Design for Dying (29 page)

Good Lord,
I thought.
I'm finding nothing but winners tonight.
I played Samaritan and asked if she was all right.

“Just ducky.” Her smile was as broad as Park Avenue. “I was crying when Addison's boys handed me the invitation. I'm not crying anymore.” She kissed me on the lips and plunged back into the party.

Ah, Hollywood.

*   *   *

AFTER A FEW
moments at a sink large enough to wash a Great Dane in, I ventured outside again. I made a slow perambulation of the house's perimeter, hearing occasional whispers from lovers who had slipped away for a few moments of solitude. The party had become a living thing, sprawling across Addison's property, the occasional pop of a flashbulb like a nerve firing. One of them burst some distance ahead, its light scarcely illuminating the figure skulking in the shadows a few yards from me. If it weren't for his haystack hair and vulgar suit I might have missed him entirely.

Give this to Winton Beckett. He'd shown up at a come-as-you-are party as a low-rent private eye, albeit one without an invitation judging from how he shied away from the guests. He angled with purpose toward the cabanas surrounding the pool.

I did the only thing I could think of. I followed him.

 

29

THE CABANAS WERE
finally being put to use. The ties holding back the sides of the one Beckett approached had been undone. He listened outside the canvas walls a moment then entered, the fabric falling into place behind him.

I maintained a suitable distance. As if I had any inkling what a suitable distance was. With every step I glanced around in search of a friendly face. Some of the burly gents in suits were undoubtedly off-duty police officers hired by Addison to provide security, but none of them noticed me in my hour of need. Maybe if I'd been wearing a towel.

No sound escaped the cabana, not that I could hear anything over the band's raucous rendition of “Little Brown Jug.” I edged over to an eye-level gap where two fabric flaps came together.

A voice boomed in my ear. “
Ooh
, do you have to pay a nickel for a peep?”

I almost leaped into the arms of Martha Raye. She stood next to me, teeth gleaming as if each had its own spotlight. Her number with the band finished, she'd apparently decided to instigate heart attacks in random guests. Anyone in the cabana had to have heard her.

Sure enough, Beckett slipped out of the pool side of the tent and back toward the house. I turned to Martha Raye—“You were terrific!”—and then, discretion shot to hell, hoisted a flap in time to see one on the opposite side of the cabana fluttering. I ran through and peered out.

Nothing but backlit figures on and around the dance floor. The band was cooking and everyone was in motion. I was missing one hell of a bash.

I sprinted back the way I'd come. Martha Raye had wandered off to startle some other unsuspecting soul. Beckett climbed the slight rise toward Addison's house. He'd affected an exaggerated drunken gait to avoid other revelers. It worked; the people at the lip of the patio gave him and his hideous jacket a wide berth. I ventured up to the partygoers, seeking allies.

And, to my relief, spotted Kay. She was speaking with a woman who carried herself with the hauteur of a queen despite being dressed in the couture of a farmer's wife. I signaled Kay frantically.

She, in turn, flashed a buzz-off look and turned to eliminate eye contact. Some friend.

The few seconds cost me. Beckett had disappeared, possibly into the house. I darted to the closest set of open French doors and glimpsed something on the tile that I hadn't seen in the darkness outside.

A spattering of blood drops, leading toward the reception room. Beckett wasn't feigning drunkenness. He was genuinely staggering. I started running flat out.

The noise level in the house had increased with the partygoers now multiple sheets to the wind. I was elbowed and jostled repeatedly. The only thing keeping me from screaming in frustration was the knowledge that Beckett was facing the same treatment while being considerably worse for wear. Where was his jacket? Why couldn't I see his god-awful—

The next person to bump into me at least had the decency to apologize. I wheeled and stared into Bill Ihnen's eyes, his dancer on his arm.

“Lillian, you two weren't introduced. This is—”

“Bill, Beckett's here! Find Addison! Tell him no one can leave!”

Bill asked no questions, striking off with his girl in tow. The rich red oval of her agape mouth seemed to hang in the air for a moment after he'd tugged her aside.

Deploying years of subway skills I battered my way through the house and onto Addison's canted drive. Again Beckett's sad sartorial sense came to my aid; I saw his jacket as he reeled through the jumble of cars parked to the right of the front door. He glanced into one, then another. A beat later, a black sedan lurched away from the lawn. He'd been hunting for any vehicle with keys in it.

I could do the same, but there'd be no point. I didn't know how to drive. And by the time Red Car tracks had been laid to Addison's neck of the woods, Winton Beckett would be in Tierra del Fuego.

Lights washed over me. A low-slung convertible purred up the drive. Without thinking I waved my arms and charged the car. Brakes squealed as the roadster came to a stop.

“Okay, kid, I see you.”

My laughter was involuntary. Barbara Stanwyck was at the wheel, her hair in curlers and pink cold cream slathered on her face.

“I don't suppose you'd want to follow a car.”

The actress grinned. “Hop in. I didn't want to go to Addy's party looking like this anyway.” She spun the steering wheel and we pulled out.

“Lillian, wasn't it? I don't suppose you'd have a handkerchief handy?”

I did and surrendered it gladly. Barbara proved an adept driver, negotiating the downhill curves with aplomb as she wiped cold cream from her face. “It's not this color in the photograph. What I had on when those fellas showed up was white. But pink is funnier. If I had to walk around like this, I was going for the laugh.”

She was wearing the twin of the quilted peach bathrobe that hung in my aunt Joyce's closet. “Addison certainly caught you off guard,” I said.

“I
would
answer the door on the maid's night off. If you ask me, Addison planned it. He's got everyone buffaloed with that roly-poly favorite uncle dodge. The man's sharper than a drawer of steak knives. Mind if I ask who we're following?”

“A private detective, blackmailer, and possibly worse.”

“And all my rifles back at the ranch. Addison likes to spread the invitations around.”

“This guy wasn't invited. And I think he regrets crashing.”

“Do you know this character?”

“Not that well. But he knew my friend Ruby.”

“Ruby,” Barbara said. “You don't say.”

The road's grade eased and we spotted the sedan's taillights ahead. Barbara tried to match Beckett's speed. “He'll crash again at this rate.”

“He may be hurrying to a doctor. Just keep him in sight if you can.”

It should have been a pleasant drive. The scent of laurel trees abundant, scintillating company. Instead I gripped the dashboard as we hurtled down the hillside. We flew past the shuttered gates of Addison's neighbors, few lights on in the faux chalets and castles.

We rounded another bend and both gasped for breath. The sedan had slowed considerably. It was mere yards ahead of us now, weaving between lanes. Barbara hit the brakes.

“There's something the matter with him,” she said. “Anyone on their way up will plow into that car.” She coasted behind the sedan and blasted her horn. Beckett continued to swerve across the road.

“Can you cut him off before he hurts himself or somebody else?”

“I'm no stunt driver.” Barbara glanced down at the speedometer, now indicating ten miles an hour, and a daredevil spark ignited in her eyes. “But it can't hurt to try.”

At the first opportunity she drew ahead of the sedan. Beckett was slumped forward, not even looking at the road. Barbara cranked the wheel and brought her car to a sideways halt.

The lights from the sedan hit us. Beckett was conscious enough to spot the convertible blocking his path. He overcorrected, veering onto the shoulder and into a palm tree at a caterpillar's speed. The sound of the collision was a hollow metallic
thunk
right out of a cartoon. The sedan settled with a hiss, engine grumbling.

Barbara swung her car behind the sedan while I gibbered praise for her driving acumen.

“Thanks, but what do we do now?”

“I'm going to check on him. Could you phone for help?”

“And leave you alone out here? Are you sure that's a good idea?”

“No. But I don't have a better one.” To stop myself from considering the implications, I got out of the convertible and walked toward the sedan.

The car's exhaust hung in the air in a foul cloud. I reached in and switched the ignition off. Beckett gripped the steering wheel as if it were all that was keeping him alive. Maybe it was. I forced myself to concentrate on his jacket. It made a prettier sight than the bloodstain spreading across the shirt beneath it.

“Gotta see Doc Satterlee. Echo Park.” He groaned in pain.

I placed my hand on his shoulder. “Help's on the way.”

“Satterlee's the man. Sawbones owes me. He'll patch me up.” Beckett made the gruesome noise twice before I recognized it as laughter. For an instant his eyes regained their usual grim mirth. “Nobody's putting one over on me. Gotta make this meal ticket pay off. I'll cut you a slice, kitten. Echo Park.”

“Okay. Next stop, Echo Park.”

“Good girl.” He closed his eyes. I could have asked him any of the thousand questions whirling around my head. Instead, I left my hand where it was. It seemed the more important thing to do.

 

30

WHEN ONE OF
the many police officers trekking to Addison Rice's manse dropped me at the door, a rumpled Gene was there to greet me. The sight of him allowed me to breathe easy for the first time in what felt like days but had been little more than an hour. Applying the most delicate of viselike grips to my elbow, Gene steered me around the house without a word. Which was fine by me. I wasn't in the mood for talking.

“We'll stay outside,” Gene said evenly. “Barney Groff is here and making repeated demands for your head. He thinks you jeopardized the life of one of the studio's assets.”

“How is she? Barbara Stanwyck. She came back up while another detective talked to me.”

“I spoke to her. She's fine.” Gene released my arm and we walked companionably through one of Addison's gardens, night-blooming flowers perfuming the air.

I hadn't broken down after Beckett died. I didn't when Barbara Stanwyck returned from a nearby house telling me she'd telephoned the police. “You should sit down, dear,” she said, pointing to the shoulder of the road.

“I can't get these clothes dirty. They don't belong to me.” With that, I'd burst into tears. Barbara walked me to her convertible and patted my hand while I bawled my eyes out. Not for Beckett, but for Ruby and everything that happened to both of us since we'd come west.

All right, maybe a little for Beckett.

At some point a battalion of squad cars started uphill. Barbara joined them while I spewed a mile-a-minute statement to a baffled detective named Yocum. At some point he realized only Gene would make head or tail of it, so he flagged down a car to take me to the summit. Where, to my amazement, the party was still going strong. Every inch of dance floor was occupied. The atmosphere was equal parts danger and relief, a siege mentality merging with the desperate celebration of a farewell blowout.

“Rice closed the gates after you lit out with Miss Stanwyck,” Gene told me. “No one in or out until we arrived. I'll hand it to you, that helped.”

“Then the liquor is still here.”

Gene's well-trained eyebrows barely budged. “You know where the bars are. I'll find you in a bit.”

En route to the libations line I spotted familiar silhouettes on a bench, framed by the light from the pool. Vi and Armand Troncosa were not quite cuddling, his arm around her shoulder more a shelter against the chill. Esteban left his vigil over them when he saw me, arms stretched wide for an embrace. I wasn't prepared to reciprocate, and he kept them open awkwardly. “Are you all right? Everyone is talking about you.” He scowled. “You should not take such foolish risks.”

Vi hurled herself at me. “I was so worried! I heard you bolted out of here with Claudette Colbert! Are you okay?”

“Not really, no.”

Troncosa took charge. “I am happy to see you, Lillian. Yet unhappy no one has thought to secure you a drink after your ordeal. Would you care for one?”

“Oh, God, yes. Something tall and cool.”

“A refreshment much like yourself, then.” The silver-tongued devil. He turned to Vi. “And you, my dear? Or is your nose still ticklish?” Vi nodded, almost bashful. An eloquent movement of Troncosa's shoulders said
Let's amscray
to Esteban. The two men left to queue up in our stead at the nearest bar.

“Don't go thinking I've fallen for Armand,” Vi said. “We're just having fun.”

“Of course you are. Everybody in the joint's having fun but me. Have you two been together all night?”

“I told you, don't worry about me.”

“I know, but I'm wondering. Did Armand sneak away before the gates closed or did you two dance every dance?”

“With the same fortunate man…” Vi's singing trailed off. “Wait. You don't think he—” She instantly become serious, straining to remember. “Esteban brought Armand's cigarette case and they talked for a minute. In Spanish, so I didn't get a word. Then Armand went for drinks after Martha Raye finished. Did you see her? What a panic!”