been framed and propped on an easel. Sylvia squinted at it, noting that Fairbanks had signed it to “My good friend Tucker Greene.” Apparently Greene had had Hollywood connections even before he tried his hand at directing.
Sylvia smiled, feeling she’d learned a secret fact. Because certainly the poster had nothing to do with the exhibit. It was original to the room, unlike the rest. The flapper gowns and jewelry, along with the sheet music and photographs, had come with the exhibit. At first, Sylvia had thought this section of the exhibit seemed superfluous, but then she started reading the information printed on cards next to the various displays. The Twenties, it said, had been a coming-of-age period for young women. Affluence and postwar giddiness had combined to create a new sensuality and freedom, particularly felt by females. Exploration and sensual delights were at a high point.
“Sylvia!” Tina said. “Are you listening to me? Why are you so quiet?”
“Sorry! Just thinking.”
“About that woman? Or about flapper gowns. You’d look great in that, you know.” She pointed to a beaded gold gown with spaghetti straps and a fringed hem. The gown had no waist, just a thick band that seemed to settle around the mannequin’s hips. The outfit was topped off with a beaded headband highlighted by a dyed feather.
“You think?”
“Oh, sure. That’s the perfect style for girls without boobs.”
Sylvia shot a look to her friend. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
Tina shrugged. “It’s true. So, are you gonna tell me what’s on your mind or not?”
Sylvia wandered away from the gown. “I was just thinking about Louisa. The way the past is so alive for her.” She shuddered slightly. “Me, I’d just as soon forget my past.”
Tina snorted. “Who could blame you? And maybe then we could have a normal conversation about boyfriends and vibrators without you going all defensive on me.”
“I’m not defensive,” Sylvia said, even though she probably was. “And what’s so normal about discussing vibrators anyway?”
Tina just rolled her eyes. “I’m going down to the food cart. Coming?”
Sylvia started to say yes, but then she noticed the guard in the corner. And even though there was something oddly creepy about the way he watched her, there was something compelling, too. “I’m going to stay a bit,” she said, turning back to Tina. “I’m not hungry.”
“Suit yourself,” Tina said casually. “But let me have the backpack.” They’d both shoved their wallets, makeup and other tourist-girl essentials into a nylon Venice Beach daypack that Syl had picked up from a street vendor. Now, they were taking turns shouldering the thing.
Sylvia handed it over. “Spend your money,” she admonished with mock severity. “And stay out of my makeup.”
“Oh, sure,” Tina retorted. “Just spoil all my fun.” She aimed a grin at Syl, then headed out the door. “Catch you in a bit.”
Sylvia watched her go, shaking her head in amusement.
“Letting go of the past,” a voice said. “Now that’s something I bet a lot of people would like to do.”
Sylvia spun around, surprised to see that the guard had moved silently to stand beside her. “Pardon me?”
“I overheard you and your friend,” he explained, his smile friendly. “Sometimes it’s not about escaping your past, you know. Sometimes, it’s about confronting it.”
Sylvia squinted at him. “Aren’t you…” She trailed off, lifting the exhibit brochure and glancing at it. Sure enough, the guard she was talking to was pictured right there. How odd.
“I travel with the show,” he said. “Keep an eye on things. Make any adjustments that might be needed. That kind of thing.”
“Oh. Right.” She frowned, not really in the mood to talk to strangers, no matter how kindly. “I’ll just go catch up with my friend.”
“Of course, miss.” He stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled out a quarter, and started twirling it between his fingers. She watched, fascinated by the agility with which the coin danced over his hand, weaving in and out, over and under and then—snap!—falling to the ground and rolling under the easel with the Fairbanks movie poster.
“Oh! And you were doing so well, too.”
He nodded toward the easel. “I don’t suppose you could snatch that thing back for me? These old knees don’t get down on the ground like they used to.”
She hesitated, not entirely sure why, then realized she was being ridiculous. “Sure. No problem.” She edged toward the poster, keeping her eye to the ground as she looked for the coin. “There you are,” she whispered, bending down. As her fingers closed around it, she felt something shove her from behind. She toppled forward, slamming against the poster and then actually tumbling through it.
But that couldn’t be right. Just her mind playing tricks as a wave of dizziness crashed over her. Her knees went weak and she sagged to the floor.
And the last thing Sylvia remembered thinking was that if she was going to faint, that guard had damn well better say “thank you” when she gave him back his coin.
CHAPTER TWO
TUCKER LEANED AGAINST the railing and watched the swirling, whirling melee below him. His sister, intent on garnering a reputation for throwing the best parties in Beverly Hills, had gone all out with this one. Everyone who was anyone had been invited, and even more had breached the door without invitations. The masquerade theme was fitting, allowing the guests to quaff the illicit alcohol with less fear of recognition. And, surely, the family’s social position assured that they would not be troubled.
Mostly, though, Tucker knew that the guests had come to slide into the oblivion of amusement and temporarily forget the undertone of fear that so recently colored the neighborhood. Fear of a killer who had attacked the community’s women. The Ragtime Strangler they were calling the beast, and the very thought made Tucker’s blood boil, his hatred of anyone who would so intentionally cause pain to a woman cutting at him like the blade of the knife the killer had wielded.
With effort, he forced himself not to think of that, turning his thoughts back to the party and his sister. He looked down, surveying the scene. Women in white with gossamer wings. Men with harlequin collars, their faces painted with black and white greasepaint. And everyone dancing, flirting, laughing. And, of course, drinking.
Honestly, he should be down there with them, but somehow he couldn’t quite work up the energy. He didn’t begrudge his sister her need for entertainment, but he didn’t feel lighthearted enough to join in the fun. The horrors he had seen during the Great War had robbed him of a certain ability to escape into mindless fun. And the specter of the Strangler made him wary, unlike his peers who danced and drank to forget.
Mostly, though, Tucker was occupied with his own worries. Specifically, his mind was whirring, busy plotting ways to kill off Detective Spencer Goodnight, Los Angeles Police Department.
He needed something spectacular, of course. Something that did
