Design for Dying by Renee Patrick

off what you came here for.”
    Kay knew me too well. “Is Vi around?”
    â€œIn her room,” Kay said. “She’s been up there a lot since Ruby was killed. You know how close those two had gotten. Get her to come down. The cake should still be here.”
    *   *   *
    I FELT THE tug on the second-story landing. My old floor. I walked to the door of the room I’d shared with Ruby. Knocking on it felt supremely odd. I was used to simply throwing it wide.
    There was no answer. I stepped inside.
    Ruby apparently hadn’t had a roommate when she died. The cramped space was filled with only her clutter. A dressing gown tossed over a chair, an overflowing ashtray. The closet was half full of her clothes, a familiar assortment of blouses, day dresses and skirts plus a pair of slacks for around the house. Ruby, proud of her dancer’s legs, didn’t care for women’s trousers. You know why Garbo wears them, don’t you? To hide those gunboats below her ankles.
    I sat on my old bed. How many nights had Ruby and I lain here in the dark, sharing stories, tales of Uncle Danny, secret codes Ruby had invented during her childhood? On the other side of the wall behind me was the lemon tree in the garden, its fragrance filling the room. Ruby had always referred to it as hers.
    â€œYou can’t even see it from in here,” I’d complain. “The window’s in the wrong place.”
    â€œOr the tree is. Doesn’t matter, mermaid. I know it’s out there, like the glorious future that’s waiting for me. You, too.” I didn’t mind being an afterthought. It was her fantasy.
    I rested my head on the pillow and sought comfort in the pattern of water stains on the ceiling, feeling years older than the girl who had done the same thing months before.
    *   *   *
    PUTTING TINY AND delicate Violet Webb in the attic room that once sheltered two household maids was akin to placing an angel atop a Christmas tree. Vi had come to Hollywood by way of Seattle, where she’d played Peter Pan in a musical production written by her vocal coach. I pegged her as more the Tinker Bell type, all golden hair and faraway eyes.
    A scratchy baritone rendition of “Stardust” greeted me at the summit of the narrow stairs. Vi, always ready to belt out a tune, was letting others sing for her. She opened the door to my knock, blinked as if waking from a dream, then held me tight.
    â€œI was going to call you,” she said.
    â€œNow you don’t have to. See? I saved you a nickel.”
    The song ended and Vi turned off the phonograph. She wiped her eyes. “I was just thinking about that day Ruby called you mermaid and it gave me the idea we should go to the beach.”
    â€œYou know what I remember about that day? The handsome fellow who followed you around all afternoon.”
    â€œEdward! He wore me out with his stories. At least we got something from him.” She went to her bureau and her face fell anew.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œThat picture Edward took of the three of us at the beach. I forgot I gave it to a policeman. He stopped me outside and said he needed a picture of Ruby. It was the only one I had.” She stared mournfully at the spot where the photograph had been, framed by scraps of yellowing tape.
    â€œHow did Ruby seem lately?”
    â€œStrange. One day last month we were planning to go to Warners for a call. When it was time to leave, she was in the parlor reading a magazine, not even dressed! She wasn’t going, said she was beyond that. Can you imagine? Beyond Warner Brothers?” Her eyes widened in cartoonish amazement. “A few days later I found her in the garden staring at Mrs. Lindros’s roses. I could see she’d been crying, but she wouldn’t say why.”
    â€œCrying? I never once saw Ruby cry.”
    â€œIt wasn’t in her nature. She was so stubborn.