Design for Dying (33 page)

 

33

BRIGHT AND EARLY
Monday morning—all right, several cups of coffee into Monday afternoon—I walked into Edith's office with a brown paper parcel under my arm. “Laundry service for Miss Head.”

“It didn't take you long to find a position that exploits your many talents.” Edith was a duotone symphony in a black dress with patch pockets, black and white buttons down the front, and a wide white belt. She opened the package and inspected the clothes I'd borrowed for the party, folded to the best of my ability.

“I'd planned on delivering those anyway, so I was surprised to get your telephone call. What's up?”

“We should wait for Detective Morrow so I won't have to go through this twice. Have you recovered from your weekend?”

“Just about. A benefit to being temporarily without visible means of support is I slept well into this morning.”

I angled toward an armchair. Edith rescued a slim leather-bound volume before I sat on it. “François Villon,” she said with her presumably flawless French accent.

“And who's he when he's at home?”

“A French poet of the fifteenth century. Surely you studied him in school.”

“Nuns, as a rule, aren't wild about French poetry. François merits a motion picture, I take it.”

“He's already had one, with William Farnum. Before your time, I should think. He's getting a second. Preston is writing it. Why they're wasting him on swordsmen and pageantry is beyond me. The man's a born comic.”

I laid the book atop a foot-high stack of similar tomes. “Are these about Villon, too?”

“Histories of the period. To provide a feel for what ladies of the era were wearing.”

I tested my biceps by hoisting one of the volumes into my lap. “How are you going to talk an actress into wearing one of these headpieces? They're like deer antlers swaddled in linen.”

The corners of Edith's mouth briefly migrated upward. “I have the book open when the actress arrives for her fitting. We gush and coo over the design of the distant past. I lament that the studio won't let me embrace that look for fear modern audiences will reject actresses in such garb. Invariably the actress will screw up her face, turn to me and say—”

“‘They'll believe
me
in it.' I'm starting to think you're an evil genius. At least you don't have to worry about anyone stealing a headdress to wear to Don the Beachcomber.”

There was a knock at the door. Edith and I turned expecting Gene and instead found a heavy-lidded man with a broad forehead and an intense continental bearing. He resembled a dapper Peter Lorre, down to the slightly protruding eyes. “Forgive me, Edith,” he said, his precise diction severing the “H” from her name. “I don't wish to intrude.”

“It's fine, Ernest. Can I help you?”

The man—obviously Ernest Dryden, the designer Edith pegged as the heir apparent at Paramount—shrugged helplessly. “I'm looking for Travis.”

“Have you tried the workroom? He has so many pieces to keep track of these days. Quite the full plate.”

“Yes. An excellent suggestion.” Dryden smiled vacantly, bulging eyes looking through me to take in the walls of Edith's office. Already plotting his use of the space when he claimed the throne. With a Prussian bow, he exited. I was disappointed he didn't leave a visiting card.

Edith, rattled by the encounter with Dryden, calmed herself by refolding the clothes I'd returned to her. “How goes the job hunt?”

“Slow out of the blocks. Rumor has it Bullock's is hiring for their children's department. Wrestling sticky little darlings into velvet Christmas dresses. I've said one novena I get the job and two I don't.”

“The offer of a position here still stands. And the clock, as Mr. Dryden's appearance portends, is ticking. Why you insist on looking this gift horse in the mouth is beyond me.”

It was beyond me, too. “Can I ask … why do you want me to work here? Why are you being so kind to me?”

“Ah. So at last you figured it out. Saw through all my plotting to the trap I've been laying for you.” Edith set the clothes aside and playfully swatted me. “There's no mystery to it, Lillian. No hidden motive. We've been through a lot together these last few days, and you've proven yourself time and again. Plus I know something about how difficult it can be for a clear-eyed young woman to find a place in this city and this industry. You're at a loose end and I'd like to help, that's all. I don't expect you to follow in my footsteps and turn wardrobe into your life's work. I'm offering a job, so you can keep body and soul together until a situation more to your liking presents itself.” A barb of annoyance rose in her voice. “Honestly, you'd think you didn't want to work for me. I cannot fathom why you haven't said yes already.”

And like that, I knew why I hadn't said yes—and why I would say no. We
had
been through a lot together, Edith and I, and after that whirlwind I didn't want to be one of dozens of underlings vying for crumbs of her attention. I wanted to be Edith's peer, not her pin girl. To achieve that I'd need to create my own opportunities, the way she had when she'd braved the Bronson Gate in 1924 with a fistful of other people's sketches.

I was fumbling for an explanation, a means of saying I wanted to lasso my own future, when Gene let himself into the office. He looked surprisingly well rested and I told him so.

“Cucumber slices on the eyes, like you suggested. All right, Miss Head. What have you unearthed that requires my presence and Miss Frost's, apparently?”

“Yes. Well.” Edith smoothed the patch pockets on her dress. “I've come into possession of Ruby Carroll's screen test.”

Any lingering traces of skepticism were wiped clean from Gene's face. He looked like a young boy seeing his first pony. “The one directed by Laurence Minot?”

“Yes. As soon as I confirmed the test's existence, I contacted a friend at Lodestar and invented a reason to view it. I had to call in more than a few favors. But it seemed to me if the police and not a rival studio requested the footage, the film would never see the light of a projector. Particularly now that Mr. Minot may face legal difficulty.” She lowered her head. “Excessive on my part, I know. I apologize if I've overstepped my bounds.”

After staring at her a moment, Gene raised a hand in benediction. “Considering your scheme worked, I'll forgive your zeal. Have you watched the footage?”

“Yes. Not much of use in it, but I thought you'd want to see it for yourself. And I assumed Lillian would be interested for personal reasons. I've taken the liberty of reserving a screening room.”

“Of course you have,” Gene said, with a hint of admiration.

*   *   *

THE AIR IN
the screening room was still redolent of the cigars and dreams snuffed out by the previous occupants. Edith stepped into the projection booth, leaving Gene and me to chat.

“Anybody fold under questioning?” I asked.

“Not yet. Carpa's clammed up while Minot won't stop talking. Wants to do a picture on how the police actually work. ‘A tough story about real men, what?' I asked where the dancing numbers would go. He insists he's innocent, like Tommy when he was still talking.”

“Then who do you think did it?”

“Carpa. Straight down the line. He killed Ruby in a jealous rage. Beckett held it over his head until Carpa got the drop on him. I can tell from your face you don't agree.”

“No, it's not that. I just don't understand why Tommy would then want to kill Laurence.”

Gene didn't squirm. He was a real man, after all. “He blames Minot for Ruby's situation. Carpa genuinely loved the girl and harbors a lot of guilt over what he did.”

The explanation seemed a bit …
psychological
, for both Tommy and Gene. Far be it from me to poke holes in it when I was more concerned about somebody poking holes in me. “Then you think Tommy took that shot outside my place?”

“Stands to reason. You were the last person to talk to Beckett before he died. He could have named his killer.” Gene smiled. “But with Tommy in custody, you can ride the streetcars freely to your many job interviews.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Edith returned to the screening room. “All set. Shall we?” As the lights went down, she squeezed my hand.

*   *   *

THE FILM LEADER
blitzed past, a hazy countdown of numbers. Then a glimpse of the clapperboard with its chalk code, shadows of assorted technicians … and standing in the midst of the chaos, Ruby. Never more alive. Knowing all this activity was about her. Feeding on it. Her huge brown eyes open wide and peering to her left, listening to someone with the faintest of smiles on her Cupid's bow lips. Conspiring from the first shot. Her eyebrows were full, to compete with the pile of dark hair atop her head.

I would never get used to Ruby as a brunette. She'd always be a blonde to me. But then I wasn't looking at Ruby. It was Natalie wearing a black beaded gown, the Lodestar wardrobe department's hasty concession to period dress. She nodded and the stone at her throat bobbed. She placed a hand over it self-consciously, addressing an off-screen interlocutor.

“No, it's my own piece,” she said of the necklace. “For good luck. I hope this is acceptable.” Natalie's voice was Ruby's but huskier, a Slavic accent creeping in around the consonants, flattening the vowels. It seemed effortless and unforced, a manner of speech she'd grown up hearing and could replicate without thinking.

Goddamned if she didn't look and sound like a princess. No wonder half the town fell for her.

A whiskey-thick laugh from off-camera. Laurence Minot, his own voice muffled. “Not a problem, my dear. It suits our character. Do you think you'll need luck? Have you been in front of a camera before?”

“I am only alive in front of them.” Her eyes flicked to the lens, and for a moment I couldn't move, think, or breathe.

Hey there, mermaid. Good to see you again.

Nice to see you, too, Ruby.

*   *   *

AN ABRUPT CUT
and Ruby was downstage, slinking toward the camera. Laurence offered encouragement and threw out questions to put his leading lady at ease.
What do you like most about America? Ice cream. What do you miss about your homeland? Dreaming of coming to this country. And goulash. I put paprika in your Irish stew, but it is not the same.
Once she forgot a word and chided herself in Hungarian. Laurence roared, clearly dazzled by her.

So was I. I couldn't see Ruby anymore. I could only see Natalie. An exotic presence both more distant and far warmer than Ruby had ever been. Had I made her acquaintance onscreen, I would have gladly followed her anywhere.

“Very well, Miss Szabo.” Laurence sounded louder; I could picture him leaning forward, straining to get closer. “Are you ready?”

Another cut, and now Ruby was in the dead center of the frame, gaze leveled at a point to the right of the camera's lens. The shot showcased her good side. Never had she looked more beautiful.

“You think simply because you are a member of the court you may speak to me in this fashion. You believe by virtue of being born of the right parents you are free to move through this world however you see fit. But there are other laws a man must obey, Monsieur LeFevre. Rules a true gentleman need not be taught.”

I knew the lines.
I knew them.
Ruby had been given the same dreadful dialogue foisted on me during my Lodestar screen test, back when we had first met. I'd interpreted the material in a superficial way, alternating between rage and tears. But Ruby played it coyly, amused by the effrontery of the young nobleman in the scene. She paused and moved her eyes up and down this phantom partner, undressing him as she dressed him down.

“As a lady, I am limited in how I can respond. The chancellor shall hear of your impertinence. When we meet again, perhaps you will understand your station—and mine—somewhat better.” She flicked open an invisible fan and turned away, waving at someone on the other side of an imagined ballroom.

Laurence yelled “Cut!” and Natalie cackled. It was an earthy laugh, Ruby's laugh, and she pointed toward the camera about to give some technician hell.

Then the screen went black and the lights came up.

Gene pinched the crown of his hat. “She was good.”

“They didn't dress her well,” Edith said. “At Paramount, we'd have given her a gown she could truly move in.”

I nodded at them both. “Could we watch that again?”

*   *   *

GENE TOOK THE
reel of film with him when he left. Edith walked me back to her office and fixed afternoon tea. She said nothing more about the test, bubbling on about the challenges posed by the Villon picture. Her words washed over me like a warm bath.

From the hallway came singing, a full-throated rendition of “Goody Goody” that made up in spirit what it lacked in style. Edith huffed to the door as Adele, still warbling, entered with another armful of French histories.

“I do wish you'd stop carrying on like that,” Edith said. “It's inappropriate workplace behavior.”

“You're not teaching at the Hollywood School for Girls anymore.” Adele said hello to me. “Say, that's a lovely necklace.”

Edith leaned in for an inspection of her own. “Yes. I'd noticed it, too. A striking stone.”

That morning I'd toiled like a coal miner to dig something out of my closet smart enough to wear to Paramount. I'd livened up a brown print dress with an orange belt and rust-colored French-heeled pumps. But the outfit needed a final grace note. Then I spied the velvet box atop my bureau. I was reluctant to wear Armand Troncosa's gift, particularly after Vi had received one, too. But once I tried it on my resolve crumbled. Edith's praise absolved me of any residual guilt.