Design for Dying (22 page)

“You must remember this is Hollywood.” Bill chuckled. “Where everyone believes stories for a living and deem themselves worthy of a princess's company. Ruby came up with the perfect ploy.”

I'd been dragged away from a partially clad John Payne with only Bill's salvaged sinkers as compensation. We'd retired to Edith's office. Sketch pads and fabric swatches cluttered the glass-topped coffee table, me sprinkling cinnamon dust over them like some ravenous fairy.

“You realize Ruby had the ideal accomplice,” I told Edith. “You. Ruby was a good actress. I read lines with her enough to know. But your clothes made Natalie real. Not just to everyone else, but to Ruby. She'd put on an exquisitely tailored suit or a satin gown, say she was a highborn head of Hungary, and make the world believe it. Her acting, her accent, those were finishing touches. Your costumes did the heavy lifting. To the extent Gene still doesn't know who the intended victim was, Ruby or Natalie. It's entirely possible the killer murdered someone who doesn't exist.”

“Lillian's right,” Bill said. “It's the highest compliment that can be paid to your designs. You helped a fictional creation take root in the real world.”

“I hadn't thought of it like that.” Edith clutched her shoulders, her features abruptly drawn. For the first time since we'd met, she was shaken. She seemed not only tiny, but vulnerable. “If my designs contributed to Ruby's masquerade, they contributed to her murder. I pick up a sketch pad and it ends with a poor girl lying in an alley dead.”

Bill took her hand. “Steady there, old girl. None of this is your fault. Ruby made her own bed.”

“Oh, I know you're right. But I can't help feeling a sense of responsibility. An obligation to Ruby. I wish I'd acted on my doubts about Princess Natalie more quickly.”

“You had doubts?” I asked. “Since when?”

“Since you received that phone call purportedly from her. Her dialogue seemed, well, familiar. Then it dawned on me. It actually
was
dialogue. Lines I'd heard before. Women being creatures of the heart, her saying now that she'd learned how Hollywood expected her to behave, she liked it here and intended to stay.”

“Don't tell me that's from a movie, too.”

“
The Scarlet Empress
. I screened it again to confirm it.”

Bill shook his head as he dove into the bag for another doughnut. “Where else to learn how royalty should talk than a picture about royalty? How'd it hold up, by the way?”

“It's Travis's masterpiece. Those gowns! We won't see such lavishness again. I still remember his arguments with Marlene over her fur hat. Too much like Garbo's in
Queen Christina
, he said. But Marlene insisted, and she was right. Then of course there's the letter.”

“From Marlene?” I asked.

“No, dear, from Natalie ostensibly to Mr. Rice. I haven't seen it myself, but I'd be curious whether the date was written in the European style. That's how Ruby, as Natalie, wrote it on the puzzle piece. As opposed to November sixth, the way an impostor would write it.”

“But Natalie herself was an impostor,” Bill pointed out.

“Yes. It does become confusing.” Edith had kicked off her black pumps to curl up on the couch. Now she stepped back into them. “Which is why I choose to view events solely from Ruby's perspective. She invents a character, Princess Natalie. Gives her a history doubtless drawn from her own family. Steals an appropriate wardrobe. Thinks of her creation as a separate entity, a second self, if you will. ‘Natalie is the most elegant woman. Natalie will get me my big break.'”

“She wrote herself a role,” Bill said.

“And took it on the road.” Edith began to pace the floor. “Starting at a hotel bar, then with Mr. Troncosa and his circle of friends. Next came her first real review. Addison Rice.”

“Troncosa said that Ruby—sorry, Natalie,” I corrected, “tried to flee Addison's house when he brought her to a party.”

“Because Ruby was afraid of being recognized. She'd been careful to avoid people she knew. Suddenly she finds herself face-to-face with Mr. Rice, who'd met her several times. And he sees not the young actress he'd banished from his home, but a beguiling Hungarian princess. The encounter could only have galvanized her. Encouraged her to continue the masquerade.”

I pictured Ruby at Addison's party, realizing there was no way to avoid meeting her host, knowing she'd have to sink or swim. The Ruby I knew would have hurled herself into Natalie's persona with abandon. She would have strode across the foyer, offering her hand for Addison to kiss, smothering any skepticism with the force of her charisma. That night, Ruby had triumphed beyond her wildest dreams. She'd not only fooled Addison. She'd fooled herself.

“She picked a terrible time for a bravura performance,” Bill said. “If Rice had exposed the phony princess, Ruby would be alive today. What about Laurence Minot? Didn't he also know Ruby and Natalie and not see what was in front of him?”

“Much as it pains me,” I said, “I have to give Laurence a pass. He'd only met Ruby once, at his wedding reception when they'd both had a few. He basically knew Natalie and Natalie alone. I'm rather jealous of him, actually. I'd give anything to have seen Ruby in action as Natalie.”

“And that's what is key here,” Edith said. “Natalie is a
character
, created by Ruby. One to which she was so committed she even wrote the date differently when essaying the part. But the telephone call and the letter are instances of someone else playing Natalie, without Ruby's dedication.”

I joined Edith in pacing, partly to show off my outfit. I'd replaced the black belt on my taupe knit dress with a cherry-red scarf. A fetching addition, I thought, but Edith hadn't noticed it. Or worse, she had and didn't find it worthy of comment.

“But who would do that?” I asked. “And why?”

“It's not my place to speculate. What does Detective Morrow think?”

“He thinks he needs some time off. He's also keen to talk to Laurence Minot again.”

A crisp shake of the head from Edith. “Detective Morrow is allowing Mr. Minot's amorous entanglement with Natalie and donnybrook with Mr. Troncosa to cloud his judgment. Mr. Minot would hardly send Addison Rice a letter implicating himself.”

“Edo,” Bill announced, “it's time for you to speculate.”

She sighed, accepting his wisdom. “The party responsible for the letter and the phone call can only be that unsavory private investigator, Mr. Beckett.”

“Because he strong-armed that photographer into stealing clothes for Ruby,” Bill said.

“Because he orchestrated this from the outset. We now know why he resorted to that odious deception with your friend, Lillian, to acquire a picture of Ruby. The point being it was an older photograph in which Ruby was blond and didn't superficially resemble Natalie. Having it appear in the newspapers delayed any connection between the two women.”

“Beckett wanted the investigation to spin its wheels.”

“He then took additional steps to maintain the fiction Ruby and Natalie were different people.” Edith faced me. “I fear you won't like this next notion one bit.”

“I don't like any of it so far.” Marching around the room wasn't winning plaudits for my fashion acumen, so I perched on Adele's stool.

“Remember it was Mr. Beckett who asked
you
about Natalie, giving you her surname. He then turned up after Natalie's supposed telephone call to reinforce her importance. In order to sustain the illusion Natalie was still alive, he needed help. Unwitting accomplices to corroborate Natalie's continued existence. I believe he used you as a cat's-paw.”

My voice quavered. “But why me?”

“Because you were already involved in the investigation. A call from Natalie to the police might have been ignored. But if she telephoned you…”

“I'd run to Gene and spill everything. How very clever of Mr. Beckett.”

Bill passed me the bag containing the last doughnut. “What lovely shoes,” Edith said of my red patent leather pumps. Both the pastry and the compliment had been extended out of pity. That didn't prevent me from accepting them.

“Then Beckett killed Ruby.” Bill's words split the difference between statement and question.

“Entirely possible, not yet certain. Too much remains unknown. For instance, why would Ruby still pretend to be Natalie with the risk of exposure increasing and multiple suitors vying for her hand?”

“To land one of those suitors as a rich husband,” Bill suggested.

“Then she would have accepted Mr. Troncosa's first proposal. She certainly wouldn't have left him guessing about her response to his second. And what explains her protracted dalliance with Mr. Minot?”

“Spite,” I said. “Ruby was jealous of Diana. Stealing her husband was a way to get back at her.”

“You don't honestly believe that.” Edith pointed at me like a district attorney. “Would Ruby have engaged in a deception like this for criminal gain?”

The concentration on her face daunted me. I thought about Ruby, the small-town girl who craved only stardom. “No. She wanted attention. But she wouldn't have hurt anyone.”

“Then the agenda wasn't hers, but Mr. Beckett's. He forced Ruby to continue stringing along the various parties who knew her as Natalie to some undetermined end.”

“Natalie's jewelry,” I said. “Troncosa must have showered her with gifts, but we haven't found any.”

“That would be one possibility,” Edith allowed.

“So Beckett tumbled to Ruby's racket, playing at being a princess for fun and champagne.” Bill diagrammed furiously on his mental chalkboard. “He made her keep up the act so he could turn a profit on it. We don't know
how
he found out.”

“Come now, Bill. Mr. Beckett is a private investigator. He was hired to follow either Ruby or Natalie. In the course of doing his job, he stumbled upon the other identity.”

“Put like that, it's obvious.” He seemed delighted at being bettered by her—and Edith, I realized, relied on him as a sounding board. “Then we just have to figure out which one Beckett was following, and who hired him to follow her.”

“I have some ideas about that,” I said.

Edith nodded. “I thought you might.”

After a soft knock, the office door opened. A gangly youth with the disinterested air of some executive's nephew fidgeted in the corridor. “Sorry to interrupt, Miss Head, but Mr. Archainbaud needs you on set immediately.”

“What's wrong?”

“Dorothy Lamour's costume is…” The young man's hair was so fair I could see his scalp blush along with his cheeks. “Her sarong wrap, it's, um, unwrapping.”

Edith had a bag in hand as she pushed the errand boy aside. “For goodness's sake. When will they listen? I told George we had to sew her into it.”

“Unwrapping, huh?” Bill turned to me with a grin. “If you'll excuse me, I think I'd like to see this.”

 

23

I WANTED THE
office to be shabby. I wanted Winton Beckett to be operating out of a hovel. But the Loomis Building, off Broadway near Pershing Square, was reputable if tired. Every tenant of the sober gray brick structure from the See-Mack Duplicator Company to Allied Asbestos Pad was doing their best to get by. The elevator operator wished me a pleasant day as he deposited me on the fourth floor.

Beckett's office was at the end of a narrow corridor reeking of Dutch cleanser. Movement was visible through the door's pebbled glass. The brunette at the reception desk scarcely glanced up from the emery board she dragged across her fingernails. “Mr. Beckett isn't in. I can take a message or notarize a document if that's why you're here.”

I'd known Beckett wouldn't be there. I was interested in his girl, the one Gene mentioned. She wore a maroon dress with a black bow and matching buttons on the puffed sleeves. She was pretty in an indistinct way, like a wax figure fashioned to resemble a famous person you couldn't identify. Even bored, her voice sounded familiar. I imagined it with an accent, Slavic by way of von Sternberg.

“What's your name?” I asked.

The emery board stopped moving. “Mavis Kreutzer. Who's asking?”

“Someone who needs a document notarized. I should see if you're any good at it.”

I snatched a piece of paper off her desk. It was a shopping list:
oleo, coffee, evaporated milk.
The items written in the same sloping script on Natalie's letter to Addison.

As I returned the list, I noticed the hastily packed boxes behind her desk. “Big Marlene Dietrich fan, are you, Mavis?”

Her eyes sparked, recognizing that the game was up. “I couldn't give a Spanish fig for her. I don't go to pictures to look at women. You're Lillian.”

“And you're ‘Natalie.'”

“Command performances only.” The emery board scraped her nails again.

I nudged one of the boxes with my foot. “This looks like Beckett will be gone for a while.”

“I'm pretty sure the son of a bitch is gone for good. But the rent's paid up, so I'm using the space myself. Kreutzer Typing and Notary Services. I like your shoes.”

“Thanks. Do you know where the son of a bitch is? Maybe back in San Francisco?”

“Unlikely. San Francisco was just a daylong affair. Win whisked me up there, had me write a letter and spread a little green, then sent me back to the grind. Not even a trip to Chinatown for some good chow mein. The stuff here is the pits.”

“Did you meet the real Natalie?”

“Nope. Win told me about her, though, gave me pointers on what to say. The Dietrich was my idea. Did you like?”

“I liked.” Her blasé attitude was discomfiting; she'd worked with Beckett too long to bother concealing her mercenary instincts. “Why was your boss forcing Natalie to jump through hoops?”