Design for Dying (28 page)

“Too bad I'm dressed like Cinderella before the ball.”

The straps on Vi's jumper were down for the night. The extra glimpse of peaches and cream skin would hopefully prevent anyone from noticing she'd relocated the garment's troublesome buttons. “Oh, knock it off,” I said. “You look lovely.”

“But am I de-lovely? Say, didn't Bob Hope introduce that song on Broadway? Think he'll be here tonight?” With her clear soprano, Vi trilled the chorus of Cole Porter's hit.

Kay cut her off. “Can you hyenas keep it down? I need to prepare.”

“Sorry, Mother.”

Anticipation mounted along with Ready's car as we scaled the hillside. Once through the gates of Addison's estate fairy lights twinkled in the trees like celestial escorts guiding us heavenward.

“Reckon you could fire a cannon in Hollywood tonight and not nick anyone's ride.” Ready eased us out of a long queue of cars waiting to discharge their passengers and expertly maneuvered into a tight squeeze of a parking spot.

“And I thought horses were your specialty,” I said.

“Most fellers who hire on for parking detail don't know squat about motor vehicles. And we don't have time to wait. Kay has work to do. Don't you, honey?”

A slamming door was her response. Ready loped after her. Vi and I indulged in some last second preening, then joined the guests streaming through the massive front door into the foyer.

“I'd better not be the most ridiculously dressed person here tonight,” Vi fumed.

One glance at the reception room walls, papered with the candid photographs snapped by Ken and his associates, indicated Vi would be spared that indignity. It was quite the gallery, luminaries with startled mugs looking like they'd been served a subpoena rather than an invitation. In the distance I spotted a monumental top hat straight out of Lewis Carroll, garnished with a deep purple ribbon. Addison, naturally, was underneath it. He greeted each of his guests warmly and then, with a sotto voce pointer from Mrs. Somers, steered them either left or right to compare their current attire to that in the photograph. I wondered if he'd dare send anyone scurrying home for not matching their two-dimensional selves, and decided he would. Addison took his frivolity seriously.

He slapped a tall man in tennis whites on the back. Before I could confirm it was Cary Grant, it was our turn.

“The guest of honor!” Addison cried. “Survivor of the Battle of Tremayne's Gulch.” He twiddled his fingers on the brim of his hat. “Like the topper? Easiest way for folks to find me in the forest of folderol.”

“I love it. Thank you for inviting me even though I lied to you about being a reporter.”

“Nonsense. Your stunt put me in mind of Torchy Blane. Glenda Farrell is sensational in those pictures. She's here somewhere.” He drew me aside so we could speak in confidence. “The invitation is my way of thanking you. Detective Morrow explained you advocated on my behalf and helped keep my name out of the papers.”

“I was happy to do it.”

“I only wish you didn't have to. As God is my witness, I believed Ruby and Natalie were two different girls. Maybe I should come out of retirement. All this leisure is making my brain go to pot along with my belly.” He patted his ample midsection. “After all you've been through it would be criminal to deny you entry. But rules are rules.”

With a pained smile from the swollen Mrs. Somers, he led us to the photo Ken had taken and inspected it with a mock stern expression. The image depicted an ungainly scrum of two bodies, my eyes huge with confusion as Vi vaulted to my aid. I was baffled, Vi eager; Ken had admirably captured us in our natural states. Part of my bare calf was visible, as was a hint of coarse gray sweatshirt sleeve.

Addison tutted. “Your comely friend looks the same, but I don't believe that's your blouse peeking out from behind her.”

“Oh, I can vouch for her,” Vi said. “Lillian always wears silk at home. She positively lounges in it.”

Addison rubbed each of his chins in sequence. “Given the inconclusive evidence, the court has no choice but to decide on your behalf. Go in and enjoy yourselves! Lillian, we'll discuss your adventure at length once you have a few drinks in you.”

The reception room opened onto the vast slate patio where I'd sipped iced tea with Addison. Two well-stocked bars now stood sentry at either end. A few steps down the swimming pool, lit from beneath, didn't yet have any takers while four tentlike cabanas stood empty, their canvas sides pulled back with ties. To the right of the pool a dance floor had been laid over the grass. A swing band played while a couple dressed for golf made a valiant effort at a rumba, cleats clicking on parquetry. My eyes skimmed the crowd, illuminated by the occasional burst of a flashbulb courtesy of a roving band of photographers. Everywhere I looked there were beautiful people in bathrobes, shower caps and—

“There's a gorilla here,” Vi said.

“It's someone in a suit. Either that or the poor brute was trained to guzzle martinis. He must have horned in on someone's snapshot, like you.”

A flame-haired beauty passed us, the barely there towel around her held in place by a diamond brooch the size of salad plate. Famous faces and white-jacketed waiters alike brazenly studied her walk. She was such an eye-catcher even I ogled her, not noticing that Bill Ihnen had stopped by my side.

“Now
that
,” he said, “is a safety pin.”

“I bet she feels safer with it on.”

“And I bet she takes it off before the night is over.”

“Is it going to be that kind of party?” Vi asked.

“Would that bother you?”

“Are you kidding? That's why we're here.”

Bill waved over a blonde on a chaise longue whose lavender orchid corsage, I noted, perfectly complemented Bill's tie. He'd taken Edith's advice. The blonde shook her head and pointed blame at her shoes. “My date,” Bill said. “I don't think she's getting out of that chair. On her feet all day, dancing in Laurence Minot's latest inanity at Lodestar.”

“The director of
Hearts in Spring
is on the guest list, along with his wife.”

“Then I can tell him to stop being handsy with the chorines.” He left with a wink and a promise to find us later.

“It's no fair,” Vi said. “Besides that knockout in the towel, I've seen two girls in swimsuits and one in a nightie. But the men are covered up. Where are the physiques?”

“I see what you mean. Not a torso in sight.” I nodded toward a broad back in a linen jacket. “How come he couldn't have been lying poolside when his invite showed up?”

“You've already seen him with his shirt off. It's Johnny Weissmuller. You know, Tarzan.”

“That explains the gorilla.”

We retrieved some martinis, already drunk on the atmosphere. The warm night air and paper lanterns lent a dreamlike aspect to the proceedings. By the time we circled the dance floor it had filled up nicely. A man with shaving cream on half his face fox-trotted carefully with a woman in pajamas. Bill had even persuaded his date to rise from her sick chair. She was a wonderful dancer—and so, to my surprise, was Bill.

“Excuse me, weren't you in the papers?”

I turned to see who'd addressed me and a blinding flash was my reward. At least this time I knew who it was.

As my eyes recovered, Ken Nolan lowered his camera but not his guard. “Hello, Frost. I see you and your friend made it past Cerberus at the door.”

“Addison has a soft spot for me. Do you work for him now?”

“Tonight I do. Photographers at a party. I don't get it. Now everyone will be on their best behavior.” He copped a coupe of champagne from a passing tray and downed it in one.

“None for me, thanks,” I said.

“I have to keep my strength up. At least you two look like you're enjoying yourselves. Unlike those Gloomy Gusses yonder.” He nodded across the dance floor. Armand Troncosa and Esteban Riordan stood side by side like they were at the rail at Santa Anita and had lost sight of the nag they'd gambled their bankroll on.

“Saw that cowboy friend of yours. Maybe I'll stalk him for a while.” Ken drifted patioward, then about-faced and eyeballed my clothes with alarm. “Hang on. Where'd you get those duds?”

“There's Ready.” I pointed. Ken turned. I snagged Vi's elbow and ran.

We worked our way back around the floor. Troncosa was dressed in a full riding habit while Esteban wore surprisingly dingy sweat clothes and a pained expression. Troncosa kissed my hand then Vi's once I introduced her. “I am pleased to see you out after the unpleasantness at the store,” he said.

“Likewise. Where did Addison's army catch you?”

“I was about to participate in my usual polo match at the Vista Del Mar Athletic Club while Esteban did his pentathlon training. I must confess Addison's sense of humor eludes me. To be at such a function without a cravat…” He trailed off, mourning a bygone age. Esteban, meanwhile, looked ready to dig himself a hole and lie in it.

“You're not concerned someone may take another shot at you?”

“My sole concern, again, is should that unlikely event occur I will not be wearing a necktie. I must show my enemies a Troncosa is not easily cowed.” He flashed his pearly whites at the night and then exclusively at Vi. “In my country, the best way to do that is to dance. Shall we?”

Vi made a noise at the back of her throat like a kitten being offered a plate of cream. As Troncosa took her hand, he turned to Esteban. “I'm afraid that much as I hate carrying it in the pocket of these trousers, I will require my cigarette case. Retrieve it from the car, would you?”

They spun onto the floor. Esteban seemed to shrink into his clothes. “Would that I were not guarding Armand so closely when that photographer arrived. I look and feel a fool. Ever since our polo triumph at the Berlin Olympiad, Armand has been pushing for Argentina's involvement in every sport. The pentathlon is mine. I would gladly fare worse in all five events if it meant not being in this ridiculous garb in front of you.”

“You won't be saying that in Tokyo come 1940.”

“Armand is clearly under great strain, because he neglected to compliment you. Permit me to do so. You look radiant. Would it be forward of me to ask in advance for a dance? I won't be running errands all evening.”

“I would like that.”

Another smile and he took his leave. I felt my cheeks redden. I wondered how rusty my tango steps were, then why I thought I knew any to get rusty in the first place.

*   *   *

A WAITER BEGGED
me to relieve him of some of his burden of stuffed shrimp. Scarfing down sustenance, I spotted Diana and Laurence making a fashionably late entrance. Lodestar's ingénue was indeed outfitted in gardening togs—faded blue blouse, denim pants, thick gloves. The pièce de résistance was the floppy hat tied under her chin. Bleached from the sun and fraying at the edges, it was a chapeau no self-respecting scarecrow would deign to don. The only favor it did Diana was hiding the scowl directed at her husband. I watched the two of them squabble in pantomime until she caught me staring and nodded in recognition. I had no interest in interrupting them, so I smiled back and veered away.

A roar erupted from the crowd as the bandleader beckoned a woman forward. I couldn't make her out but didn't need to once she reached the microphone. Martha Raye, the radio star famed for her large mouth and offbeat song stylings, started bellowing her way through “Love in Bloom.”

I would have gone down to enjoy the show were it not for a frantic blur of movement to my right. A dressed-for-the-links Bob Hope was signaling me with his fingers, his eyebrows, the tip of his nose—and the fact he'd stepped away from his handsome wife, Dolores, to do so gave me the impression he was trying to arrange an amorous assignation. I responded with a flurry of nonsensical gestures, indicating either to steal third base or meet me at the boathouse—Addison presumably had a boathouse—then beat a hasty retreat to the left.

That's when I spotted her. A wraithlike figure in the shadows at the side of the house, the pale white of her gown adding to her spectral presence. I only saw her from behind. Her hair was lighter than it had been the last time I'd laid eyes on her, but not as blond as when we'd shared a room.

Ruby.

The breath halted in my throat. I was happy I'd listened to Edith and worn slacks, otherwise my gooseflesh would have been visible.

The woman took another step, and the darkness spilling onto the lawn from the house claimed her. I sprinted in pursuit, swerving around a waiter and a cackling pair of drunkards.

I rounded the corner. The woman—it wasn't Ruby, it couldn't be—had paused by a window. Her back still to me, right hand on her hip as she gazed up at the night sky as if to curse it. I willed myself to inch forward, found my voice in its hiding spot near the base of my spine.

“H-hello?”

The first hint of the woman's profile shattered the spell, her nose too sharp. By the time I could see the entirety of her vulpine features, made bleary by drink, I understood how I had been fooled.

Gertrude Michael, the actress who portrayed Sophie Lang and whose clothes Ruby had stolen, peered at me. Her eyes gleamed dully like pennies fished out of the bottom of the bowl. A tumbler dangled from her fingers.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I thought you were someone else.”

The smile came to her lips too easily, the consonants with too much effort. “That's the trouble. I'm always me. Some party, isn't it? Don't know a soul here.” She shook her glass, the ice rattling like disinterred bones. “Could you freshen this up for me, sweetie?”

I nodded, left her where she was, and flagged down a waiter for directions to the powder room. As I walked up to the door a woman exited, mascara streaked halfway to her chin.