Design for Dying (31 page)

“Edith! What are you doing here?”

“I thought you could use a friendly face and a ride home. Shall we?” As she turned, her eyes fell on the lady of the evening in the corner. “That's a lovely color for you, but a terribly cheap fabric. Remember, you get what you pay for.”

The night air didn't do much to revivify me or dispel my amazement. Edith led the way to her roadster. I hesitated, leery about getting into her car again with light at a premium.

“Don't loiter, Lillian. You might be arrested this time.”

If I was going to meet my maker, at least I was dressed for it. Edith, sensitive to my unease, pulled onto the street with care. “Bill telephoned me. As did Barney Groff.”

“I'm afraid he might have recognized these clothes.”

“If so, it was a fortunate guess. I don't believe Mr. Groff sees any Paramount pictures. Or even likes the picture business.” She took her eyes off the road briefly to size me up. “I must compliment you. For all the evening's trials, those garments look pristine.”

“The whole time I was terrified of being shot. Not because I'd be injured, but because the clothes would be ruined.”

“My wardrobe girls could have fixed them had the worst occurred. Let's be thankful their skills weren't put to the test.” She spotted a stop sign at the last minute and stood on the brakes. I mewled decorously.

“I imagine the story will be all over the papers tomorrow.”

“Various stories will appear in various papers tomorrow. The
Times
will report Addison Rice's latest bash grew so boisterous the police were summoned. Some of the officers were mistaken for costumed revelers and pulled onto the dance floor by Constance and Joan Bennett. The
Telegraph
, meanwhile, will feature an amusing item about a couple who found Barbara Stanwyck on their doorstep in the dead of night, asking to use their telephone to call her mechanic.”

“Nothing about a murder?”

“Or the alleged kidnapping of Miss Stanwyck.” Another sidelong glance from Edith. “I cannot wait for our next fitting. I want to hear her version of this yarn.”

“What would Groff say if he knew you were giving aid and comfort to Lillian Frost, the notorious kidnapper?”

“Putative notorious kidnapper. Don't you worry. I can hold my own with Mr. Groff. It never hurts to be underestimated. Can you bear telling the evening's saga again?”

She got the full version, complete with newsreel and cartoon. Edith's interruptions were limited to grunts directed at motorists and other nocturnal creatures foolish enough to venture into her car's path.

“How did Laurence Minot seem to you? Any signs of distress?”

“He's such a cold fish I don't know if distress would register.”

“Typical of directors.”

“I've come to learn you don't do anything without a reason. Why do you ask about Laurence in particular?”

“His name came up in conversation today. I had a fitting with an actress this afternoon. The studio recently loaned her out to Lodestar.”

“And this fitting was coincidentally scheduled for today?”

It's a good thing Edith's smiles were so tight, or I'd have glimpsed the canary feathers. “I
did
have to see her at some point. She's the chatty sort, this actress. I had to leave in the middle of the fitting to chase after Adele and I don't think she stopped talking while I was gone. At any rate, I asked her how she enjoyed working at Lodestar. Mr. Minot was mentioned.”

“Quite casually, of course.”

“Quite. Mr. Minot has been talking up his latest discovery all over the lot. Minor European royalty he had, it's said, fallen for. According to this actress, Mr. Minot did indeed put Natalie on film. No one's seen the test yet. Mr. Minot is angling for a private screening with the head of the studio.”

My heart ached for Ruby all over again. She'd come so close to getting away with it.

“Now we know why Winton Beckett risked turning up at Addison's party.”

“And we have a new problem. With Mr. Beckett dead, Mr. Minot may feel emboldened to eliminate the final threat to him.”

“He'll try to dispose of the screen test now. It proves he and Natalie were involved.”

“I've already told Detective Morrow. On to more pressing business. Tell me what everyone at the party wore. Leave out no detail. The details are
essential
.”

Somehow Edith managed to coax minutiae about the guests' attire out of me I had no idea I'd retained. I still had more ground to cover when we reached Mrs. Quigley's.

“You can finish your report when you return the clothes.”

“Thanks again for everything. What now? Back to bed, then a huge Sunday breakfast?”

Edith looked scandalized. “Heavens, no! I'm off to Travis's house to make sure he's intact, then I'll drive us both to the studio. I do it most mornings. He could stand to put in the extra time.”

*   *   *

MISS SARAH PROWLED
the porch as I dug for my keys. At least someone was awake to greet me. “Lying in wait for the milkman?”

The regal feline strutted around my legs in reply, rubbing herself against the linen of my slacks.

“Watch it. These aren't mine. Time to come inside.”

I stooped to pick her up and heard a loud noise. A few splinters of doorjamb rained down on Miss Sarah's dusky fur. She was so startled she darted right into my hands.

I told myself it wasn't a gunshot. I told myself again as I hit the deck. The house keys were in my hand, one of them jabbing Miss Sarah in the belly. But I couldn't open the door without stepping into the glow of the porch light, and I wasn't certain where the shot—why deny it?—had come from. I lay there, heart drumming against the knees mashed against my bosom, toe of my left shoe wedged into a mouse hole in the baseboard. Miss Sarah, at least, remained perfectly still in my arms. She could stay forever as far as I was concerned, the fussy Burmese the only reason I was still breathing. I glanced down and spotted a smear of dirt on the leg of my slacks. My borrowed slacks. My borrowed Paramount slacks that I'd taken such good care of. I'd kept them flawless while chasing after a dying man alongside the star of
Night Nurse
only to sully them at my own front door.

The angry sigh escaped my lips before I could stop it. The oleander bush at the end of the porch rustled, as if someone were peering through it.

Followed by the most beautiful sound in the world—lurid laughter on the other side of the front door.

“Really, Frederick, you must leave. Some of my tenants get up early. Even on Sunday.”

The door creaked open, casting yellow light on my hiding place. My eyes snapped to the oleander, but in the shifting shadows I couldn't tell if the branches were moving.

“Turn out the lights!” I croaked.

“What? Who—?” Mrs. Quigley, bless her, leaned out to gawp at me at the same time she flicked the switches by her hand. Both the porch and entry lights were doused. I rolled to the porch railing holding my savior Miss Sarah aloft. As I moved, I thought I heard footsteps retreating from the building. But I couldn't be sure, because Mrs. Quigley was already making with the questions.

“Lillian, what is this foolishness? Did you drink too much at that party?” She shooed someone into her apartment, undoubtedly lamenting she couldn't pretend it was the cat nestled in my arms.

“No, just dropped something.” Before my assailant could fire again, I rose to a Bronko Nagurski squat with Miss Sarah playing pigskin and charged the door. Mrs. Quigley slammed it behind me. I glanced into her front parlor and glimpsed Frederick. Her gentleman caller was a heavy-set fellow in a threadbare salesman's suit, fascinated by the assortment of doilies on her sofa.

I handed Mrs. Quigley her heroic cat.

“Sorry I woke you. I didn't mean to make so much noise. Good night.” On I went upstairs, leaving Mrs. Quigley to soothe her bewildered swain.

*   *   *

GENE HAD LEFT
the police station—whether for the night or the nonce, the sergeant didn't know—so my message said I could be reached at Mrs. Lindros's place. No way I was staying by myself on this night.

Of course, that meant telephoning Mrs. Lindros's place after three in the morning. I dialed with crossed fingers. Vi picked up immediately, her voice muffled by a mouthful of food and a strange clattering in the background.

“Thank God you answered,” I said.

“I'm staying up as late as I can. I don't want tonight to end.”

Would that I felt the same way. “Is Ready still around?”

“Hat in hand and heading for the door. Shall I send him to your place?”

He arrived scant moments later. Having been briefed by me, he'd circled the block before pulling up outside and observed nothing untoward. He ushered me to the car and drove straight to Mrs. Lindros's.

Vi was in her pj's, which in turn wore a fine layer of coffee cake crumbs. The clattering was explained by the sight of Kay, hunched over a typewriter in the kitchen with not one but two pencils in her hair.

“Hiya, doll,” she said without raising her eyes from the paper scrolling past the cylinder. “What's cooking?”

“The usual. Someone took a shot at me.”

That warranted a look, but only a brief one. “Sure, I can see it. Beckett's dying words might have been his killer's name. Were they?”

“No.”

“There we are, then. Any more coffee, Vi?”

Vi, who had run over to hug me, scampered to fetch the pot. She refilled Kay's mug and spoke over the top of her head as if she weren't there. “Kay's typing up her impressions of the party while they're fresh. She's going to write something for one of the big newspapers!”

“Congratulations. Did Barney Groff set this up, perchance?”

“You know, kids, it'd be easier for mama to make her deadline if you took the chatter outside. Vi, coffee?”

“Check your cup, Louella.” We left the room and passed a redfaced Ready at the front door.

“Sorry if Kay was a mite curt with you. She's had a big day.”

“We all have.” I gave Ready a kiss good night. He gazed fearfully into the kitchen as Vi and I climbed to her room.

“You're staying with me tonight,” Vi said. “I won't hear any arguments.”

“I'm not hearing any, either.”

On her bed lay a box. Small. Black velvet. Another of Armand Troncosa's exceedingly generous gifts. Vi danced over to it, prying open the top with care. I saw a familiar glint of green.

“Isn't this divine?”

“It's something. From Armand?”

“Yes! His friend Esteban gave it to me when he drove me home. We went to Armand's house after the party for a light supper and a final glass of champagne. Armand said we needed one. Can you imagine that,
needing
a glass of champagne?” She giggled, her nose still ticklish.

“When did you leave his place?”

“About an hour and a half ago, I think. I can't really remember.” Another peal of angelic laughter as she lifted the necklace from the box and held the emerald against her neck. “A token of Armand's admiration. I've never gotten a token of anyone's anything before.”

I felt awkward, afraid I'd have to disabuse Vi of any notion the trinket warming itself against her skin represented a pledging of Armand's troth.

“Listen, Vi,” I started.

“Don't worry. I'm not expecting anything from Armand.”

“You're not?”

“We spent the night talking about Ruby. He wanted to know what she was like. It was Tommy all over again, only with better cologne. At least I got something out of it this time. This will really go with that copper-colored dress I bought.”

“It will. You'll look great. So tell me about Armand's house. Leave out no detail. The details are
essential
.”

 

32

MY SCHEME TO
sneak out of Mrs. Lindros's house without talking to anyone was scuppered when I realized I had nothing to wear. My party clothes were draped on a chair next to Vi's bed so I couldn't see the stain on the slacks. I wasn't about to push my luck by donning Paramount's wardrobe again.

That meant finding something else to put on. I roused Vi. She leaped out of bed eager to help. In two shakes she'd procured a navy blue housedress printed with white anchors.

“Where's the little sailor hat that goes with it?”

“Ever hear that line about beggars and choosers?”

“Point taken. Where'd you scare this up?”

“A new girl. Lorraine, from Kansas. She wants to be a comedienne.”

Her best bet if she was my height. The dress billowed a bit, so I tied it around my waist with a belt. Not an Edith Head original, but it would do.

My agenda went further awry downstairs, where I was blackjacked by the scent of bacon. Kay worked multiple burners like an irritatingly fresh-faced fry cook. “Morning, gals! Help yourselves to some eats.” Vi required no additional prompting, grabbing a chair as Kay fetched hash browns at their apex of crispness. “Sorry I was curt with you last night.”

“You were working. So you're going to write for one of the papers? Give Lorna Whitcomb a run for her money?”

“Mr. Groff dangled the prospect. It remains to be seen if I can snatch it off the hook. In any case, I'm bound to get more assignments at
Modern Movie
thanks to you.”

She set down a plate—bacon, potatoes, pancakes fluffier than the pillows upstairs—on a buttermilk biscuit–adjacent stretch of table. “Dig in. Do you want eggs? Barbara Stanwyck gave me her recipe.”

My eyes and stomach vaulted to the food, but my legs stayed put. Stupid legs. I'd never questioned Kay's motives before, but I did so now.

She busied herself at the stove again, apparently expecting lumberjacks. “I feel awful about not listening to what happened after the party. Somebody shot at you?”