Page 2 of Nocturne

1

LENA

B lood red.

The dress, the gloves, the shoes, the lipstick.

I’ve always been told as a redhead that I should avoid the color, that the combination is too garish, that I would look like a blood stain.

The thing is, I like looking like a blood stain. I like that when the men in the crowd watch me with those cruel and hungry eyes, that I come across as a warning. Of course, they don’t realize it. It’s all in the subconscious, that deep, hidden part of us that Freud liked to go on about. More often than not, that layer is where I have the most power. I think a lot of women carry their power there, whether they know it or not.

“Five minutes, Miss Reid,” Anne says, poking her head in the dressing room.

I eye her in the mirror and smile at the sight of her cherubic brown face. I quickly raise a finger. “Hold on,” I tell her, getting out of my chair. “I missed you the other night.”

I reach into my vanity case and pull out a paper bag, wincing at the grease spot in the corner, then stride across the room in my stockinged feet, and hand it out to her. “Sorry, one of the sandwiches is probably a little stale, but I made the other one just before I came here.”

She gives me a shy look, hesitating before she accepts them. I’ve only been singing at The Emerald Room for two years, but Anne seems to have come with the institution. I also know she has two small children to support and barely makes enough money to survive, her husband having died during the war. I try to kick back what money I can to her, at least when Marco isn’t looking, but I can always bring her extra food. The woman is too skinny and I know whatever food she has is always going to her kids. Sometimes I wish I could sit her down and make her eat it in front of me.

Then again, maybe she doesn’t actually like my sandwiches.

“You shouldn’t have,” she says as she always does, eyes downcast, clutching the bag to her chest.

“It’s my pleasure,” I tell her. “You know I love to cook.”

Which is a lie I tell her. Aside from the sandwiches, which I only bring for Anne since my ideal food is a little more complex than that, I’ve never cooked anything. I worried about that when I first met Marco, thinking he might expect me to become a housewife and make him dinner every night. Thankfully, he only seems interested in me as arm candy and a good roll in the hay.

For now, anyway.

Anne gives me a grateful nod. “You best get ready. It’s a crowded house tonight.”

She hurries off down the hall and I quickly walk back to the mirror, leaning beneath the lights and studying my face. I give one more swipe of my lipstick, blot with powdered paper, then pull my hair over my shoulder. I slip my heels on and smooth down my dress, which looks dull here but will sparkle like dewdrops on roses once I’m out in the spotlight.

I step out into the hall, taking my place in the wings of the stage, hidden from the spectators. The sound of the last notes from the band, combined with the clink of glasses and the sprinkle of merriment from the crowd, wash over me and I close my eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply through my nose. I always get the jitters at this point, always takes me a moment to come into my own.

The crowd is yours , I repeat to myself. You’re in your element. You’re doing what you’re meant to do until you get where you’re meant to be.

When I open my eyes, I’m ready to go. I look to Joey, the stage manager, waiting for my cue to go on stage. He doesn’t give me a nod yet, just holds my gaze before looking out at the crowd. His expression is tense, brow lowered, jaw tight, and I immediately feel a creeping sensation on my scalp.

Something is wrong.

I raise my brows, trying to silently ask him what it is. He just shakes his head slightly, rubbing his lips together as he scans the room. Finally he gives me terse look and nods, followed by a faint thumbs up.

Sometimes bad things happen when I’m at work. I’m no stranger to violence. It pulses in the veins of this city. And when you’re a singer at The Emerald Room—which belongs to the most notorious gangster in Los Angeles—sometimes there’s bloodshed.

But when I step onto the stage, everything seems as it should be. The crowd looks to be a mix of the regulars—dealers, mobsters, criminals, women out for a good time with the wrong men, and the occasional skittish couple dressed to the nines, wondering if they’ve made a mistake.

Just before my introduction is made and the spotlight comes on my face, I catch a glimpse of three cops standing at the side of the stage. They look like the regulars who always come in here, ready to look the other way when they get their bribes. But still, the way they stand there, hands clasped at their fronts, watching me patiently, I can’t help but feel a thread of panic. My instincts are better than most human’s and I’ve learned to trust them.

Then the spotlight blinds me and I fall into routine. I delicately grab the microphone, giving a sly smile to the crowd, something that’s both seductive and secretive, and with the band’s cue, I launch into my first song, “I Cover the Waterfront.” Somehow I’m able to keep my worries out of mind, my role coming as easy to me as slipping into a warm bath.

I do my usual set of five songs, finishing to applause and the occasional rose hurled on stage. It isn’t until I’m collecting them, waving goodbye to the audience, that the prickle on the back of my neck returns. I glance over to the cops, but they’re gone now.

It isn’t until I step backstage that I find out where they went.

All three of them are standing with Joey outside my dressing room.

I catch Anne walking past, giving me a fearful look before she disappears.

“Lena,” Joey says to me as I approach, his tone sobering.

“What’s this?” I ask, my resolve wavering for a moment, trying to appear strong in front of the police. My mind goes over a million things I’ve done wrong, a million reasons why they would come looking for me.

They can’t know. They can’t .

“Ms. Reid,” a cop with a red nose says. “Where were you on the night of January ninth?”

“January ninth?” I repeat, trying to think back. “I don’t know. That was six days ago. Here I guess.” I look at Joey and he shakes his head. I guess I wasn’t. I look back to them. “I was with a friend of mine, then.”

“And who is this friend of yours?” the shorter cop asks.

I give them a steady look. They all know I’m dating Marco, one of Mickey Cohen’s best buds. Still, I don’t know if this is a trap.

“I was with Marco Russo,” I say carefully. “He can vouch for me.”

Unless he’s setting me up to take the fall for something…

“Ms. Reid,” the third cop asks, scribbling something on a pad of paper, “when was the last time you spoke with Elizabeth Short?”

My blood seems to thin. “Betty? Why?”

“Just answer the question, ma’am.”

I look at Joey. “What’s going on? Is she okay?”

The red-nosed cop nods at my dressing room. “Do you mind if we take this in there? You might need to sit down.”

I shake my head, panic clawing through my chest like a cat. “No. No, tell me here, tell me what happened. Is Betty okay?”

“Elizabeth Short was found murdered,” the cop says but I barely hear him. It feels like the hall is starting to distort and spin.

“She’s going to faint,” I hear one of them say and before I know what’s happening, I’m sitting in my dressing room and Joey is grabbing a bottle of vodka from my table, thrusting it into my hands, mumbling how I might need it.

“Murdered?” I repeat. “What? How?”

“I’m afraid we can’t give you any details,” the notebook cop says. “But we’re going to have to follow up on your whereabouts with Marco.”

“You think I had something to do with it?” I ask, my words cracking.

No. Not Betty. She’s my closest friend.

Was.

Was.

No.

“I don’t understand,” I say, tears flooding my eyes. “She was murdered?” I ask again.

“We’re sorry for your loss,” the shorter cop says. He’s the only one who sounds mildly sympathetic. “Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt her?”

“No,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. The vodka burns my throat as I take a swig directly from the bottle. “I don’t know anyone who would want to hurt her. Everyone loved Betty.”

Didn’t they?

“Maybe that was the problem,” he says.

“When was the last time you saw her?” asks the cop with his pencil poised above his notepad.

I pause. The last night with Betty floods back to me—her wide, frightened eyes darting to the windows of my apartment, the way she’d chewed her thumbnail to the quick. The memory tightens around my chest like a vise.

“January eight?” I say, the words sticking in my throat. “Yes. The eighth. She came to my apartment late. She was…anxious.”

To say the least.

“Anxious about what?”

I hesitate. Betty hadn’t just been anxious—she’d been terrified. Pacing my living room, peering through the curtains every few minutes, jumping at the slightest sound.

“They’re watching me, Lena,” she’d said. “I see them everywhere. That black Cadillac? It’s been outside my building for three nights.”

And that wasn’t all. She’d told me more, things I instinctively know I shouldn’t share with these men, men who are on Cohen’s payroll.

“Mickey’s got me working for these new people, these weird Europeans, and I don’t trust them. They keep promising me the moon and yet…the things I’ve seen…” She’d shaken her head, unable to finish the thought.

“She was worried about money,” I say carefully. Half-truths are always more convincing. “Said she needed to get out of town. Start fresh.”

“Did she say where she was going?” the notebook cop asks.

“San Francisco.” That part, at least, was true. “She was planning to leave after…after one last job.”

“One last job?” The shorter cop leans forward, brows raised. “What kind of job?”

I take another swig of vodka to buy time. I can’t tell them she was doing deliveries and favors for Cohen, to these Europeans who frightened her so badly. Can’t tell them how her eyes had filled with tears when she told me about her “one last courier job” at the Biltmore Hotel on the ninth.

“After this, I’m done,” she’d promised. “I’ll call you when it’s over.”

“I don’t know exactly,” I lie. “Just something that would give her enough money to get away…”

As I speak, I think of Betty’s diary. She’d been carrying the small leather-bound book in her purse that night. I hadn’t thought much of it until I found it tucked between my sofa cushions two days later. I’d tried calling her boardinghouse, but no one knew where she was.

And now I know why.

She was dead.

And whatever’s in that diary might explain why. Did she forget it there by accident? Or was it a message to me? Of course, the moment I found it I put it on my shelf. I didn’t look at it. What kind of friend would I be to look at someone’s private diary?

“Was she seeing anyone? Anyone who might have been, I don’t know, possessive? Jealous?” The red-nosed cop’s eyes narrow, as if Betty and I have a type.

“Betty dated a lot of men, but nothing serious.” I shake my head. “Look, she was just a girl trying to make it in Hollywood. Like thousands of others.”

“Some girls try harder than others,” the cop mutters, and I feel a surge of anger cut through my grief. “Is there anything else you remember about that night? Anything she might have mentioned?”

The urge to tell him about the diary is strong but I rein it in. It’s true that half the cops in this town are on Cohen’s payroll, but the other half aren’t. What if there’s some incriminating evidence about me in those pages? I’m selfish enough to worry about that. Not to mention I don’t know what Betty would say about herself, potentially damaging her reputation after death. I need to read it over first, at the very least.

“No,” I say firmly. “She was scared, but she didn’t say of what. Or who.”

“And that wasn’t enough for you to worry?”

I shrug through a sharp pang of guilt. “Mister, most of us in this town are scared, one way or another.”

The cops exchange glances, clearly dissatisfied with my answers. But what else can I say without putting myself in danger?

Without exposing what I really am?

“We’ll be in touch, Ms. Reid. Don’t leave town.” The red-nosed cop hands me his card. “Call if you remember anything else.”

After they leave, Joey hovers uncertainly. “You okay, Lena? You don’t have to go back on if you don’t want to.”

I take another long swig of vodka, letting it burn away some of the shock. Elizabeth is dead. Murdered. And I’ve just lied to the police about what I know. As if I wasn’t feeling guilty already. After all, I was the one that introduced Betty to this racket.

“I’ll be fine,” I say, rising to my feet and smoothing down my dress. “The show must go on, right?”

But as I check my reflection, I barely recognize the woman staring back at me. Her eyes hold a new darkness. Tonight, for the first time, the blood-red of my attire feels like an omen rather than a statement.

As I reapply my lipstick with trembling hands, I silently promise Betty that I’ll find out what happened to her. I need to get home, need to read that diary, see what Betty knew.

I cap my lipstick and take a deep breath. Time to become Lena Reid again, the sultry singer with nothing—and everything—to hide. But underneath, with every beat of my heart, I feel the weight of my guilt.

I’m so sorry, Betty. I should have protected you.

I step back into the hallway, head high, ready to face the crowd once more. But as I move toward the stage, I feel it again—that prickling at the back of my neck. The sense of being watched.

When I glance back, the hallway is empty. But the feeling remains, a shadow following me into the spotlight.

The lock clicks behind me as I enter my apartment, silence wrapping around me like a shroud. I lean against the door, letting the mask fall away. No more Lena Reid, the composed singer.

Just me, terrified and aggrieved.

My hands shake as I cross to the liquor cabinet, pouring two fingers of whiskey and downing it in one swallow. The burn does nothing to warm the chill spreading through me.

I move to the fireplace, mechanically arranging kindling and logs. The familiar ritual steadies my nerves as the flames catch, orange light dancing across the hardwood floors. For a moment, I just stare into the fire, mesmerized by its hungry motion.

Then I cross to the bookshelf, reaching above the collected works of Fitzgerald for the slim leather-bound book I placed there. Elizabeth’s diary.

I have to believe that she left it here for me to find. I have to believe that she would want me to read it.

Still, as I settle in front of the fire, running my fingers over the worn cover before opening it, I feel shame and guilt, about to read something that Betty probably meant for her eyes only. I open it carefully, her handwriting fills the pages—neat but hurried, as if she couldn’t get the information down fast enough.

I flip toward the most recent entries, wanting to read them first to see if they give any immediate clues, then I’ll go back to the beginning.

Dec. 14 – Package delivery to warehouse on Alameda. The Europeans watching again. Blonde woman in Cadillac followed three blocks.

Dec. 17 – Overheard conversation about “blood types” at the Satin Slipper. The tall one with the accent asking about medical records from blood drive.

Dec. 21 – Another package to the warehouse. Saw strange symbols painted on inner wall. They looked kind of like this:

I turn the page to find Elizabeth’s crude reproduction of symbols that make my blood run cold. They look ancient, like something out of the Bronze Age.

Dec. 28 – They’re watching my building now. Saw the blonde woman again. Think I’m being followed everywhere. Mickster says I’m imagining things. He never takes me seriously.

Dec. 30 – Saw something I shouldn’t have at the warehouse. A room with a table. Someone strapped down. A hit job? A sex thing? Getting out as soon as I can. This isn’t worth it. What if they somehow connect me to this stuff? What if I’m a patsy?

Jan. 8 – Leaving this diary at L’s apartment. If something happens to me, she’ll know why. Lena, in some ways I hope you’re reading these words. The Europeans are dangerous. The ones that work for Mickster. Maybe even Bugsy. I don’t know how deep this goes and I don’t want to know, but this is beyond the normal. I’m done. My final job (and I mean it!) is tomorrow night at the Biltmore, 8:30. For the first time they didn’t just promise me any screen tests or meetings. They promised enough money to disappear afterward. Don’t trust them but need the cash to get to SF.

The last entry. The job she never returned from.

My eyes skim the descriptions of the Europeans—a tall man, built like a boxer, with dark hair and cold blue eyes. The striking blonde woman with a heavy accent who moved with unusual grace, a Veronica Lake wannabe. The sly brunette with the diamonds. The heavyset man who never spoke. The thin man with the glasses. No names, just these tiny physical details and locations of where she saw them and what she dropped off for them.

I think of what the police would make of this. Of how they’d question how Elizabeth knew these people, what she was delivering. Drugs, I’m assuming. Maybe gambling money. Some hush hush photographs. But in the end, there would be questions that would inevitably lead back to me.

Questions that could eventually expose what I am.

What I’ve tried so hard to hide.

My parents told me when I moved to LA, that I mustn’t ever let the world know the truth about me, that I needed to stay in the shadows and stay out of trouble. But my natural magnetism made staying in the shadows tricky—I was too memorable. And I wanted it that way. After all, you don’t have ambitions of becoming a singer, a star, only to dull your shine.

So I decided the best place for me would be out in the open. People would feel compelled by me, drawn to me, because of my onstage persona—and not for any other reason. No one would question why they had a mild obsession with Lena Reid, why Lena Reid always seemed to get what she wants.

But now? If people start poking into my life a little deeper? If they look at my parents? My upbringing? Then they’ll see things that won’t make any sense. And I made a promise to the others that I would never let us be exposed.

For a brief, panicked moment, I consider destroying the diary. I get to my feet and cross to the fireplace, kneading the worn book between my hands. Feeding it to the flames would erase this dangerous evidence. I wouldn’t have to hide it. But I can’t bring myself to do it. This diary is all that’s left of Betty—her voice, her fears, her final days.

I sigh and step back from the fire just as a slight movement outside the window catches my attention. I move to the curtains and carefully peer through a small gap. The street below is mostly empty, shrouded in the bleak mist of a January night.

Then I see it.

A figure stands in the shadows across the street, the ember of a cigarette glowing briefly as it takes a drag. His face remains hidden, but something about his posture—the stillness, the focus—tells me he’s watching my window.

Watching me.

I let the curtain fall back into place, heart hammering against my ribs. Is it one of the Europeans? One of Cohen’s men? An obsessed fan?

Or just a man having a smoke who happens to be looking in my direction.

Still, the feeling of being hunted settles over me like a physical weight. I gather the diary, holding it close to my chest as I scan the apartment for a hiding place. It needs to be somewhere safe, somewhere no casual observer would look. I’ll read the rest of it tomorrow, with a clear head.

Finally, I decide on the hollow space beneath the floorboard at the foot of my bed—a hiding spot I’d discovered when I first moved in and had kept secret since. I carefully pry up the loose board and place the diary inside, along with the emerald necklace my parents gave me when I left home, as well as trinkets that Marco had gifted me over the last year, plus some wads of emergency cash.

When I’m done, I replace the floorboard, then push the small rug back over it. No one would know to look there. Betty’s secrets—and mine—will be safe.

I straighten, suddenly aware of how exhausted I am. The weight of the night’s events—learning of Betty’s murder, lying to the police, reading her diary—presses down on me.

Someone killed my friend. Someone who scared her enough that she left behind a diary full of evidence. Someone who might be watching me right now from the shadows.

I move back to the window and peer at the figure across the street.

The cigarette drops to the pavement, crushed under a shoe. The figure remains for a moment longer, then melts back into the darkness.