12
Madame Cyrette’s Jewels
Los Angeles, 1918
Work took Nellie back to Los Angeles more often than she anticipated. Was it short staff and long hours that frazzled her nerves, or was she in a temper because what had once been a joy was now routine? Walking back to her hotel at the end of a particularly grueling day, she spotted a bevy of beautifully dressed ladies of leisure gathered in a circle on the walkway ahead. Laughter spilled from their midst. She supposed she would have to step into the street to get around them.
If any one of these aimless women had to earn her keep, she wouldn’t have the energy to flit about the street like a songbird announcing her discovery of juicy berries. Nellie’s tongue was beginning to stick to the roof of her mouth. She looked across the street to see if she might escape to a cafe and refresh herself with a glass of iced berry tea. She was stepping into the crosswalk when one of the songbirds called out her name.
Bright sun shone behind the figure of a tall woman. Nellie could not make out her features. The woman broke from the flock and glided toward Nellie, her silhouette shimmering in the heat. Nellie did not register the face until she was close enough to take in the pointy-toed Italian-heeled satin shoes peeking out from under the hem of a frothy frock and the delicate gold chain studded with precious stones that rested on lovely collar bones. The miner’s wife!
Mrs. McGregory took up Nellie’s hands in her own and greeted her effusively. As she spoke, Nellie detected a slight accent she did not recall hearing before. Not Irish. No, it was French. Mrs. McGregory volunteered answers to questions Nellie would have asked, given a chance. At the same time, she kept a sharp eye on her companions. Los Angeles was now her home, she offered. Life had treated her well. She’d been lucky.
The tittering throng broke apart and began picking their way closer. Mrs. McGregory leaned in and whispered in Nellie’s ear. “Please. No one here knows me by my old name. I am known as Madame Cyrette.” She squeezed Nellie’s hand. “Madame Cyrette. Please remember.” Pressing a calling card into Nellie’s hand, she extracted the promise of a visit to her apartment. “I live in a fashionable section of the city: you’ll see.” As she turned to go, a breeze lifted the hem of her billowy skirt. She fairly floated in the direction of her friends, stopping once to turn back briefly and call out to Nellie, “J’ai beaucoup à vous raconter!”
Nellie stood alone on the sidewalk betting that, indeed, Madam would have much to tell her. Forget the cafe across the street. She marched herself over to West Seventh, took the lift to the twelfth floor, and entered the elegant new Mary Louise Tea Room.
Shoppers seated all around her were tucking into Thursday’s special, chicken dinners. A waitress costumed in a svelte black dress and a spotless white apron secured at the waist by an ample bow set a plate in front of her. The breast of chicken glistened on white china. Buttered English peas, glazed carrot coins, and a scoop of mashed potato smothered in chicken gravy circled the piece of roasted poultry. Nellie spread a linen napkin across her lap, took a few sips of her mineral water, and savored the aroma in the steam rising from her plate. When was the last time dinner had been an occasion? The holidays with Opal and Leone, she supposed. She placed a forkful of moist chicken in her mouth.
What was the occasion that brought her to the tea room on a Thursday? Loneliness and boredom: conditions not of circumstances but of the soul, she was coming to realize. The miner’s wife looked to be neither lonely nor bored. How did Madame Cyrette manage to migrate from a shack in Montana, to a shop in Idaho, to a life of leisure in Southern California? Nellie had to know.
R
It turned out that Madame Cyrette’s view of a fashionable neighborhood was Venice of America. Developed a decade before by Abbott Kinney, the area struggled to live up to Kinney’s vision of an art and cultural center. Ornate Venetian style buildings vied with an amusement pier that featured lowbrow entertainment, and the Philistines were winning the competition. No matter, when Nellie stepped out of a lift and onto lush green carpet in a hallway smelling of fresh beeswax, she concluded that Madame Cyrette likely never set foot on the pier.
The warm glow from the mahogany wood wainscot played well with the rich cream-colored wallpaper adorned with sketches of French courtiers frolicking in the woods. Nellie found her way to a tall door encased in ornately carved trim. She tapped a brass door knocker. A maid opened the door and stepped aside, allowing Nellie to enter. Nellie spoke a few words of greeting and offered her card to the expressionless young woman, who glanced at it quickly and beckoned Nellie to follow her.
Without a word, the maid ushered Nellie into a tastefully appointed room, where the exquisitely robed lady had arranged herself on a velveteen divan, prepared to serve tea against a decor that was a symphony of rich brown hues.
Nellie chose a tapestry-patterned Louis XV armchair to settle into and murmured thanks to the silent domestic who served her lavender tea and slightly stale lemon shortbread cookies.
“Thank you, Maria, you may leave us now. Go do the shopping, why don’t you.” As soon as she heard the front door close, Mrs. McGregory launched into the story of her transformation into Madame Cyrette.
“When the lease was up on my little shop, the landlord and I were unable to come to a new agreement. I felt it would be uncharitable of me not to give my husband a second chance, so I returned to Montana. Good people had contributed to a fund for injured miners, and it appeared that we might be able to purchase a new house. It seemed that he had pulled himself out of his alcoholic abyss, but to my sorrow, his sobriety proved short-lived.” Her eyes filled. Teardrops formed on her long, dark lashes. They glittered in the morning sunlight that streamed in through the window. She drew a handkerchief from the pocket of her Chinese kimono and touched the corner of her eye, drawing the moisture without removing the Vaseline that made her lashes shine.
“Mrs. Scott, I’ve left him for good to his boisterous friends, his whiskey, and his coarse ways. I did the right thing, wouldn’t you say?”
The crumpled face of the damaged man floated before Nellie. “I … suppose.” Her voice trailed off. The older she got, the less she liked being asked to rubber-stamp the actions of others.
Madame lifted her teacup to her lips in such a way that Nellie could not help but notice the large diamond ring that now replaced the thin gold band. “I moved to San Francisco to learn dress design and then I moved here, where I have found great success.”
“Evidently.” Nellie smiled. “How did you manage that?”
Madame’s face froze and then defrosted as quickly as Nellie imagined she had dispelled thoughts of her suffering husband. “I had a benefactor, shall we say, and leave it at that?”
Steps in the hall alerted them that the maid had returned from her errands. When she entered the room with a fresh teapot, Nellie declined and began to rise from her chair, but her hostess implored her to stay.
“It’s not often I have the company of another woman who understands the rigor it takes to do what we have done, Mrs. Scott.”
Nellie raised her eyebrow. “And what is that?”
“We have achieved independence and career success, wouldn’t you say? Of course, the hard work is over and done for me.” She shooed the maid out of the room. Reaching into her lavish robe, she pulled forth a money belt from its hiding place around her waist. She emptied the contents onto a heavy gold charger that sat on the low table beside the silver tea set. Sparkling gems, clear and white, spilled into the dish. Next, she retrieved from deep within her bosom a chamois-skin bag she wore, filled with sapphire stones.
“I keep these darlings close to my skin, my dear Mrs. Scott.” She flushed with pleasure. “I love them more than anything in the world.”
A tap at the door drew the maid from the kitchen. Madame Cyrette scooped up her darlings and sent them back into hiding just as Maria brought her mistress an embossed card and set it down on a silver card tray in plain view. Mr. Arthur Clarke, Realtor, the card read. Madam dismissed Maria with a nod and then turned to Nellie. Touching her bosom with one hand, she raised the other hand to her mouth and placed the tip of her forefinger to her lips. Shhh shush. Was there more to this subterfuge than the story madam was telling?
“Ah, Madame Cyrette, so good to”— a good-looking young man swept into the room with the proprietary air of a tomcat—“see you.” The warmth drained from his eyes when he spotted Nellie. Recovering quickly, he caught up madam’s hand and pressed his lips to her fingers. When he raised his eyes to appraise Nellie, she tucked her hands under her skirt and gave him a curt nod.
The maid returned with refreshments for the new guest. She locked eyes with the young man. Then she drew up a chair for him next to her mistress. Mr. Clarke took the seat, crossing his legs in the way of men who feel at home in their surroundings. Nellie, who guessed this was not the benefactor, watched as he worked himself into a fever over the wonderful values in real estate and the fortunes women were making. Her hostess hung on every word, placing her hand over her heart now and then. Whether it was a gesture of wonderment at the gentleman’s wisdom or an unconscious check on the safety of the little bag nestled between her breasts, Nellie did not know.
After Mr. Clarke had excused himself, Madame Cyrette confessed what Nellie already knew. She had never revealed the details of her former life to her new friends. The discordance between the miner’s wife Nellie had met several years ago, and the redolent Jezebel who now sat before her made Nellie’s head hurt. Again, she made signs of leaving, but Madame Cyrette leaned across the tea table and laid her hand on Nellie’s arm. “Arthur is such a wonderful companion. He takes me to dinners at the San Gabriel Mission. We go for walks on the beach and dances at the Ambassador Hotel.” She continued to restrain Nellie. “He drives a little red roadster, and we tour the streets where the movie stars have their beautiful homes.”
Nellie’s impatience grew. She extricated herself from the grip her hostess had on her arm and made her excuses, more firmly this time. The maid was quickly on hand with Nellie’s coat.
As she made her way back to her utilitarian hotel room, where court reports in need of transcription piled up on the writing desk that doubled as a bedside table, she puzzled over the twists and turns life takes. In truth, Mrs. McGregory had risen from circumstances meaner than any she had experienced, yet Nellie saw no life of leisure ahead for herself. Would she be happy in Madame Cyrette’s present situation? She shuddered at the thought and resolved never again to allow curiosity to tempt her to play the voyeur.
R
In the months that followed, Nellie often thought about Venice of America’s doyenne. When had the comfort from sorrow the woman sought in dreams of a better of life and the diversion of creative work turned into a steely-eyed love of money? Nellie searched her own heart for traces of avarice and burned with shame when she recalled arguments with John over bettering their circumstances. It wasn’t about money, she told her heart. It must not have been about independence or career success either. She had a good measure of both, and still, she was dissatisfied. What, then?
Nellie chanced to be at the court reporter’s table on the day Jack McGregory made an appearance to petition the court. Nellie did not recognize the miner until he began to tell his story in a boozy Irish brogue. Careful to keep her fingers moving on her stenotype machine, she looked up at the petitioner. His hair was combed, his clothes were clean, and he was missing a hand.
“You have come to town to identify the body of your wife, Marianne McGregory, also known as Madame Cyrette?” The judge spoke kindly.
The miner stood before the judge and removed his hat. “Yes, sir. It were she.”
“And you wish to take her back and bury her in Montana, even though she was not living with you as your wife?”
The miner dropped his head and shuffled his feet a bit. “Yes, sir. She were the mother of my only child. I don’t want her put in a pauper’s grave. She should lie beside her child.”
The judge set his elbows on the bench and rested his chin on his folded hands. “The lady in question was hardly a pauper, but it is true. Due to the circumstances of her death, and the fact that her fortune has not been recovered, it is likely she is headed for potters field.”
The judge handed a file to the bailiff. “I am referring to Exhibit A.” He looked at Nellie. “Please prepare this newspaper article to be entered into the testimony.”
The bailiff handed the file to Nellie.
“Mr. McGregory, I am going to grant your petition. You are a man of honor, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I don’t see many honorable men in my courtroom. My condolences on the loss of the mother of your child.”
Nellie thought about going forward to offer her condolences as well, and then she thought better of it. She did not want to answer any questions concerning what she knew about Madame Cyrette. Let him remember her as he chose.
When the judge adjourned the court session for the day, Nellie gathered her things and retired to a corner of a small courthouse office where she could transcribe her notes. She set up her desk and reread the newspaper clipping in the evidence folder.
Body Identified, Maid, Local Realtor Sought
VENICE, CA--The mutilated, stripped body of a middle-aged woman found on a lonely stretch of arroyo outside the city last week has been identified as Mrs. Jack McGregory, formerly of Copper Butte, Montana. Known locally as Madame Cyrette, the former shopkeeper lived in elegant rooms in a Venice of America apartment that was reported to have been looted of all valuables.
A maid who was in the employ of Mrs. McGregory has also been reported missing. Police have an APB out for Maria Hernandez as well as Mrs. McGregory’s close companion, local Realtor Arthur Clarke, who disappeared about the same time as Miss Hernandez.
The miner buried his wife on the bleak, black hillside of Copper Butte, alongside the baby boy she “loved more than life.” Her surrogate “darlings” were never recovered. The Realtor and the maid were never found.