Design for Dying (15 page)

I accepted his offer. Ken handed me a glass with two fingers of what tasted like bourbon. His glass contained an entire hand's worth, and he carried the bottle with him.

“If Ruby stopped returning the clothes, why'd you keep helping her?”

His drink was half gone already. “Because I enjoyed living vicariously through her too much. Because I didn't have the brass to do what she did.”

“And look what it cost her.”

“Don't start the violins. If Ruby knew the price, she'd have paid it. She'd rather live high for a few weeks than low for a lifetime.”

He had that right. I sipped my drink, the liquor burning a bright, clear trail down my throat.

“She'd come by every few days.” Ken canted his head as if expecting the swirling dust motes to resolve into Ruby's form. “I'd give her the clothes. She'd tell me stories.”

“Care to repeat a few of them? Who was she seeing?”

“I didn't press for names and addresses. Ruby wouldn't have given them, anyway. She mostly told me things like the proper technique for removing a gentleman's hand from her thigh politely so the champagne would keep flowing.”

“No names at all? No Natalie Szabo?”

“Oh, you mean women's names. Come to think of it, there was a Natalie. Ruby said this Natalie could be her ticket out.”

“Did she say how?”

“Something about lining her up for a studio contract.”

“What did she tell these people about herself?”

“As little as possible. She let the clothes do the talking. Look the part and no one asks questions. You know how these people are.” He glanced at me. “On second thought, maybe you don't.”

“Just when I was beginning to like you,” I said. Ken apologized by pouring me another inch of whiskey. It was, upon consideration, pretty good bourbon. “Stories were reason enough to risk your job?”

“I'm the frivolous type, can't you tell?” He smiled and contemplated his empty glass. “They were for a while. Then about three weeks ago I got caught in Wardrobe after hours and had to lie my way out of it. I told Ruby I was done. I wasn't going to ‘borrow' anything else. She raised hell, but I found some backbone. Shortly after that, her friend came to see me.”

“What friend?”

“The dreadful man who knew everything. Knew I was taking clothes. Knew Ruby wasn't returning them. I was surprised he didn't want some himself, considering the tat he was wearing.”

My fingers tensed against my glass. “Who was he?”

“He didn't divulge a name. Said unless I kept providing Ruby with wardrobe, something untoward would happen to me. Making threats with a sleepy half smile, like he found the whole thing endlessly amusing. I wanted to—”

“Slap his big blond face?”
Beckett.

“Sounds like you know him, too,” Ken said. “You know Ruby, you know her confidante, you know George's friend on yonder doorstep. You keep interesting company.”

A fervent hope sprouted in my breast, that Winton Beckett was still at the police station with Gene. “You did as Ruby's friend asked, then.”

“It was made clear I didn't have much choice.”

“You wouldn't happen to have a copy of that picture of Ruby, would you?”

“Why would I? A photo of Ruby wearing clothes stolen from Paramount would be a confession. I tossed the negative and never took another photo of her. Kind of wish I had, though. I could get a bundle from the papers. Thanks to your chum Miss Head, I need the money. Are we done? Because I'll finish off this bottle.” He poured another round. Before long he wouldn't be bothering with the glass.

“What's your beef with Edith anyway?” I asked.

“She's trying to get Travis Banton ousted so she can poach his job. Owes the man her livelihood and she undermines him every chance she gets.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Everyone at the studio says it's true.”

“From what I hear, she's keeping the department running while he's painting the town.”

“Not like it matters to me. My Paramount days are done. And Edith's will be soon enough, thanks to Ruby's hijinks. Everybody's going to get theirs.” Ken deposited himself rather gracelessly on the floor. “Damn Ruby. She was something, wasn't she?”

*   *   *

THE ALCOHOL HADN'T
hit me as hard as I'd feared; I only needed to hold on to the wall with two hands. Ready led me to his car, reassuring me the vehicle was not yet in motion. I sat quietly until something made me feel nauseous. And it didn't come out of a bottle.

Winton Beckett in his trademark attire covered Ken's walk in two strides and pounded on the door as only an ex-cop can. He then pushed his way inside.

“You saw that, right?” I asked Ready.

“Feller wearing a jacket the color of an oil slick on a puddle?”

“We need to go back.”

“Hold on. That shutterbug was one thing. Slim there is a whole other kettle of fish.”

“Could you not mention fish right now?” We heard glass shattering. As if a liquor bottle had been heaved across a room in a cold fury.

Ready and I were halfway up the walk when Beckett lurched out the door, head snapping to and fro. Ken had obviously told him I'd just left. He saw me and flashed a grin to make mothers lock up their daughters. “Hello, kitten! You bring those delicates I asked for this morning?”

“Delivery's extra. I'm surprised to see you out on the street so soon.”

“Like I told Gene, my mouthpiece is the finest under the sun.”

Ken peered out of the doorway as Beckett eyeballed my escort. “You always travel with a watchdog? Maybe not a bad idea.”

Ready stepped forward, and Beckett raised his hands like a hausfrau spotting a mouse. “Relax, Buck. I'm just advising the lady there are some circles she shouldn't move in alone. And they're not always the shady ones. A tip from your uncle Win.”

“I'd ask what you're doing here but I already know.”

“Ken can't keep his mouth shut. Especially when he's had a few. He's like a woman that way.” There was that smile again, all rancid insouciance. I was amazed there wasn't a permanent impression of a palm print on his face. Ken, meanwhile, had retreated almost entirely behind the front door.

“I'll be telling Detective Morrow about our conversation.”

“I figured as much.” He leaned closer to me. Ready moved with him. “Easy, big fella. Give my regards to Tom Mix. It occurs to me I never gave you the skinny on Gene's love life.”

Ready's shadow gave me boundless confidence. “Get on with it, then.”

“Okay, kitten. He's already squiring a woman all over town.”

“That's his right.”

“Only the woman is the widow of his ex-partner. Who died in the line of duty while Brother Gene emerged unscathed. Funny how that worked out. Word is Gene and the widow were seeing each other long before bullets were exchanged. Some friends on the force have questions about that.”

My stomach began to hurt.

“Some of those same friends also tell me Natalie gave you a jingle this morning. Let me guess. You're not going to say a word to me about it.”

Far be it from me to disappoint him.

“That's okay. I'll find her anyway.” Beckett turned toward the door. “Now if you'll excuse me, Ken and I have our regular pinochle game. Don't we, Ken?”

Ken inched into the sunlight and nodded.

“I'm up for a hand or two,” Ready said. “Why not deal me in?”

Ken spoke quietly. “I appreciate your concern. It's better if you left.”

“You heard him. I'll see you again, sweetheart, when I come to pick up my order.” With a victory smirk, Beckett slithered up the front steps and through the door. It swung shut, the grim little house swallowing him whole.

 

16

HOBNOBBING WITH A
Hollywood costume designer made surveying my closet's meager wares even more of a chore. I was happy to abandon the task mid-sulk when Mrs. Quigley summoned me to the phone.

Naturally, my caller was said Hollywood costume designer. I tightened the belt on my robe, certain Edith's powers extended to divining how I was dressed based solely on my voice. “Have I got a story for you,” I said.

“It's entirely possible I've not only heard it but can add to it. Is there any chance you could come to the studio today?”

“As it happens, I'm at liberty. I don't suppose—”

“No car today, I'm afraid. Can you still make it over?”

“Wild horses couldn't keep me away. Although I could use one to get across town.”

*   *   *

ANOTHER FORAY INTO
darkest closet unearthed a cute blue knit skirt and sweater set. I sallied forth.

The security guard at the Paramount gate directed me to the commissary, where Edith had left word she'd be. She sat by a window in a slim gray dress, a maroon scarf providing a bloom of color at her throat. She leaned over a coffee cup toward a balding man who hung on her every word. What he lacked in hair he made up in joie de vivre, his casual attire hanging on his trim frame with unforced elegance. He stood when I reached the table.

“Bill, this is the girl I was telling you about. Lillian, this is Wiard Ihnen.” She pronounced his surname
EE-nan
, with a long “E” and a short smile. “Call him Bill. He's a good friend and a brilliant art director. We met doing
Cradle Song
years ago. You've seen
Duck Soup
, of course. Bill's handiwork.”

I fumbled for a suitable compliment and opted for the truth. “
Duck Soup
is one of my favorite pictures ever.”

“Not for the art direction, I'll wager.” Bill chuckled modestly. “Edith has been regaling me with your exploits. You two make quite the team.”

“I'm happy to follow Edith's lead.”

“As are we all. You astutely learned in short order what's taken me years to comprehend. Edo knows best. Always.” The affection on his face as he gazed at her was shaded with worry. “Although I do question this latest undertaking. It could do you harm.”

“What difference can it make?” Edith clucked. “You've surely heard my days here are numbered.”

“That's not true and you know it. Travis could still pull himself together. Even if he doesn't, you're a valuable member of the team. Why antagonize the powers that be and jeopardize your place at the table?”

“Firstly, assisting a police investigation is not antagonizing anyone. It's simply the right thing to do. Second, I would not presuppose I've earned a place at any table other than the one we're at right now. If anything, my actions should only demonstrate my ability to oversee every aspect of the Wardrobe Department. Need I remind you, a thief would still be in the studio's employ were it not for my efforts.”

“With some help from Lillian, of course.” There was deviltry in Bill's eyes as he nodded at me. He clearly relished winding Edith up.

“Of course. I'd also like to think I'm doing Mr. Groff a favor.”

“How do you figure that, Edo?”

“We already know there's more to this matter than Ruby's thievery. In his haste to do his job, Mr. Groff may be doing the studio a disservice. He sees a small fire and opts to smother it with a blanket. A childhood in the desert taught me that if done incorrectly, that will only spread the flames.”

“As I've said, you know best.” Bill turned to me again. “Just be careful about involving our young friend here.”

“Nobody involved me. I'm here because I chose to be.” Although as I said the words I couldn't help wondering how true they were. Had Edith cleverly exploited me? And if so, did I really mind?

Bill rapped the tabletop. “Sadly, I should take my leave now.”

“You don't want to hear what Lillian's been up to?”

“I'd love to, but I have appointments. I expect a blow-by-blow later.” To me he explained, “Edith's got a way with a story. I suspect she's working in the wrong department.” They embraced, Bill bussing her cheek. He strolled off as if heading for a tennis court, a spring in his step.

Before I could order some java, Edith checked the time. “We'd better adjourn to my office.”

She set a brisk pace, the extra height I had on her of little help. “I know all about your confab with Mr. Nolan last night,” she said.

“Did my press agent call you?”

“Detective Morrow told me. After I alerted him that Kenneth might be, as they say, on the lam.”

I stopped. Edith didn't, so I sprinted after her.

“Scuttlebutt out of John Engstead's office this morning,” she announced once I'd caught up. “Kenneth turned up on the doorstep of several friends last night, grip packed and hand out. That sounded like a man making a run for it, so I contacted Detective Morrow. He was somewhat aggrieved. He planned on visiting Kenneth after hearing about your encounter with him.”

The previous evening's conversation with Gene had been brief and to the point, Gene having decided that lecturing me was a task that would make Sisyphus throw up his hands.

“Detective Morrow also seemed displeased you had put yourself in harm's way,” Edith added.

“He didn't mention that to me.”

“He hardly needs to when his regard for you is so evident.”

His regard for me?
I fell behind Edith again and scrambled to catch up.

The usual buzz of activity greeted us at the Wardrobe building. Edith paused at a workroom full of seamstresses and addressed one in fluent Spanish. We then continued to Travis Banton's suite. I recalled Ken's insistence that Edith was scheming to depose Banton, and speculated whether her reference to his domain as “my office” was a slip of the tongue.

She'd certainly made herself at home, a stack of sketches waiting, bright fabric swatches attached to each. “I'll never understand how you can work with these colors when the film will be in black and white.”