Design for Dying (30 page)

“Panic's one word for it. What did you have to drink?”

“Champagne. That's why Armand made that crack about my nose before. I'm not really used to it.”

I nodded. “Champagne. Not a cocktail. So he could have snagged glasses from any passing waiter.”

“Yes. I suppose he could.” The prospect of what I was suggesting both depressed and excited her.

While we waited, Vi rattled off a list of the celebrities she'd seen. Troncosa finally returned bearing a tray liberated from the help. A Tom Collins for me, more nose-tickling champagne for him and Vi. Esteban brought up the rear with a glass of something dark.

“A toast,” Troncosa said. “To unexpected adventures.”

We clinked glasses. I could feel their questions coming and knew I wasn't up to them. “I should find Detective Morrow. Would you excuse me?”

Troncosa took Vi's arm and they strolled toward the house. Esteban lingered. “I trust we will dance another evening.” He seized my hand and kissed it before taking his leave, his lips barely grazing my skin. Poor Esteban. He had Troncosa's moves but none of his panache.

I walked to the pool. The gorilla chased girls around it, the furry head of his costume now floating in the shallow end. The flame-haired woman I'd glimpsed earlier swam over to it and tossed it out of the water. I didn't see her towel anywhere. I sat in a cushioned chair at a glass-topped table with my drink, letting the pool's cool blue light wash over me.

“The story making the rounds,” Bill Ihnen said as he took a seat, “is that you and James Cagney sped down the hill with pistols in each hand shooting at a truckload of gangsters.”

“I'd see that picture. But it's not even close to the truth.”

“Then I should probably stop telling it that way.”

“Where's your date?”

He nodded toward the dance floor. “Tripping the light with a new friend. She found it odd I was taking orders from you.”

“Sorry about that.”

“Don't be. I'm always happy to have something to do at these things.”

“You said before you were going to protect her from Laurence Minot. Did you happen to see him around the time of my big exit?”

“His wife's been easier to keep track of, thanks to that ridiculous hat. I saw them a while ago, having a quarrel. Very public. Almost staged, I thought. But it was after you'd left.”

Gene collapsed into a chair, aggravation etched deeply into his face. He introduced himself to Bill, then turned to me. “I can't hold Groff at bay much longer. He insists on talking to you.”

“Then you'll need another drink, along with something to eat. Allow me.” Bill was off before I could thank him or place an order.

“What exactly happened to Beckett?” I asked.

“He was shot. Twice, at close range. You didn't hear it?”

“No. But the band was playing and Martha Raye was foghorning in my ear. That must have covered up the sound.”

“Particularly if we're talking about a small-caliber weapon.”

“Like the one that killed Ruby?”

Gene nodded. I set to work on my Tom Collins. I had another one on the way, after all. “Why do you think Beckett was here?”

“To put the touch on someone. Minot. Diana. Possibly both. Maybe Troncosa or the bandleader. He confronts his victims in public, forces them to ante up in a hurry. Only drawback to the plan is there's enough of a racket here that a suitably prepared individual could shoot him and no one would notice.” He glanced over my shoulder. “Batten down the hatches, Frost. Storm's about to hit.”

I became aware of a peculiar aura I'd only experienced when standing next to a train engine, of tremendous power barely contained. Barney Groff slammed Bill's chair into the table with such force the resulting clang made me wince. His hoarse whisper yearned to be a roar. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Easy.” Gene breathed the word.

“I've waited long enough. I'd imagine with so many off-duty personnel present at a murder scene, the LAPD has a budding scandal all its own to occupy your time.” Groff bent at the waist, vulturelike, to address me. “You put Miss Stanwyck's life in danger. I'll have you arrested for kidnapping.”

“How could it be kidnapping if she was driving?”

“You forced her to participate in a high-speed chase.”

“She wanted to do it.”

“You had no idea what was happening when you roped her into this misadventure. I also understand a member of the press, a Miss Dambach, is at this party because of you.”

“You consider Kay a member of the press? Could you tell her that? Because she'd love to hear it.”

“I'll be having words with Miss Dambach, if only to keep tonight's mayhem under wraps.” Groff stepped back from the table and smiled at me. For the first time in the conversation, I was afraid. “Those are lovely clothes. Where did you get them? Or could Miss Head tell me when I speak to her yet again?”

“Are Miss Frost's clothes relevant?” Gene asked.

“Maybe not to you. But they're important to Paramount Pictures. As is the well-being of our players. Rest assured we will prosecute this to the fullest extent of the law. We…”

Never had I seen anyone go so white so quickly. I was turning to see what had put the fear of God or Joseph Breen into Groff when Barbara Stanwyck laid a hand on my shoulder. She'd taken the curlers out of her hair and removed her bathrobe to reveal a simple navy blue sheath. In other words, she looked every inch a movie star.

“Oh, for Pete's sake, Barney. It wasn't kidnapping. It was more like hitchhiking.”

Groff arranged his features into their most patronizing formation. It was a poor choice, because Barbara gave him both barrels. “And need I remind you I'm not on the Paramount payroll. I look after myself in this town, picking and choosing who I do pictures for, and there's nothing to stop me from calling Zeppo and saying I'm not interested in doing business with Paramount again. If I want to take a joyride with a friend, neither of us has to answer to the studio about it.”

Beet-red at being shown up, Groff ratcheted up the smarm. “All true, Miss Stanwyck. But surely you acknowledge we only have your best interests at heart.”

“I know you do, Barney. And I appreciate it. But you also have to know when to give two ladies room to blow off steam. Now let Lillian alone. She's had enough commotion for one night.”

Groff dusted off his we're-all-friends-here grin, which hadn't seen action since his soda shop days. “Of course. Detective Morrow, a word?” With that, he vanished into the shadows like Dwight Frye. Gene rolled his eyes and went with him.

“That was a fair bit of acting there,” Barbara said. “He managed to slink away without it looking like he was slinking. I should ask how he did that.”

“Thank you for defending me.”

“Think nothing of it, dear. Those studio bullyboys, making like they're worried about me. All they're concerned about is the shooting schedule.”

“Still, I hope I didn't ruin your evening.”

She laughed, a warm, wonderful sound. “Are you kidding? No one had to see me in curlers and cold cream. I'm having a marvelous time. And it's about to get better. Would you excuse me?” She stepped away from the table and into the arms of a saturnine dreamboat with dark wavy hair and a sexy widow's peak who'd materialized out of the ether. Robert Taylor smiled at me then led his best girl to the dance floor. Vi spotted them and whispered giddily to Troncosa. He spun her closer to them.

Bill returned with a reserve Tom Collins and the thickest ham sandwich on record. “I raided the kitchen. I heard Barbara giving Groff what for. Edith adores her.”

“I can see why. What did she mean about calling Zeppo?”

“Zeppo Marx. Herb. He's her agent. What'd I miss? Edith will expect a full report.”

*   *   *

GRADUALLY THE CROWD
trickled out, each guest giving their name to the police and their congratulations to Addison. Troncosa escorted Vi to a late supper, Esteban whisking them both away. Barbara Stanwyck said good-bye before she and Robert Taylor left so she could fix him eggs. I'd lost track of Diana and Laurence, but according to Bill everyone else had heard their contentious departure.

The band was breaking up when I spotted Kay for the first time in ages. “There you are,” I said. “I was about to go inside and pick a room for the night. Let me know if we can leave before my birthday.”

“Where's your detective?”

“Detecting, presumably. And he's hardly my detective.”

“Oh, sure. He gives carte blanche in an investigation to any idly interested citizen of Los Angeles. Very forward thinking, our Gene.”

I wasn't willing to dissect the nature of my relationship with Gene just then, especially with Kay. Not that I had the answers anyway. “Why are you looking for him?”

I would have called Kay's expression smug if I hadn't been her friend. “Everyone who had a grudge against Beckett was at this party, right?”

“That's a long list, but just about. Tommy Carpa was the only one not here.”

Yes, that expression was definitely smug, now tinged with maniacal triumph. “Except he was.”

*   *   *

A FEW MINUTES
later, Gene and I stood at the end of Addison's driveway, contemplating Tommy Carpa's nearly new green Packard parked all by its lonesome.

“Kay didn't notice it until the cars thinned out,” I said.

“And where is Kay?”

“In conversation with Barney Groff. He seemed particularly eager to speak to her.”

“It's not just the gates of Paramount swinging wide for her tonight.” Gene aimed a flashlight at the registration on the Packard's steering column. “So Carpa was here. He had to leave in a hurry, saw his car was boxed in and took off without it.”

“He could still be here, hiding in one of the rooms. The house is big enough.”

“Good thought, but I had officers sweep the place first thing. They're doing it again now, but it's more likely he hoofed it down to the boulevard or caught a ride with someone else. We'll put a bulletin out for him.”

“Why would Tommy be here?”

“My guess is he was trailing Beckett, although it could have been the other way around. Unfortunately Tommy's the only one in a position to say.”

“That still doesn't tell us who the one being followed was here to meet.”

“Nobody can verify where they were when Beckett was shot. Laurence Minot swears his wife was fastened to him like a limpet all night. She backed him up on that, but there's a redhead in a towel says Minot propositioned her. Which means Diana was solo for part of the evening as well. Troncosa at least admitted he couldn't account for his every minute. Still, they were invited to the party. Carpa's the one who crashed.”

“That doesn't mean he did anything.”

“No, but it makes him more likely to.” Gene eyed Tommy's car with malice. “Just when I was thinking I'd be out of here before dawn.”

“I'm going to see if I can't get a cup of coffee. Want me to send one out?” Gene nodded absently. I hiked up the drive.

Addison stood by the front door, sending off stragglers. He doffed his gigantic hat to me. “You've made this party the event of the year, my dear. How can I ever repay you?” Pointing me toward the java, I told him, would be a propitious start.

Ready and Ken Nolan lolled in the kitchen, smoking cigarettes. Ready sprang to his feet when he saw me. Ken snickered, the jerk.

“Have you seen Kay?” Ready asked.

“She's talking to her future. Could be a while.”

Ken stood and whispered in Ready's ear. I'd have bet Kay's cowboy was incapable of blushing. I'd have lost. It truly was a night full of surprises.

 

31

THE ROBBERY HOMICIDE
bureau had a thready pulse in the wee hours, a handful of detectives minting fresh paperwork, a stoop-backed janitor collecting the old. He nodded gallantly as he passed, reassuring me that no matter the time of night someone was on the job.

I gave a stop-and-start rendition of the evening's events, Gene periodically consulting with assorted solemn figures who summoned him with flicks of their mighty gray heads. Hansen cruised in during one of these absences, my biggest fan saying nothing to me, instead whistling “You Can't Pull the Wool Over My Eyes” off-key.

Gene returned looking only slightly defeated and greeted Hansen. “Any word on Carpa?”

“Trees were shaken, producing neither hide nor hair. He's being alibied left and right, though. Stories don't match at all.”

“Meaning Tommy's not around to coordinate. Maybe he
is
lamming.” Gene took a sip of coffee black enough to be accessorized by diamonds and pressed the heels of his hands to his face. “That's enough for now. We'll talk more in the morning. Later in the morning, because it's morning now.”

“Cucumber slices over the eyes will keep you looking springtime fresh,” I told him.

“I'll get a few out of the icebox. Your ride's downstairs.”

As I gathered my things, Hansen said, “She's been a pest since this started, but she's right about the cucumber business. The wife does that.”

*   *   *

IN THE STAIRWELL
I passed Mavis Kreutzer, in the company of a policeman. Beckett's secretary looked calm, like she kept a mourning dress and a makeup bag by the telephone for just such occasions. On the landing, she flashed me an inappropriately winsome smile.

“Told you I should have made use of that coffee can,” she said, and I knew in my bones she had other post-midnight trips to the police station in her future.

Two vagrants and a woman in a crimson dress with sadly optimistic ruffles sat in the corners of the station lobby as if blown there by a breeze. Edith Head stood in the center of the room in a black suit accented by pink stripes, cataloging her surroundings with interest. I suspected the others had scattered to escape her gaze.