Design for Dying (19 page)

Yet my ears weren't burning. No word from Gene since he'd dropped me off the night before. Not that I'd been thinking about him and what I might wear to the fights.

At lunchtime I made short work of a bowl of noodle soup with occasional chicken and beat a path to a phone booth. Edith took my call, saying hello through clenched teeth as if barely holding her rage in check.

“Is everything all right?” I asked.

“One moment.” After a pause, she sounded like her usual self. “Sorry, dear. I had pins in my mouth.”

Edith's efficiency had rubbed off on me; I'd rehearsed my report while waiting on customers and kept her questions to a minimum. “Addison is another lead Gene only has because of you.”

“I ran into Preston Sturges—the writer you met?—this morning. Preston cuts quite the broad social swath, so I asked about Princess Natalie. As it happens, she's dined at his café Snyder's. She was with several people including Armand Troncosa. She possesses a true regal presence, says Preston. He should know, considering he was practically raised in Europe.”

“I wonder if Ruby was one of the people with her.”

“Wearing a costume I designed, for a picture Preston wrote! What madness that would be. Hold on again, would you?” I could hear her issuing instructions. “No, the tulle ruffle is for the ball gown. Is she here now?” Edith returned. “Duty calls, as it must for you.”

“Oh, it does. I just don't feel like answering.”

“Come now, Lillian. Opportunity is effort's reward.”

I emerged from the booth as Mr. Valentine bustled past in a lather. “An entire busload of women from San Bernardino has arrived,” he said. “I need every salesgirl I can get.”

Edith's counsel ringing in my ears, I pasted on a grin. My cheeks squeaked but held. “Point me toward them, sir.”

*   *   *

I DEVOTED THE
afternoon to the Inland Empire Beautification Campaign, Petticoats and Peignoirs Division. Dizzy with purpose, I wheeled to wait on my next customer.

“They certainly keep you busy around here,” Gene said.

My brain sputtered once or twice before it finally turned over. “I'm dealing with the whole San Berdoo Junior League single-handed.”

“And I was hoping for a minute of your time. Can you spare one?”

I scanned the sales floor's far horizon and spied Mr. Valentine doing his Flying Dutchman act by Purses. “Let's talk where it's quiet. There's a lull in Robes and Negligees.”

Gene fidgeted with his hat. “Try to stick to Robes.”

I positioned myself before a display of my favorites, darling rayon twill models featuring floral prints, and pretended to showcase various features to Gene. “What's the latest?”

“I spent the day talking to guests of Addison Rice who met Natalie. Several said they called on her at the Normandie Park. Only no two people identified the same room as Natalie's. She'd be in the penthouse one day, the Trieste suite the next. Whichever one happened to be vacant.”

“You were right. Someone at the hotel is covering for her.”

“Not many princesses require a desk man as an accomplice. She's looking more and more like a bad egg, given the timing of her disappearance. I've got Hansen trying to scare up a photograph of her.” He idly opened one of the robes on the display rack to inspect the lining. “Natalie's shaping up to be the key to this entire business, and right now you're the last person who spoke to her.”

I didn't need to be reminded of that fact. “Was Diana Galway one of the guests you interviewed?”

“The very first, out on the Lodestar lot. You were right. She claims not to know either Natalie or Armand Troncosa.”

“Something her husband immediately contradicted.”

“I remember. Which is why Laurence Minot was stop number two. Only he told me he'd never heard of them.”

“That's a lie. First Diana lies to me, then Laurence lies to you. On the record.”

“So it would seem. What do you think of this, Frost? Seems nice.” He gestured at the robe.

“It is. Nice enough to be out of my price range. Why would Laurence change his story?”

Gene lifted a blue robe from the rack and held it up to me. “I have an idea. Minot was in San Francisco last Friday, the day after Ruby was killed. ‘Visiting friends,' he says. ‘Hearst's people. On the prowl for material for pictures.' He barely made it back for Rice's party. He stayed at the Merriman Hotel.”

Where Natalie's letter to Addison came from.

Gene replaced the robe and considered a purple one. “I called and confirmed Minot was a guest. Natalie's name wasn't on the register.”

“It wouldn't be if she was staying with him. Is that what you think? Laurence and Natalie are having an affair?”

“As reasons to lie go, infidelity is always a good one. So you'd recommend this robe?”

“Absolutely, sir. It's one of our finest. Looks like hand-painted satin but is completely washable. Available in Dusty Rose, Arctic Blue, and Lazy Day Lavender.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “What happens now?”

Gene stared at me and whispered in kind. “Now, Frost? Now I buy the robe.”

“You—you're actually going to buy it? I thought this was a dodge.”

“It started as one. But you sold me.”

If only I'd unleashed my powers of persuasion in the fur salon. Already I was imagining a lazy day suitable for lounging in lavender.

“And Abigail mentioned she could use a new robe,” Gene said.

Wasn't that the height of folly, assuming I'd be the beneficiary of Gene's largesse. “Let me show you some others that might be more to her liking. Are you going to ask Laurence about his trip to San Francisco?”

“Not right away. Lodestar security sat in on our interview.”

“Why?”

“Because Barney Groff wanted them there. The studios look out for each other. None of them wants a scandal with business booming again. A black eye for Lodestar is a black eye for Paramount and Hollywood in general. Meaning I can't press Laurence about that black eye he recently had.” Gene chuckled without a trace of amusement. “Not yet, anyway.”

“How about this one?” I presented another robe.

“Abigail's not really a fan of stripes. Or flannel. And isn't it kind of … masculine?”

“The trim cut makes it unique. And it buttons down the front so it won't fly open.”

Gene shook his head. “What I need is independent verification Laurence knows Natalie. Beckett might provide it. Natalie definitely could. And the only individual they've both seen fit to contact, Frost, is you. That's mainly why I'm here. You hear from either of them again, send up a flare at once. Understood?”

So much for any romantic fantasy he'd come to the store to bask in my presence. I swallowed hard, hung the flannel job back up, and nodded. “Understood. Let me get you that robe. What color would you like?”

“Pink's fine.”

“Dusty Rose it is. Oh, wait. You need to know the recipient's bust size.” All wasn't lost. There was no way he could have been entrusted with that particular number.

“Thirty-six.”

Damn.

*   *   *

GENE HAD SCARCELY
departed with his haphazardly wrapped gift when Mr. Valentine materialized at my counter, crimson handkerchief in full flower. “About that last sale, Miss Frost.”

“Yes, sir. I convinced the gentleman to spring for the imitation satin model.”

“I fully expect it to be returned. The ‘gentleman' was quite obviously the detective who's been here before. May I ask the purpose of your little charade? I was under the impression you'd recommitted to work.”

I was scrambling for a rebuttal when the unlikeliest ally hove into view at Mr. Valentine's elbow. Edith Head cleared her throat to gain his attention, then faced me. “You're right, young lady, those are excellent pieces. Thank you for suggesting I look at them.” Now a glance at Mr. Valentine. “Would you be the manager, sir?”

“Yes. May I be of some assistance?”

“I hope to assist you. Permit me to introduce myself.” With a white-gloved hand she offered her card, which he accepted with reverent grace. “Paramount is arranging shopping expeditions for several actresses we have under contract. Marsha Hunt, Frances Farmer. We want to bring them to department stores and allow them their choice of what real women are wearing.”

“A splendid notion. Tremayne's would be honored to participate.”

“Wonderful. I'll inform my superiors. That handkerchief is a marvelous color, incidentally. Such a refreshingly bold choice. If I could finish speaking with your salesgirl?”

Mr. Valentine bowed and strode away like a figurehead on the prow of a ship, his pocket square a beacon in the night.

“Thank you,” I gushed to Edith. “Were you serious about the shopping trips?”

“Absolutely. They're slated for Bullock's, but I'll see what I can do. On to more important matters. That card I gave you with the writing on the puzzle piece.”

I emptied my handbag's contents onto the counter, finding the card in question. Edith inspected it. “December eleventh, seven thirty,” she said. “Only that's not what it says, is it? Merely our interpretation of it.”

“I don't understand.”

“Twelve eleven was the actual notation. It occurred to me this afternoon when I was speaking with another of our writers, Billy Wilder. Brilliant man, so funny. From Vienna originally. He has a script in production with Mr. Lubitsch. Travis has outdone himself with his costumes for Miss Colbert. At any rate, Billy wrote down a date. And as I looked at it—”

“Oh, Lord,” I said, a memory coming back to me.

He'd come into Tremayne's several months ago, an older fellow in a Tyrolean hat with accent to match. Once I'd deciphered it, we got along like a house on fire as I helped him select some items for his frau back in Deutschland. Mr. Valentine and I watched as he pulled out his checkbook and wrote the date as twelve-slash-six. I gave Mr. V the high sign, branding Siegfried a swindler trying to postdate his check. But Mr. Valentine smoothly asked the Germanic gent to correct his date from the European to the American style. The customer happily tore up his check and started over.

“The date's written backward,” I said.

“Not backward, dear. Differently. A definite possibility if the writing, like the invitation, is not Ruby's but
Natalie's
.”

“So it's not December eleventh but November twelfth.” I flipped calendar pages in my head. “Today.”

“Which means the princess's appointment is in about ninety minutes. The question is where?”

“The Hotel Normandie Park would be my guess. That's where Natalie received visitors.”

“An excellent thought. I tried calling Detective Morrow but haven't been able to reach him. Having overheard your boss, I know why. He was here. I don't suppose he said where he was off to next? That's unfortunate. I'd venture to the hotel myself but Travis … requires my assistance this evening.”

From her careful phrasing, it was clear Edith was again covering for the genius of glamour. But she was right. This opportunity couldn't slip through our fingers. It was time for a daring move, and only I was dumb enough to make it.

“I'm off the clock in ten minutes. I'll go straight to the Normandie Park. You tell Gene. And before you say it, I won't do anything foolish.”

“I was going to ask if you had anything to wear over that.” Edith pointed at my dress, the color that of an egg yolk from a particularly contented hen. “It's lovely but a touch … vivid for early evening.”

I vowed to borrow a cardigan from one of the girls. Perhaps yellow wasn't ideal for meeting royalty. But I didn't have time to change. And with luck they had the saying in Hungary, too.
Any friend of Ruby's …

 

20

THE LOBBY OF
the Normandie Park had been primped for the evening. The floor tiles and the doorman were buffed to a high shine. Care had been taken to groom the nap of the grass-green carpet on which herds of couches and low-slung tables contentedly grazed. I lassoed a settee with a view of the reception desk, where a lissome blonde stood watch.
It's an acting exercise,
I told myself.
I am rich and on vacation, not poor and on a wild-goose chase. The chancellor shall hear of your impertinence.

When an elderly man spoke to the clerk, the futility of my plan hit me. How would I know if anyone was asking for Natalie? I couldn't hear anything. The lady herself could glide past and I wouldn't recognize her unless she carried a scepter to dinner.

I'd stepped toward the blonde when the elevator disgorged a clown car's worth of activity. A pair of barking dogs dragged a surly man in a chauffeur's cap. Two screaming children followed, twin boys running like they'd bolted out of the gate at Aqueduct Racetrack. A nanny strained to impose order while the preoccupied parents angled toward the desk. I scanned the room for crowned heads while waiting my turn.

The revolving door gave out with a gust and blew in an elegant figure. Olive of skin and nimble of step, black hair gleaming, mustache perfectly manicured. His pearl-gray suit draped like it had been fitted on him an instant before. He carried a bouquet of red roses. His eyes settled briefly on every woman in the lobby. Each of us enjoyed exclusive access to his small, formal smile for a moment before he moved on to the next. I flushed slightly, as if he'd just twirled me around a dance floor.

As the family caravan barked and shushed their way into the night, the new arrival addressed the statuesque clerk. I inched closer.

“You are, I fear, mistaken.” His speech bore a distinct Latin flavor and an agitated quality.

“I've looked, sir, but we don't have a guest by that name.”