Design for Dying (7 page)

“Great. Anything you find I can pass on to the detectives.”

“The good-looking one, I hope.”

“I hadn't noticed either one, to be honest.”

“Really?” Kay fanned herself. “Because one of them sent me. Quite a specimen, that Detective Hansen.”

“Hansen?” I sprayed Kay with her own coffee cake. “Have you gone goofy? Morrow's the handsome one. As well as smarter and better mannered.”

“So you did notice him, to be honest. No shame in admitting it. And maybe he noticed you, seeing as he let you tag along to Paramount. I'd better turn up something on Armando and Natalie so you have a reason to talk to Detective Morrow again.”

“Enough with the matchmaking.”

“Somebody's got to look out for you. You're too busy looking out for everyone else. Stop eyeing the cake. You've had enough for one night.”

“Fine. I'll be back first thing in the morning.”

*   *   *

DINNER WAS AN
apple, penance for my double dose of Kay's handiwork. Then I made my way to my own personal matchbox. There wasn't much to my flat but what there was was all mine, from the drab white walls to the blue coverlet on the bed. A breeze nuzzled the lace curtains as I changed into my nightgown and robe. I sank into the only decent piece of furniture, an overstuffed armchair where I could read or, more frequently, nap.

Through drooping eyelids I glimpsed my lucky navy suit, sagging over the settee where I'd left it. It had served me in good stead for too many months to deserve such treatment. Visions of Edith Head's reproving face spurred me to my feet.

As I draped the jacket on a hanger, something shifted in one of the pockets. I knew what was in my hand before I opened it. I recognized the object's shape, its warmth against my skin. I smelled lavender on the air.

My mother's brooch.

For an instant I felt light-headed, fearing I'd slipped into a fugue state at Paramount and stolen my property back.

Then my mind flashed on Edith asking for the jacket, carefully laying it on the couch in Banton's salon. She must have taken that opportunity to drop the brooch into my pocket.

Now I had an assignment for tomorrow. I had to thank Edith, as if words would be sufficient to acknowledge what she'd done.

But first to let my uncle Danny know I'd at long last made the pilgrimage to Paramount's new home. I fixed myself a cup of tea and dashed off a letter, the brooch gleaming on my pink chenille robe.

 

November 7, 1937

Los Angeles Register

LORNA WHITCOMB'S EYES ON HOLLYWOOD

 … Constance Bennett told pals she'd figured out what her husband Marquis Henri de la Falaise was planning to gift her for her birthday. Turns out it wasn't the sparkling stones she'd predicted, but two of the cutest French poodles in town. Hope the lovely Constance doesn't try wearing
them
to the premiere of her next film!… The blond beauty beaming at the beach on page one of this very paper turns out to be an aspiring actress struck down too soon. Hollywood hopeful Ruby Carroll had scored several small dancing parts and even worked at Paramount for that genius of glamour Travis Banton and his stern wardrobe mistress Edith Head. But poor Ruby lost her step amid the traps and snares of moviedom. No doubt several of our silver screen sirens are contemplating her fresh face this morning and whispering “There but for the whim of Dame Fortune go I” … Some wags are wondering if those fire engines Fox amassed for the filming of
In Old Chicago
could be used next summer to cool off sure-to-be overheated Los Angeles residents. What say you, Mr. Zanuck?

 

7

TIME TO TEST
Edith Head's advice. I let my tan sweater hang over the matching knit skirt, cinching it with a narrow belt. In my own biased opinion, I looked pretty good. But my ego demanded unsolicited compliments. Any more than the usual number—zero—and I'd declare victory.

The early bird may catch the worm, but she can forget about finding a seat on the streetcar. The man in front of me couldn't be bothered to rise and let a lady take the weight off. He was lost in the
Register
's morning edition. Glancing down, I found myself staring into Ruby's eyes.

ALLEY ANGEL IDENTIFIED
, the headline blared.
RUBY CARROLL WAS HOLLYWOOD HOPEFUL
. She'd finally made the front page.

Which disappeared when the man folded his paper to get at the boxing column. Two blocks later he started for the exit.

“Pardon me,” I said. “Are you done with that paper?”

“I could be, for a smile.”

Despite the ungodly hour I gave him his money's worth, teeth included at no extra charge.

“Take it and maybe I'll see you again sometime.” He winked, which I credited to Edith's fashion tip.

Snagging his seat I opened the paper for a good look at the page one photo. Ruby knelt on a towel at the beach in a halter-top bathing suit, blond hair blowing away from her freshly scrubbed face. She looked like an advertisement for California health and beauty.

I recognized Ruby's swimsuit—the salesgirl had called it poppy, Ruby insisted it was orange—and the towel, shanghaied from Mrs. Lindros's linen closet. I also knew the girl on Ruby's left, though the only part of her remaining in the cropped photograph was her knee. It was Vi.

Making the hand on the towel to Ruby's right mine.

Poor, trusting Vi. She thought she'd given the photo of our beach jaunt to a detective, but it had been a reporter with a slick line.

Aside from the disclosure of Ruby's name and the “exclusive” photo, the
Register
's story was a hash of old news, spiced up with idle speculation about the Alley Angel's morals. The rest of the ride to Tremayne's seemed longer than usual.

*   *   *

MR. VALENTINE STOOD
at the entrance to Ladies' Wear, his goldenrod necktie so bright I was tempted to slip my sunglasses on again. “Miss Frost. Good to have you back after your ordeal.”

“I'm sorry for any inconvenience.”

“The way those detectives questioned you, I thought you were a suspect.” He forced an amiable chuckle. So did I.

Next stop hat department, Mr. Valentine nipping at my heels like a terrier. “I read the story in this morning's paper,” he said solicitously. “That was your friend, the blond girl? Tragic, just tragic. I thought Lorna put it beautifully in her column. Felled by ‘the traps and snares of moviedom.'” He cupped his hand as he spoke as if clutching Yorick's skull.

“She certainly has a way with words.” Ruby had always hated Lorna Whitcomb, branding her a “withered-face crab who bombed out as a chorus girl.”

I started primping the hat displays, grooming every feather like a vain parakeet. Still Mr. Valentine lingered, reluctant to leave his flesh and blood link to the big news story of the day. He might have tarried all morning if the store's assistant manager hadn't come to retrieve him. He took his leave for Tremayne's loftier climes. Abruptly, he turned back. “By the way, that's a lovely outfit. Very smart.”

Two compliments. Something else to mention to Edith now that I had a moment to call her.

*   *   *

HEARING EDITH'S UNMISTAKABLE
crisp tone brought my mother's brooch to mind, making me absurdly emotional all over again.

“Lillian, a pleasure to hear from you. I hope you're well.”

“I'm wonderful, thanks to you.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

“I'm sure you do. Consider me in your debt forever.”

“Let's say I'm happy to help a fellow working girl and leave it at that.” She made a noise that sounded like a suppressed yawn. “Forgive me. I burned the candle at both ends last night searching our storage room.”

“How much else did Ruby take?”

Her pause indicated I'd surmised correctly. “What makes you ask that?”

“Ruby came to the department store where I work to sound me out about stealing clothes. That implies taking the Sophie Lang gown wasn't a spur of the moment impulse. I also learned she'd been moving in some rarefied air lately.” I told her about Armando and Natalie.

“I knew you were a resourceful young woman as soon as we met,” Edith said. “You put me in mind of myself, in fact. Several women's costumes
are
missing. Ruby didn't necessarily take them … but they're in her size.”

“Detective Morrow will be interested to hear that.”

“Yes. Provided he does hear it.”

“I don't understand.”

“I issued a full report to our security chief Mr. Groff. He was, as you might imagine, displeased. Particularly with Ruby's brief history at Paramount being bruited in the newspapers this morning.”

“I read the
Register
on my way to work.”

“Then you likely saw Lorna Whitcomb's dig at me. Horrible woman. She still blames me for the costumes she wore when she was under contract here for seven minutes a millennia ago.”

“Are you saying Mr. Groff doesn't intend to inform the police about the missing clothes?”

“He left me with that distinct impression. He wants to spare the studio additional negative publicity. Unless the clothes are found and conclusively tied to Ruby, I fear he won't report them.”

I had an inkling Edith wasn't relaying this palace intrigue to make idle chitchat. Her hands were tied, but mine weren't. And I knew Ruby and her habits. Edith had stealthily given me my marching orders: Look for the stolen wardrobe and get cracking on repaying that debt. Apparently I wasn't the only resourceful person on this phone call.

*   *   *

WE MADE PLANS
to speak later. Edith rang off to attend to the day's fittings while I spent the better part of the next hour wrangling two dowagers intent on buying twin turbans. I had my back turned, trying to restore order to my station, when I heard the voice.

“Hello, Lillian,” it said, playing with each syllable like a piece of French candy.

Gooseflesh raised, I turned and spied a man I'd hoped never to encounter again.

Tommy Carpa wore a chocolate-brown topcoat with a velvet collar that made him look more like a young banker than a club owner of questionable repute. His nose was bent at an angle, the result of a childhood accident. That misleading hint of brutality lent his features a character they didn't deserve. He was flanked by two ambulatory monoliths in identical pinstripe suits. At least I assumed they were ambulatory; I hadn't seen either of them move. I tried to speak only to discover I'd gone cotton-mouthed.

Tommy set his homburg down next to a basket of beaded hair combs on the counter. “Any guesses why I'm here?”

“Probably not to jazz up that hat with a peacock feather.”

“You've been telling tales out of school. Blackening my name to the law.”

“Your name wasn't in such good shape to begin with.”

His Too Much Tommy curl of dark hair spilled into his face. It made Tommy resemble an overgrown child, prone to tantrums and mulishness. He pushed the hair back, then his fingers batted the basket of combs. “I spent last night with a couple bulls fishing for leads. I'm never gonna get the stink of that police station out of this coat.”

“Did you want a new one? Menswear is on three.”

“I don't shop here. Soon as they kicked me loose I came to you. Because you're the one told them about me and Ruby.”

“Why do you think it was me? Plenty of people knew you two were an item.”

“Yeah,
were
an item. Ruby forgot about me. You didn't. Those cops grilled me like they found the pistol in my hand. What did you tell them? And I mean exactly.”

“That you and Ruby used to go together. That's all.”

“And that you don't like me. You never liked me.” He brushed at his lapel. “It's okay, Lillian. You can admit it.”

“I have no opinion of you one way or the other.” But he was right. Slow-cooling spite against Tommy had been a factor in my pointing the police in his direction.

Tommy plucked a comb from the basket and considered the beads adorning it. “Next question. What do the cops have?”

“Not enough to hold you, so what difference does it make?” He wouldn't dare pull any moves in the store, I reassured myself, so I could chance a little bravado.

“They couldn't hold me because I didn't kill Ruby. I'd like to know who did, though. And find him before the cops do. A few minutes ahead of them, that'd be enough. So I'll ask again. What do they have?”

“How would I know?”

In response Tommy stared at me, content to wait me out. One of his bulky compatriots tried to stifle a belch. I needed them gone before Mr. Valentine showed up. “Ruby was going out a lot. With rich new friends.”

“Who, Armand and Natalie? Forget about them.”

Armand, he'd said. Not Armando the way Vi had remembered the name. “You know them?” I asked.

Tommy laughed, a mirthless little bark. “Yeah, I know 'em. Those two aren't involved. And they're long gone, the both of them. What else you got?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? No tidbits from that costume broad?” Morrow would never have told Tommy about our trip to Paramount. Only one person could have let that slip. Vi, feeling sorry for her jilted boss.

Tommy tapped the comb against the glass, his face softening into a concerned parish priest look. “What do you have against me, Lillian? Didn't me and Ruby show you a good time when we took you out?”

“Sure. Dragging me to nightclubs because some ‘businessman' pal of yours wanted to dance with a ‘nice girl.' The trouble with those guys, when they think you're a nice girl they try twice as hard to put a hand up your skirt.”

“So you don't like me and my friends. You don't have to. This is America. But I want to do the right thing here. For Ruby's sake.”