All That Glitters (10 page)

I was too tired to eat. I had on a tuxedo jacket over an undershirt. I needed sleep, a shower, and a shave. More importantly, I wanted to explain to Laura what had happened to my missing shirt and what else went on in Eric's room. “The studio's going to reopen in the morning so I need to get to work on the screenplay.”

“I'm starved,” Laura said. “The diner sounds terrific.”

I didn't like my fiancée having breakfast with another man, but I kept my possessiveness in check. It was only Todd. Besides, maybe she'd learn more about the two brothers. They had no doubt quarreled over who would inherit Carville Studios after their father passed on.

At the hotel, Todd stared as I climbed from the car. “What happened to your shirt?”

I glanced down at my jacket. “I don't know. It was here a minute ago.”

Todd chuckled.

I leaned over the passenger door to kiss Laura. I missed her lips by several inches as she turned her other cheek.

After watching them drive off, I entered the lobby, ignoring the disapproving stares from staff members. In the suite, I called the front desk to send up a pot of coffee.

During a hot shower, I reflected on how life had turned so suddenly. Instead of staying in Laura's shadow, working on my novel while she starred in a movie, I'd become a suspect in what would soon be a high-profile Hollywood murder.

I changed into trousers and a light sweater. I forced myself to set aside my concerns and sat in front of the typewriter. I put the finishing touches on the food-fight scene and punched up dialogue in a scene at a racetrack.

A couple of hours later, Laura came in holding an unopened newspaper. She dropped it on the desk. “I've waited long enough. What happened to your damn shirt?”

In as reassuring a voice as possible, I explained how I'd proved Eric's death wasn't a suicide. I recapped the examination of Eric's body, and Gus, Annabelle, and the medical examiner's reaction after learning about my earlier fight with Eric and the blood on my shirt. They'd practically insisted I leave the shirt with them. I downplayed Annabelle's odd behavior.

A furrow crinkled Laura's face. When I finished the story, she dropped into a chair. “You have an airtight alibi. You were here! What do they think? After we returned to the hotel, you went back and shot Eric because he goaded you into a fight and you wanted to pay him back?”

“Something like that.”

“That's crazy!” Laura jumped to her feet and placed her hands on her hips. “Jake Donovan, you need to get a lawyer.”

“I don't need a lawyer, don't
want
a lawyer, and don't
like
lawyers.”

“So you're just going to wait things out?”

I shook my head. “I'm going to find out who killed Eric Carville.”

“If you're not going to take my advice, we have nothing further to discuss.” With a flip of her hair, Laura snatched up the newspaper.

It seemed as if we'd quarreled nonstop since we'd arrived in Hollywood. I followed her to the balcony.

With the folded newspaper on her lap, her lips trembled and her eyes glistened as she gazed at the famous Hollywood sign.

When I sat beside her, she blinked away tears. “Ever hear of Peg Entwistle?”

I shook my head.

“You were off gallivanting in Florida when Peg became a successful Broadway actress, a wonderful comedian. I worked with her in a play called
Alice Sit-by-the-Fire
. She talked nearly daily about all the glitter of Hollywood. After she left New York, the producer offered me the role she'd been offered in
Boy Crazy
.”

Laura's eyes never left the sign, but her thoughts seemed much farther away than that. “She's known as the Hollywood-sign girl.”

“We should visit her.”

“We can't.” Laura's lip quivered. “She's in Ohio. Oak Hill Cemetery, to be exact.”

“What happened?”

“In Hollywood, Peg never found success. She landed a small role in a movie,
Thirteen Women
with Myrna Loy and Irene Dunne, but important roles never came. Word is she grew discouraged and despondent when she couldn't repeat her Broadway success. One day she hiked up to the Hollywood sign, climbed to the top of the H,” Laura swallowed hard, “and jumped.”

If I'd known, I never would've chosen a hotel with a view of the famous sign. From our balcony, the sign would be a constant reminder to Laura of the loss of her friend and how fragile an acting career might be.

We sat a moment in silence until Louella Parsons's face in the newspaper caught my eye. I grabbed the article and scanned her latest column. “Damn.”

“What is it?”

“Take a look.”

She snatched the newspaper from my hand.

The gossip columnist recapped the pending divorce of Carole Lombard and William Powell. She devoted the rest of the column to the party at the Carville Estate.

“Did you read the part about you?” Laura read aloud. “ ‘Mystery author, Jake Donovan, livened up the party when he flattened Carville Studios executive Eric Carville with a left-right combination straight out of one of his Blackie Doyle novels. Donovan, recently arrived from New York, is rumored to be working on a screenplay. You made quite an impression on one studio, Mr. Donovan. Welcome to Hollywood.' ”

I forced myself to breathe. I might be able to outmaneuver Gus and Annabelle, but people believed what Louella Parsons wrote. Would she, like the cops, connect the fight to Eric Carville's murder? “The murder investigation will play out and won't affect your career one iota.”

“My career!” She pressed my hand against her chest. “Darling, I don't care about my career right now. You could go to prison, even…”

I cleared my throat as if the noose had already tightened around my neck. “I'll prove I didn't murder Eric Carville by uncovering the real killer.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“Since I'm working on the screenplay, I'll need to get to know the actors and studio types who were close to Eric. I used to be a pretty competent detective, you might recall.” And a lot more proficient than Gus, and especially Annabelle, in her current state of infatuation.

“
We'll
uncover the identity of the killer.”

I didn't want Laura involved in a murder investigation when Eric's killer was unknown, but it wasn't the time to argue with her.

“Don't joke about our future. I'm the luckiest woman in the world. I'm in love with my high-school sweetheart, and I'm an actress, but without you…” Her eyes misted, but a smile fought through her tears. “Who would've thought back in Queens we'd have all this?”

“Me.”

Fatigue—caused by lack of sleep, concern over my status as a murder suspect, and the stress of attempting to become a successful Hollywood actress—showed on Laura's face. I suggested she rest, and I didn't receive an argument. She kissed me and disappeared into the bedroom.

I left the balcony, emptied the last of the now-cold coffee into my cup, and gulped the brew. Still on Eastern time, and after a practically sleepless night, I considered joining Laura. However, with suspicious cops targeting me, I had more important things to tackle.

At the desk, I flipped through the shooting schedule. I spent the next hour identifying scenes with little to no dialogue or those that didn't require revision. I placed paper clips on each of those scenes then slipped the shooting schedule and the food fight and racetrack scenes into a large envelope and wrote
For the Attention of Norman Carville
. If the studio filmed those first, I'd have a couple of weeks to investigate Eric's murder.

I called the front desk. When a bellhop arrived, I handed him the package and slapped a fin in his hand, after he assured me he'd deliver the package to the studio right away.

With the screenplay taken care of, I plucked the folded list of guests from my tuxedo jacket and scanned the names.

I covered the dining table with sixteen sheets of typing paper and taped them together. In the center, I made a circle and wrote Eric's name inside. Like spokes of a wheel, I drew lines away from Eric's name, ending each with someone at the party, and what I knew about that person. Those closest to Eric had shorter spokes.

I'd nearly finished when Laura let out a loud yawn in the bedroom. She entered and stood beside me, wearing a white hotel robe and fuzzy pink slippers. She stared at the diagram taped to the table. “What's this?”

“Something I used in my detective business. I'm trying to understand the relationships between Eric and those who might have wanted him dead.”

Laura read the names of those with the shortest spokes. “Norman Carville, Todd Carville, Christine Brody, Sonny Burkheart…he's a kid, Jake…Sonny's mother, and James the butler. Only a mystery writer would suspect a butler of murder.” She cocked her head. “You actually think Eric's father or brother could have killed him?”

“When I know for certain they didn't, I'll cross their names off.”

“Then you'll be interested in the detective work I did over breakfast with Todd this morning.” She dropped to the couch. “Todd's mother died during childbirth. Norman never recovered and apparently avoided relationships with women until five years later, when he began an affair with Todd's nanny.”

“The nanny is Eric's mother?”

“Bingo! An exotic beauty from Colombia, which is where Eric got his handsome looks.”

My lasting impression of Eric wasn't his dead body but the blubbering bully who'd cut his ear after Christine and I arrived at the party. “You thought Eric was attractive?”

She ran a hand over my face. “Not as fetching as you, darling.”

“Did the old man marry the nanny?”

Laura rolled her eyes. “Life isn't a Hollywood movie, Jake. After Eric was born, Norman bought her off with cash and a plane ticket home. Ironically, neither son grew up knowing his mother. The boys lived separate lives growing up. The past several years they barely spoke.”

“Doesn't sound like Eric and Todd were close.”

“Norman was lying, or he's living in a fantasy world.”

“Well, we are in Hollywood.”

“Touché,” Laura said. “That's all I learned about Todd and Eric.”

Laura had learned not only that Eric and Todd weren't close but that their father had lied about their relationship. “Why doesn't Todd like people from Oklahoma?”

“Ever heard of the Bum Blockade?”

I shook my head.

“The movers and shakers in the city organized a blockade of sixteen state border crossings, staffed by LAPD officers ordered to turn back anyone without obvious financial support. Todd's part of a committee to preserve the culture of the city, but he didn't seem to want to talk about it.”

“And it's called the City of Angels.” I suspected the committee was more interested in preserving their financial control of L.A. than the city's culture. “Do they wear white hoods?”

“I don't think so.”

“Does he like girls?”

Laura smiled. “He mentioned he's seeing someone, but I got the impression she was someone's wife or a dame his father or the press wouldn't approve of.”

“Maybe she's from Oklahoma.”

Laura smiled again.

“Todd didn't make a pass at you, did he?”

Laura snickered. “Darling, men make passes at women all the time, but I doubt whether anyone ever has in a diner. I tried to get him to reveal more—”

“You mean you flirted with him?” Laura had worked on plenty of cases with me. She was skilled at getting men to talk.

“There was no flirting or passes. He did steer the conversation around to how beautiful he thinks I am and how wonderful I'm going to be in the picture. Am I blushing?”

It sounded like Todd had set aside his grief over his brother's death fairly quick. “That sounds suspiciously like a pass.”

“Darling, did you manage to work on the shooting schedule?”

“I cut out all your kissing scenes and replaced them with prudish hugs.” I told her about the envelope I'd sent to the studio.

“Let's get to work on your diagram.”

We spent the rest of the afternoon making notes on those who had attended the party. When we finished, we had eliminated only one name, Louella Parsons, tough as anyone there, but hardly homicidal. More than four dozen names remained.

My stomach rumbled, and I covered my mouth.

“You haven't eaten all day, and I only had breakfast. Why don't we go to the Brown Derby? Everyone says the food's wonderful, and a lot of stars hang out there.”

I had a better place in mind, the restaurant where I'd planned to propose the night we arrived. “I know a place you'd like, Manuel's. Terrific Mexican food, dancing, and it's within walking distance.”

“I've never tried Mexican food.”

“Then you're in for a treat.”

“I'm sold.” Laura jumped to her feet, kissed me, and hurried into the bedroom.

An hour later, Laura looked like a million bucks in a dress the color of a robin's egg. She wore a white hat that covered her black curls, and I'd changed into a charcoal-gray pin-striped suit.

Laura straightened my tie. “I see you've decided to wear a shirt.”

“Well, it is evening wear.”

Outside the hotel, Laura and I held hands. The walk felt like the strolls we'd taken when we shared an apartment in Queens a few years earlier.

The neighborhood had changed. The Depression was taking its toll on L.A. like everywhere else. Guilt over my success returned.

We passed a kid selling apples on the corner. Laura paused and bought one.

The boy handed her a medium-sized apple. His eyes glistened when Laura slipped him a buck.

A half block later, she handed the apple to a man seated in the doorway of a boarded-up warehouse.

We rounded the corner and the tall white letters of the Hollywood sign came into view. Her eyes misted, and I knew she was thinking about Peg Entwistle. She set her head against my shoulder.

I wrapped my arms around her as we resumed our walk. “You've come a long way since we appeared in
Tom Sawyer
together in high school.”

Laura displayed incredible courage leaving her career as one of Broadway's biggest stars. In Hollywood, she was one of many trying to fill the vacuum created by talking pictures. I'd met enough of her acting friends to know the profession was rife with insecurities.

I'd never doubted Laura would make it big, but she hadn't ever really left the small house in our neighborhood where she grew up without a mother and with an abusive father. “They're going to love you…maybe not as much as I do, but I've seen Broadway audiences reduced to tears and then, in the next act, laugh out loud.”

“Acting in movies is different from acting onstage, where movements and one's voice are sometimes overly dramatic. With close-ups, actors can convey emotion with their expressions and gestures, though they need to be more subtle than in silent films. Jake…”

Laura wrapped her arms around me and squeezed tight. Facing the plate-glass window of a hardware store, she whispered, “There's a man in a tan coat following us. I spotted him earlier. He's a half block back, pretending to look in a flower shop.”

“That's Gus Connolly, the detective I told you about.” I reached for her hand and we resumed our walk. “The fact that he's following is a good sign.”

She cocked her head. “That makes no sense.”

“He's hoping I'll make a mistake and incriminate myself. If the cops thought they had enough evidence for an arrest, they wouldn't need to follow me.”

With schoolgirl glee, she grabbed my arm. “Let's make him work for his dough.” We took off running, skipping over the cracked sidewalk. Half a block later, she pulled me into an apartment building. We rushed past the stairs and threw open a door leading to an alley strewn with foul-smelling garbage.

Dodging puddles, we ran to the end of the alley. Barely pausing, we dodged traffic and honking horns and disappeared into a jewelry store, ringing the bell over the door.

With a suspicious jeweler keeping an eye on us, we pretended to shop for engagement rings. Gus dashed by the window, his tan coat flapping. We hurried to the window and watched him huff and struggle down the block.

Outside we both chuckled. I pointed away from where the detective had run. A block later, we arrived at Manuel's. “We're here.” I opened the door for her, and the familiar aroma of Mexican food greeted us.

The waiting area was devoid of customers. The owner stood behind a lectern. He gave Laura an admiring once-over then studied my face. Manuel welcomed me as if I'd never left. “Jake Donovan, you look like a million bucks.” He clapped me on the back. “But you always were a regular Joe.”

I introduced Laura.

Manuel's eyes widened. “
The
Laura Wilson, from Queens, you always talked about?”

Laura beamed.

He kissed her hand. “He brought plenty of dames to Manuel's
,
but Jake here carried a torch for you even back then. I'm glad you're together. You are together, no?”

“I asked Jake to marry me.” Laura grinned. “With everything that's gone on since, I realize he never provided me with an answer.”

“Well?” Manuel asked.

I couldn't hold back a laugh. I pulled a ring box from my pocket. I knelt on one knee, opened the box, and offered the ring to Laura.

One trembling hand flew to her mouth. “How…when did…you've been carrying this diamond around?”

I rose, plucked the ring from the box, and slipped it on the third finger of her left hand. “My plan all along was to take you here and ask you to marry me, but like most of my Hollywood plans, this didn't work out…until now.”

Laura threw both arms around my neck and kissed me. She flashed the finger in front of her.

Manuel clapped his hands and kissed us each on the cheek. “This calls for a celebration.” He led us through the half-filled restaurant. Red flickering candles sat in the center of two dozen tables with white tablecloths. He showed us to a corner table. “Don't bother to order, old friend. I'll personally select for you my favorite Mexican meal, for old time's sake, and it's on the house. Congratula
tions to you both.”

Laura's beauty grew by candlelight. While she admired the ring on her hand, Manuel disappeared through the swinging doors of the kitchen. He returned with a large bowl of fried tortilla chips and a hot red dipping sauce. “I'm preparing an assortment of tacos—pork, beef, and chicken.”

“What's a taco?” Laura asked Manuel.

He described how the dish was prepared, and Laura looked anxious to try it.

I couldn't help notice the half-filled restaurant. “How's business?”

Manuel shrugged. “It's tough all over, you know?”

I glanced toward the entrance. “One more thing, Manuel. A broad-shouldered man just came in, tan coat, sitting alone, trying not to let us know he's here. Bring him a couple of tacos, on me, and tell him they're from Jake Donovan.”

Manuel nodded. “Once a gumshoe, always a gumshoe.”

When Manuel pushed through the kitchen doors, I reached for Laura's hand and led her to the dance floor, where two couples moved to the soft sounds of a three-piece band. She felt just right in my arms.

Laura moved with the grace of the professional dancer she was. “You dance divinely for a man who was shot in the leg a couple of weeks ago.”

“I only notice it when trying to elude slow, heavy detectives.”