Throwback Thursday: ‘The Extra: Frankie Ray, Sleuth with Star Quality’ by Mel Anastasiou

Frankie landed with a grunt on the floor of Billie Starr’s bedroom. Overhead, a flock of brilliantly-coloured Chinese kites dangled from strings tacked to the ceiling.

Embroidered cushions lay about the bed and the floor as if Billie were expecting a lot of visitors from the Far East. Billie, cross-legged atop the neatly made bed in the middle of the room, shut her book with a snap. It was one of Frankie’s favourites: Anne of Green Gables. 

Frankie hauled herself to her feet. “Don’t be afraid, Billie. My name is Frank Achilles. I’m a friend.” 

It was only four o’clock in the afternoon, but Billie was not one to observe the cocktail hour. She picked a bottle up from the floor beside the bed and took a drink. 

She said, “Young man, you must be cuckoo. You’re not my friend. I’ve never seen you before in all my born life. And what do you mean by coming in through the window? Why didn’t you just knock?”

Frankie said, “I did knock.”

Billie said, “You didn’t.”

And meanwhile the manhunt was on. Frankie let out a hissing breath. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have gotten carried away climbing on rooftops and risking my neck. But I’m trying to help a mutual friend of ours, and I need you to answer a question about Gilbert Howard’s death.”

“Poor old Howie.” Billie drooped visibly over her bottle. “What mutual friend are you talking about?” 

“Our mutual friend, Frankie Ray.” Frankie held her shoulders wide and her chin straight and manly. “Frankie’s accused of killing Gilbert Howard.”

“Frankie!” Billie exclaimed, and for a terrible moment Frankie was certain the girl had recognized her and was calling her by name. And if Billie, in her cups, could pierce her disguise, a policeman ought to know her a block away. 

To Frankie’s relief, Billie went on, “Frankie didn’t kill him. What empty noggin thought up that idea?”

“Then who killed Gilbert Howard, Billie? When you first saw his body, you said — or rather, Frankie said that you said — that you knew who had killed him.”

Billie blew an empty, hollow note across the top of her bottle. “Anybody would know who.”

“Then, for heaven’s sake, who?” 

Unfairly, frustratingly — yet somehow inevitably — the door to Billie’s room opened and the Chinese kites overhead swung and rattled. The house madam opened Billie’s door, left it ajar, and vanished with an air of studied tact.

Frankie buttoned up her jacket. She wanted to growl like King Samson, What now? She half expected Billie’s mysterious friend in high places to appear, or else the cops. 

Marietta Valdes, still barefoot and carrying her shoes, sauntered into Billie’s room. King Samson strode in close behind her. He said, “Be quick, Marietta. I’ve got no goddamn time to spare.”

Marietta, said, “There you are, Billie.”

Billie threw herself at the taller woman the way a child rushes to its mother’s arms. A sudden, fierce sense of reunion charged the air.

“I thought you’d never come,” Billie said to Marietta. “Will you get me out of here?”

“It’s about time, too.” Marietta nodded sharply. “We’re going across the way. To the studios. This is my kid sister,” she told King Samson. 

“Pleased,” King Samson said. He didn’t sound pleased.

“Can we really go to Monument Studios? Without asking anybody?” Billie darted a look at King Samson, who glared back.

King Samson’s sarcasm grew as thick and dark as his well-trimmed eyebrows. “Marietta gets everything she wants. Didn’t you know that?” 

“If only that were true,” Marietta replied.