Silent Murders (12 page)

My stomach lurched at the name. It couldn’t be. I looked closer. It was.

The newcomer stepped out of the shadows onto the flagstone with the confidence of a man who had seen the world and found it everywhere agreeable. He was not tall, but he carried himself in a way that added several inches to his height. A cool gust of wind coming off the ridge tousled his hair. He carelessly pushed it back off his forehead and smiled. It took every ounce of my theatrical training to keep from gasping with surprise. Different but familiar last name, and a face I would never forget.

“You’ve met Douglas already, of course, but you haven’t met the others, I think,” Miss Pickford was saying to the group. Her gentle voice sounded miles away, drowned out by the blood drumming in my ears. “David is new to Hollywood, and he’s collaborating with my current film,
Little Annie Rooney.
”

David’s eyes swept the guests’ faces until they found me. They crinkled in recognition. Then he winked as if we shared some private joke. He wasn’t at all surprised to see me.

David. The man who had rescued me after my terrible injury in Oregon last fall and saved my life at great risk to his own. The man who possessed more good looks, charm, and money than a fairy-tale prince. The man who was kind to children, attentive to old ladies, and beloved by dogs.

The man who was certainly not a film collaborator, but Portland’s king of crime, a gangster boss with ties to bootlegging, gambling, prostitution, bribery, and probably worse. The man whose every word to me so far had been a lie.

14

“You’re a hard person to find,” said David, drawing me aside at the first opportunity. “Hey, you’re covered in goose bumps. Want my jacket?”

“No, thank you.” It was not the cool night air that made me shiver.

“You changed your name, Jessie Beckett,” he said, pointedly emphasizing the last name.

“So did you, David Carr.” It had taken only seconds to steel myself to play this cautiously. I would be cool but polite, treating him like a new acquaintance until I figured out what he was up to.

“I needed to be hard to find. I decided to take my real father’s name. So did you, I see.”

“At the risk of sounding dramatic, I should thank you for saving my life. You left before I could say it.”

“Aw, shucks, ma’am,” he drawled in his best cowboy lingo, “’twarn’t nothing.” Then he dropped the show and stepped back a little. “Let me look at you good and proper. How’s the leg?”

“All mended, good as new. The arm, too.” In spite of my resolve, his concern made me feel warm inside.

“You look like a million bucks. Ten million. I don’t mind saying, though, you had me scared stiff. Honest, you were beat up pretty bad back there, and I was afraid I would never see those turquoise eyes sparkle up at me again. It tore me up leaving right after I’d found you, not being able to stay and make sure you were going to make it, but I had about twelve hours before the cops would be on me. Did you get my message?”

“Your mother’s locket? Yes, it’s safe, back at my house.”

“I knew you’d take my meaning. I wanted to tell you that I’d find you after life settled down, but I was afraid anything written would find its way to the cops, and they’d know to watch you until I showed up. Then your old granny wouldn’t say where you’d gone, so I had to run down some of your vaudeville friends and worm it out of them.”

“Who?”

“Zeppo Marx.”

“How long have you been in Hollywood?”

“A few weeks. I wanted to get established before I looked you up. Jessie,” he said, lifting my chin with his fingers and looking anxiously into my eyes, “I had feelings about you from the first time we met. I can’t—”

“I didn’t realize you two knew each other,” said Miss Pickford, joining us, her eyes gleaming with matchmaking ambition.

David beamed and saved me the reply. “Jessie and I met last fall in Oregon. It’s a pure pleasure to find her here and renew the acquaintance.”

But she was looking past us both. “Oh, Lottie, I’m so glad you decided to come downstairs tonight,” she said, turning toward the house where her sister had appeared. Lottie seemed not to hear her.

“Ladies and gentlemen, attention please. I have a request!” Everyone turned. Framed in the doorway and swaying gently on her feet, Lottie Pickford stood in her gauzy white frock as if she were on a stage waiting for silence from her audience before she continued with her act. “I don’t want to hear any talk tonight of … of …
him.
” Tears squeezed from her big brown eyes and she motioned with her hands that she was too choked up to continue.

The tightening around Douglas Fairbanks’s mouth told me he wasn’t pleased to see his sister-in-law at dinner, and far less so to have her dictate the scope of the conversation. Mary Pickford, however, couldn’t have been more solicitous.

“Of course not, dearest,” she crooned. “I’m so pleased you’re feeling well enough to join us. Perfect timing. We are going into the dining room in a few moments.” And she linked her arm through her sister’s and led her onto the patio.

I surveyed the guests with mounting anxiety. Was David to be my dinner partner? And sit beside me all evening? If he did, would I be able to keep my wits about me and swallow my food?

I’d’ve bet money that even the king of England didn’t eat every night like we ate at Pickfair that night. I had to pinch myself as I looked about the room. Here I was, seated at the table with the three most famous people in the entire civilized world. We sat according to place cards, Mary Pickford presiding and Douglas at her right. I was at her left, with Paul Corrigan on my other side and Helene Lubitsch nearby. Relief battled disappointment when I saw that David had been positioned at the other end with Lottie Pickford and the Chaplins. Right away I noticed his efforts to draw out young Lita Chaplin. If anyone could do it, he could. Give the devil his due; he was charming.

Dinner began with printed menus at each place, and it included things I had never before experienced, like rose-water finger bowls, lace-trimmed napkins, and flavored ice between courses. The china and glassware gleamed in light cast by three crystal chandeliers. Instead of an overgrown centerpiece that would have blocked conversation with people on the opposite side of the table, there was a small bouquet of violets in front of every place. Alcohol was conspicuously absent. Douglas’s well-known aversion to liquor meant all Pickfair dinners were dry—not even wine was served.

“No, I couldn’t be there,” Faye Gordon was saying to Marilyn Miller, and I dragged my attention back to my own end of the table. “But I heard his yacht was lovely. I had to be in Bakersfield last weekend to see my sick mother and so, sadly, I couldn’t attend.”

Next to me, Paul hissed, “The only reason she went to Bakersfield was to cover up the fact that she wasn’t invited to Hearst’s party.” His rudeness made me wonder as to their relationship. Had they come together, or merely arrived at the same time? He wasn’t finished. “You were at Heilmann’s that night. When did you leave?”

I glanced in Lottie’s direction, but she was too far away to hear us mention the painful name. “My girlfriend and I left early. Shortly after midnight.”

“What did you think of Lorna McCall’s final performance?”

“Excuse me? I wasn’t introduced to her, and I guess I didn’t see whatever it was—”

“Sure you did. Everyone saw. She and Faye here practically had a knock-down-drag-out.”

“Oh, so
she
was the girl who was slapped. I didn’t make the connection until now.” So Lorna had been the girl in the fountain, minus her undergarments and wet to the skin. Now that the dead actress had a face, her loss seemed more real.

“Weren’t you close enough to hear their spat? Lorna had had too much to drink—so had Faye, naturally—and Lorna made one too many catty remarks about Faye being too old for leading-lady parts. In the past couple years, Faye has lost roles to younger actresses like Clara Bow and Mary Astor, who’s only seventeen, for God’s sake, and then two parts she wanted went to Lorna, and Lorna was queening it over her when Faye pulled back and slapped her.”

“That part I saw. Or the aftermath.” No wonder Faye was in such good spirits tonight—she’d lost a rival.

“Maybe Faye will get that role now that Lorna’s dead,” remarked Helene Lubitsch from across the table.

“Not a chance,” said Paul. “She’s too old.” He glanced down at Faye to make sure she wasn’t listening, and confided sotto voce, “Says she’s twenty-nine but she’s thirty-five if she’s a day. She won’t get another decent role at her age. She’s washed up.”

I winced but it was too late. Mary Pickford, age thirty-two, had heard. She wasn’t an actress for nothing—her face betrayed not a flicker of emotion—but I could feel the dismay radiating from behind the mask. “I think the entire profession would benefit if less attention were paid to one’s age and more to one’s abilities,” she said sweetly.

Douglas, equally stung, chimed in. “Nothing replaces maturity and experience,” he said, punctuating each word with his fork.

Incredibly, Paul didn’t take the hint. He blundered on. “Nonsense. Faye’s not going to attract anything but older women’s parts and those are all minor roles. But did you see Lorna later that evening? She lost a bet with Heilmann and had to sit in the fountain out front. That really was her last performance, poor girl. Who’d have thought she’d end up like she did? It’s enough to give a fella the creeps.”

At the other end of the table, Lottie’s need to be the center of attention trumped her earlier plea. Dabbing her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief, she was prattling on about Bruno Heilmann, the party, and the police investigation. She was clearly drunk—she must have had a stash in one of the upstairs bedrooms—and I hoped she would not blurt out anything about me retrieving her things from Heilmann’s house. Then it dawned on me that she probably didn’t know what I’d done. Douglas would have too much sense to tell her.

Now that the gloves were off, the rest of the group entered the fray.

“It’s amazing that Zukor has kept the whole thing out of the newspapers,” said Marilyn Miller. “Secrets in this town are impossible to keep.” Several people nodded ruefully, suggesting that some indiscretion had turned the spotlight their way in the past.

Lottie knocked over her water goblet. Douglas frowned.

“It won’t be a secret for long,” he said, as a maid scurried over to mop up the mess. “The news will be in tomorrow’s papers.”

Robert Fairbanks spoke up. “I heard the valet called Zukor and Zukor called you, right, Doug? That’s how they kept it quiet—only two men knew and they didn’t tell any women.”

But that was wrong, I thought as smug laughter rippled down the male half of the table. Lots of people knew. Lots of women. I knew on Sunday. Myrna knew. Had she told the other girls? And Lottie Pickford had to have known on Sunday, or she wouldn’t have panicked about her monogrammed belongings. Miss Pickford knew. Had Zukor told anyone? Obviously the police chief, several policemen, and the detectives knew, and Heilmann’s valet who found his body. Had any of these people told anyone?

To my left, the tactless Paul Corrigan started to speak again, then caught himself. I turned just in time to see him looking at Lottie, then at Faye, then back and forth between them. He closed his mouth tightly and found something interesting about his beef Wellington. I didn’t hear a peep out of him for the rest of the meal.

“Well, it seems likely that the waitress—what was her name?—was killed because she could have identified the man who shot Heilmann,” said Charlie Chaplin. “Lorna McCall’s death might have been an accident, but it seems far too pat for that. She must have seen or known something, and someone did her in for it. Now my question is this: Is the murderer finished? Or are there others who saw something? God, Doug, you and Mary didn’t see anything, did you?”

Douglas waved his hand dismissively. “You will not be surprised to hear that Mary and I left early in the evening. We had other obligations—a good night’s sleep being one of them! Nonetheless, I’ve persuaded Mary to put up with a bodyguard for the next few days, just until the police capture this madman.”

“I want a bodyguard, too.” Lottie’s petulant voice rose above the rest. “I was at Bruno’s right up until he made me—well, never mind—but what if the murderer wants to kill me like he did Lorna!”

“Of course you shall have one,” said her sister. “I was planning to ask you that question tonight. And you can count your lucky stars Bruno did make you leave, or you might have been there when he was murdered.” And been killed with him. The unspoken words hung in the air.

Lottie struggled up from her seat, knocking her fork to the floor, and wobbled out of the room. Douglas’s eyes narrowed. Miss Pickford didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. I glanced at the other end of the table and saw Lita laughing at something David had said. She was a fetching little thing when she dropped the pout.

A few minutes later, Lottie tottered back into the room carrying something in her hand. “Look what I bought today,” she said. “I’ve got to protect myself, too!”

She held up a small pearl-handled pistol no more than five inches long and waved it gaily about, pointing the barrel carelessly around the table.

Everyone froze.

Everyone except David, who had been seated next to Lottie. David knew his way around guns. In one sinuous motion, he slid out of his chair and over to her elbow. “Let me see that,” he said, taking it gently from her. The entire room exhaled in one giant breath. “It’s lovely, Lottie. Belgian make, isn’t it? Wherever did you get it?”

“From that store downtown. Allan has guns at home but they’re so heavy I can’t shoot them. The man at the store said this was a lady’s gun. Just my size.”

As she spoke, David took the magazine from the handle and opened and closed the slide. A cartridge was ejected, answering everyone’s question. The gun had been loaded. “Look here, Doug. Isn’t it nice?” he said, passing the gun to our host who quietly set it on the mantel. Thinking quickly, Chaplin launched an impromptu pantomime of a rubber-legged waiter holding a chair for a lady, getting laughs from all of us as he clumsily fell to the floor and bounced back up in his efforts to reseat the giggling Lottie. Distracted by the antics, Lottie was drawn further under the Chaplin spell as he told a long, naughty joke about a man and an alligator, and soon the tension melted away. Conversation turned to sex and Communists, and sex with Communists, and the pearl-handled pistol was forgotten.