hand was soft and left my mitt smelling like lavender.

“It's just so lovely to meet all of you.” She deposited a brown leather pocketbook on the table. It didn't match her shoes or bear anything in common with her outfit, but that didn't matter. Just by virtue of being Gilda's, it seemed like the perfect accessory. “After the way today started, I thought the whole trip might be canceled. When I first heard there was a woman in the water, I was afraid it was one of my girls. Could you imagine how awful that would've been?”

We all murmured that it would've been dreadful. That was the power that Gilda wielded. She could convince you that every thought she had was completely original, even if you'd just uttered the same idea moments before.

She pulled out a chair and sat across from the rest of us. “I heard she didn't have any identification with her. I hope they'll be able to figure out who she is. Poor thing.” Her expression shifted from pensive to something much more cheerful. “Anyway, we've got to put this behind us now. I'm dying to get to know everything about you. Tell me: where do you come from? What do you do?”

We took turns listing our hometowns and what we'd accomplished in our careers so far. She seemed impressed by Jayne's and my theater background, though it's possible she was only being kind.

“I live in Hollywood now,” said Kay. “I've only been there a few months, trying to make it as a singer. I haven't had the nerve to set foot on a studio lot.” She directed her comments to her lap and the floor.

Rather than calling her on it, Gilda gently tapped her on the knee. “I can tell you have a great voice just from listening to you speak.”

“Really?” Kay looked up at her and smiled. She wasn't a girl who was used to compliments.

“And what beautiful eyes you have,” said Gilda. “The men are going to be in trouble when they set their sights on you.”

Kay blushed, but she didn't look down again.

“And you, Violet?” asked Gilda. “How did you end up here?”

“This is actually my second tour with the USO.” I might've been mistaken, but Violet didn't seem nearly as taken with Gilda as the rest of us. Something in her tiny eyes tattled that she wasn't about to be bowled over by the other woman's attempts to disarm us.

“Really? Why, I'm sure you're going to have tons to teach us. Are you a singer like Kay?”

“Nope. I'm a comedienne, though I started as an actress. I was being developed at MGM for a while. Until the war broke out. When the work dried up, I decided to join the tour.” Her short, staccato sentences were begging for an interruption that never seemed to come.

Gilda's hand gracefully framed her face. “What were you in at MGM?”

“Gosh, nothing important. Only bit parts. I never had a chance to become a star like you, though a lot of folks have compared us. In fact, one director I worked with called me Baby Gilda. Isn't that a scream?”

Gilda nodded, her face frozen in a grin. Before she had a chance to disguise her surprise, the doors opened and a man and a woman entered the room.

“Welcome, Ladies,” said the man. “I'm Reg Bancroft, Captain of the
Queen of the Ocean
, and this is Molly Dubois of the USO.” Reg removed a clipboard from his armpit and quickly verified that we were all present and accounted for. “Please accept our apologies for the excitement that's delayed us. I've been informed that the ship is secure, and we'll be able to get on our way shortly.” My lip curled at his use of the word “excitement.” A women had been murdered. Surely there was a more appropriate way to describe it. “First, a few formalities: your luggage will be taken to your rooms. Regrettably, housing quarters are quite tight onboard, so there will only be two rooms for the five of you. I can assure you that the
arrangement is much more generous than what our enlisted men and women are subjected to.” Kay tittered at that. Since the remark wasn't particularly funny, I wondered if she made a habit of laughing at inappropriate times. “The room you are in now is the primary dining hall while onboard the ship. Over there—” he pointed toward a cordoned-off area. While the tables we were at were bare of anything but scratches, the ones he was directing us toward were set with linens, silverware, and glasses. “That is where you will dine, along with any officers onboard. Your food will be brought to you and will be of a different caliber than what is being served to the general population.” I translated what he was saying: we were the high pillows on this bathtub and that meant better chow and more privileges than everyone else. “When you are not rehearsing, you are welcome to enjoy the amenities, including our sundeck, which is also reserved for the officers, and our canteen, where we will attempt to feature nightly entertainment including, I hope, performances by you.”