Seduction of Moxie (8 page)

Grudgingly, Moxie cleared her throat.

Moxie,

As I write this, Clitty and I are bound for Chicago and hoping you are well and have bounced back from your night of overindulgence. Clitty, cheeky bastard that he is, was concerned that your hangover would be so colossally debilitating that you would be unable to function for days. But I reminded him that he is, after all, a dog, and therefore not an expert on these things, though I’m sure he has seen things that would make some church-going folk spontaneously combust. To his credit, he is very discreet.

With any luck, by the time this reaches you, we’ll have arrived in Los Angeles and I’ll be on my way to securing a permanent address. Once I have that, I’ll send it along to you in the hope that at some point you’ll send me a sassy reply.

Let me know if you want any film-star autographs. I imagine I will meet a few celebrities at the studio, though I can’t guarantee that any of them will be worth a tinker’s damn. (I did promise Clitty that I would help him get a snoot full of Rin Tin Tin, though he may have to settle for Irene Dunne. If so, I would certainly understand his disappointment.)

I’ve been told that the nightlife in Hollywood makes New York City seem like a convent, so I can’t wait to see how people on the West Coast slowly kill themselves. They say everything out there is grander—so I imagine grand venereal diseases, grand delirium tremens, and an overall grand absence of scruples. How can I possibly be either disappointed or bored?

You know, even though this trip westward makes me feel like I’m on the precipice of something remarkable, I can’t seem to reconcile that I felt the same way when I was with you.

Well, I’ll sign off before any further confessions are breached. Do take care.

Thinking of you,

Violet

Once Moxie finished reading the letter aloud, she started rereading it to herself.

Irene walked back to her ironing board slowly, as though she were contemplating the contents. “She has a dog named Clitty?”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean what I think it does?”

“Yes.”

“So one of her clitties talks? Is that something you can shed some more light on?”

Moxie glared at her. “Go climb up your thumb.”

Irene just laughed.

Chapter Three

When Violet and Clitty finally disembarked the train in Pasadena, it was early afternoon. She stood on the platform and inhaled the smell of orange groves, unable to remember the last time she was overcome by nature. It certainly wasn’t any time in the last six years. She inhaled again. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Miss London?”

She turned and looked over her sunglasses at a short, sweaty man in a white linen suit. “Yes?”

He extended his hand formally. “Shep Abrams—assistant to T. Z. Walter.”

“Nice to meet you.” She returned his handshake.

“I trust you had a pleasurable trip?” Before she could reply, Shep became completely engrossed in summoning a porter to transport Violet’s luggage.

“Are we in a hurry?” His sense of urgency puzzled her.

“
You
are. You need to check into your new apartment, then change and be at Mr. Walter’s estate at seven for dinner.”

She whistled in surprise. “Anything else I need to squeeze in tonight? Perhaps bake a seven-layer cake? Broker world peace?”

He squinted at her, seemingly caught off guard by her sarcasm. “Hmm” was his only reply.

“Is this a formal dinner?” Violet asked. “I’m not sure I have anything packed that’s terribly fancy.”

“It’s Mr. Walter’s standard Tuesday-night dinner party, so it’s only semiformal.”

This new hectic pace already irritated her. The porter arrived with her trunks stacked on a luggage cart, and she slipped him a healthy tip.

The ride in Shep’s roadster from Pasadena to Hollywood lasted forever, and though Violet tried several times to spark healthy discourse, he was not what she would deem a sparkling conversationalist. When she asked about where she would be staying, he merely said, “The Garden of Allah,” nothing further. He was probably being sarcastic and could just as easily have said “the moon,” “purgatory,” or “my ass.”

Additional questions yielded one-word answers, including those about his employer or lighthearted inquiries about himself. Exasperated, she gave up and concentrated on the scenery, which really was lovely.

When Shep pulled off Sunset Boulevard into a complex, Violet was stunned to see it actually
was
called the Garden of Allah—a dizzying series of Mediterranean-style bungalows with red tile roofs and an elaborate swimming pool. He informed her that a car would be around to collect her at 6:40, then drove away, leaving her outside the main building with her luggage and her terrier.

Clitty barked sharply as they watched the dust from his wake settle. “I agree, boy. He is a tit-faced bastard.”

She turned back to look at the main building, which was a little dark and foreboding for a hotel. Perhaps it would grow on her. She left her trunks where they were, picked up Clitty, and walked into the office.

Inside, a friendly-looking fellow wearing an odd hat of some kind greeted her. As she reached the front desk, she was surprised to see that his headwear was actually a belted sanitary napkin, cocked like a jaunty chapeau.

“Greetings,” the man said. “Checking in?”

Violet scrutinized him. He was portly and perhaps in his late forties. More important, he seemed oblivious to the fact that he was sporting a feminine hygiene product on his head as though it were a festive fez. “Um…yes. I am checking in. You work here?” She looked around, hoping someone would appear and explain that this man was an escaped mental patient who had wandered in, or maybe the owner’s son who, after haphazardly falling off the roof many years ago, had never been right since.

His pupils dilated, and he excitedly flipped open the register. “Yes, do you have a reservation?”

“Currently, I’m having a number of them.”

“What’s your name?”

“London.”

“Ah, yes. Miss London, you’ll be in bungalow eleven.”

Before he could start checking her in, a beautiful young woman with dark red hair entered the office. “Hey, Lyle,” she said.

Violet was perplexed that the odd headgear didn’t seem to faze this young lady. She acted like it was nothing out of the ordinary.

“Afternoon,” Lyle answered cordially.

“My fridge is on the blink again,” she said, drumming her fingers lightly on the desk.

“What’s the problem now?”

“Same as last time. It’s not cold inside.”

Lyle looked momentarily confused. “You went inside it?”

Again, this show of peculiarity didn’t seem to shake the woman. “No, but my corned beef did. It mentioned it in passing.”

“I see. I’ll try to find the name of that repairman. Excuse me, I’ll be right back.” He disappeared into a room behind him.

“Should I assume this is his usual state?” Violet asked her. “The sanitary fedora or the talking food don’t seem unusual to you?”

“Oh, that’s just Lyle,” the redhead said calmly. “He’s a little daffy sometimes, sure, but he’s a good egg. Nothing to worry about.”

“So he won’t sneak into my bungalow at night and try to make a lampshade out of my lower intestine?”

She smiled. “He may come in and politely
ask
you for your lower intestine, but it would be only in the most courteous way.”

“That’s good news. I’m Violet London, checking in.” She extended her hand and the redhead’s strong handshake surprised her.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Ginger Rogers. My mother and I live in bungalow six.”

“I’m in eleven.”

“Singer?” Ginger raised an eyebrow appraisingly.

“Actress. You?”

“Actress-dancer-singer.”

“That certainly improves your odds,” Violet said.

“I do whatever it takes. If they told me I needed to learn how to juggle live animals, I’d do that too.”

“Well, based on what I’ve both heard and seen regarding some casting directors, there are those who might consider that live-animal juggling.”

“You can say that again, sister.”

Violet studied her for a moment. Ginger was striking, and if she had met her a week ago, redheads would no doubt be her new favorite thing. But all she could think about now was Moxie—the way she sang, moved, and looked. “Have you ever considered going blond?”

Ginger seemed to ponder this suggestion. “You think it would make a difference?” She unconsciously ran her hand through her hair.

“It would be very striking with your features.”

Lyle appeared from the back with an index card, presumably with the information of the refrigerator repairman on it. “I’ve got it, Miss Rogers. I’ll give him a call presently.”

“Thanks, Lyle. You’re a doll.” She turned to Violet before leaving. “I appreciate the tip. I’ll think about it.”

“Anytime,” Violet replied. Lyle held her key out to her and handed her a sheet of paper. “What’s this?”

“The hours and specials of our restaurant. How long will you be staying, Miss London?”

“I’m not sure.” She was still wary. “At least five weeks. I’m shooting a picture at Pinnacle.”

“That’s exciting.” He straightened his belted pad so that it tilted even more daringly to the left.

“Yes. Well, thanks. I need to mail a letter.” She scrutinized Lyle. “Can you take care of it for me?” She had serious doubts, but Ginger seemed to trust him.

“Absolutely. I just need two cents for the stamp.”

After hesitating, Violet produced her letter to Moxie, composed over the last couple days on the train. “Say, what’s the address here?”

He flipped a book of matches over and set it in front of her so the address was prominently displayed, and she picked up a pen and wrote her name and the Garden of Allah as her return address on the envelope. “And you’re sure you can take care of this for me?” She held the sealed letter out to him.

He nodded violently, and she handed it over in concern, then fished two pennies out of her handbag. “I’ll give it my utmost attention,” Lyle assured her.

“Can someone get my bags?”

“I’ll have the bellboy do it and take them to eleven.”

“Wonderful, thank you.” She paused on her way to the door. “Lyle, you have a little something right here.” She touched her index finger to the left corner of her mouth.

He rapidly produced a handkerchief and wiped his face. “Did that get it?”

“Yes,” she lied. “Much better.”

“That would have been embarrassing,” he said, adjusting his sanitary-pad belt.

“Glad we avoided that!” She saluted him as she turned to leave.

*

After checking in, Violet unpacked, showered, and changed into a light blue frock. She then fed Clitty and bathed him in the sink, and he was nearly dry when she heard a car pull up outside. Thankfully a well-built chauffer driving a red Cadillac Fleetwood appeared, rather than monosyllabic Shep.

He opened the rear door for her, and she and Clitty bounded into the backseat. “How are you?” she asked as he nodded politely, closing the door.

He slid into the driver’s seat and started to pull out into the street.

“Does Mr. Walter live far from here?”

“His home is up in the Hollywood Hills.”

“Uh…and where are we now?”

“Sherman. Don’t worry, it’s not far.”

As the car wended its way into the hills, dusk began to settle over the scenery, and Violet took it all in with moderate awe. Everything she had seen of California so far was impressive, and the beauty of the undeveloped hills certainly fell into that category too. She had never lived outside the city, and so much unspoiled countryside made her feel as though she were in a foreign land.

How high would this winding road take her? They seemed to have been heading straight up for quite some time. At a certain point, the dirt road led them to a set of elaborate, heavy iron gates with a large filigree
W
inscribed into them.

“Does the
W
stand for ‘What the hell?’” she joked.

“Close.”

“You fellas aren’t big on the chitchat out here, I’m noticing.”

He glanced in the rearview mirror and their eyes met for a moment. “We’re the hired help, miss.”

“What’s your name?”

“Fitzhugh.” He slowly pulled up the long, circular driveway.

“Well, Fitzy, don’t let them treat you like shit. I have yet to see money make someone a better person. In fact, it seems to do the opposite.”

He politely declined to comment as they slowed to a halt in front of a massive Tudor-style mansion. He exited and came around to open her door.

Clitty trotted out and went to sniff the grass, and Violet rose and stepped out. When Fitzhugh refused to make eye contact with her, she kissed him quickly on the cheek.

He smiled ever so slightly. “Don’t let him get the better of you, miss,” he whispered.

“No chance of that, Fitzy.”

She approached the mammoth double doors, scooping her dog into her arms on the way up the steps. Before she could ring the bell, the wood creaked open and an older, balding butler appeared.

“Please enter, miss,” he croaked.

“Thanks.”

“Mr. Walter is entertaining in the parlor. Follow me.”

She did so, scowling at his humorless demeanor. She hoped this wouldn’t be the general mood of the evening, but she supposed they could be as grim as they pleased. That certainly didn’t mean that she had to be that way too.

At the butler’s direction, she entered and he announced her arrival loudly. Three people sat inside the lavishly decorated room, drinks in their hands. One she immediately recognized as an actress—a petite ingénue who was a crowd favorite. The other two were unfamiliar gentlemen.

“Hello,” Violet said, approaching them. She set Clitty down on the rug.

“Hi there, I’m Sylvia King,” the woman said, rising. She wore a shiny cream-colored silk gown and held a long ebony cigarette holder in one hand and a glass of booze in the other. “This is director Henry Childs, and this is the leading man of my next picture, Rex Kelly.”