The Pinch of Death – a mystery by Alysse Aallyn

Chapter 20. A Dancer

Ingebrand Realty was a one man shop, Jacquetta was overjoyed to see. A bilious little man imprisoned by ringing telephones and piles of documents, cast a glance over Jacquetta that can only be described as “concupiscent.” Jacquetta cast her own eyes heavenwards, thanking St. Barbara, who had been the patron saint of realtors ever since she was thrown from a tower.

“Sit, sit!” cried the little man, leaping to his feet. “Coffee? Water? Soda?”

The coffee was soldered to the bottom of the pot and the water came from a highly suspect drinking fountain. But the soda, though syrupy grape, was at least cold.

“What can I do for you?” he perched dangerously on the edge of his desk and when the phone rang, he jerked out the cord. She had his full attention.

“A friend of mine has disappeared,” she said, hoping the frantic calculation behind her eyes was invisible to this man. Apparently, it was.

“Oh?” he encouraged, looking ready to discuss her friend for hours.

“D. L. LeRoi,” she confided. “Of course, that’s a pseudonym. Monmouth Place in Brooklyn.” She was hoping he would give her a clue to the gender of the renter and she wasn’t disappointed.

“D. L. LeRoi!” he winked. “No forgetting her. She admitted it was a pseudonym, but as long as it’s not done for the purposes of fraud – I mean she paid the three months in advance.” He leaned perilously close, “You know Roxelle Shields?”

Jacquetta could not conceal her surprise. “It was rented by Roxelle Shields?” Roxelle Shields was a famous – or infamous – burlesque dancer.

“Well, she sent her secretary. She didn’t come in herself. Pretty blonde girl.”

Jacquetta sipped nervously, getting ready to douse him if he fell into her lap.

“I did wonder if the apartment wasn’t for the secretary, really,” he said. “You’d think a famous name would require something a little more upscale.”

“My friend’s the secretary,” Jacquetta said faintly. “You guessed right. She was staying there and now she’s gone. I don’t know how to get in touch with her.”

“Let’s see.” He reflected for a moment but made no move to look anything up. “She gave Miss Shield’s club name as a reference.”

“Do you have that address?” Jacquetta produced a pad and pen.

“Oh, you can look it up,” he shrugged. “Brass Ass! It’s in New Jersey somewhere.”

“I’m afraid something happened to my friend,” Jacquetta lied. “She was hiding out from her husband and he was so angry. You know how it goes.”

The real estate manager looked alarmed. “Oh, my God,” he said, “Did you go over there? Is it –“
“No one there,” Jacquetta reassured. “The door was open so I looked inside.”

“Well, she had to give a reference,” he admitted. Unwillingly he dragged his brass ass off the desk and searching for files, found one. “Glasstown Bank cashier’s check,” he said, “That won’t help.

Oh, here’s her previous address. “Iridium House, 300 Main St, Glasstown.”

Beatrix’s house! Was that how she found out?

“Maybe she used her maiden name,” said Jacquetta hopefully. “I just can’t remember what that was.”

“Powell?” said the man, reading. He clearly wasn’t going to show her the file. “Avalon Powell?”

“That’s her all right,” said Jacquetta. “Any phone numbers?”

“The club listed under “work”. Oh, here’s one under “personal.”

He peered at her over the file. “It’s a Jersey number.”

“Her Mom’s house!” said Jacquetta. “Maybe she went back there.” She wrote down the number the man gave; it meant nothing. She was dying to phone, but not with Mr. Nosey around. She almost knocked him over as she stood up.

“Thanks so much,” she said, putting her unfinished soda into his outstretched hand. “You’ve been so helpful. I’ve got to hurry so I won’t miss my train.”

It was the only true thing she’d said so far.

“Do you want to leave your name and number?” he called after her hopefully. “Just in case.”

“No, thank you,” said Jacquetta. “I’m scared of that husband!”

“Poor girl.” The manager seemed honestly anxious about LeRoi’s mythical dilemma. “She was so young, too.”

Jacquetta was in no mood to visit the Brass Ass alone. It was her only new clue, but how real could it possibly be? Maybe it was some kind of a joke, prank or pun. No one would describe Avalon as “so young”; she was way too carefully made up; a midlife woman if ever there was one. But the Glasstown names connected LeRoi indelibly to the case.

“I’ll call the minute I get home,” thought Jacquetta. “Maybe from The Royal Mess.”